June 13, 2004
.06.13.04. - don't cushion the enemy [imogen] *pd

[riverfront]

(james)
it's the sound of fist hitting palm
wrapped cartilege smacking soundly against rough callouses
then the exhaled whoooph of a body pitched off balance by momentum
footwork shuffling to regain stance and ready
all echoing off the dust-blanketed machinery in the factory's main cavern
heated by exertion's body heat and the afternoon's soon-setting sun

"Nuh." words bounce off a far wall and creep hesitantly back "'mem'r y'r smaller'n me..... get 'nsi'e my reach."

James had just blocked another attempt
hip and thigh stepping in to shove Imogen off balance
all in a long line of procedure teaching the good doctor one decisive throw
she'd so far caught on to the basic nuances of slap boxing
now it's on to the fineries of closer-quartered combat

(imogen)
Fist smacks palm and her weight rolls backward, recoiling from the force of his repell of her attempt. Exhale through pursed lips, frustration escaping in the breath, hard enough to blow a few strands of hair from her face, only to resettle, clinging to the curve of her cheekbone.

"You'd think," she says, her wry tone not quite lost in the breathless edges of her voice, "that I'd never forget that."

That she's smaller. Dwarfed by nearly every person she's met, no, you'd think she'd never forget that. Though look at the way she reacts in day to day life, as if the height difference was nothing, and maybe it's not so hard to believe, after all.

Weight redistributes, finding its way back to the balls of her feet. She still doesn't bind her hands, and by the end, her knuckles will likely be scrapped again. Bruised.

Attempt number three. yes, she's counting. Pivot on a foot, pull up close on his weak side and ...

try again.

(james)
her hands aren't wrapped.... again
(he didn't offer.... again)
so each time he blocks with an open palm
it's like Imogen's trying to knuckleball a brick wall
probably the only reminder that she is smaller than he
for if you hang with the big dogs long enough.....

his answer is a huffed chuckle
alongside yet another hipcheck sending her stumbling
(try again)

"Nev'r." smirked, rather canid shake of head sending dreadlocks back out of his field of vision "Go' bigg'r balls'n mos' G'rou I know," it didn't last long as gravity draws jungle-vine ropes back over deep umber eyes "dunn surpri........ OOF"

lesson number one, Jamey-boy: don't talk smack when you can't see
the petite redhead finally able to latch onto his left arm
leveraging it over her shoulder to twist. and.
WHAM.
unfortunately for the Gnawer, he didn't have the benefits of strewn mattresses for practice padding
landing in a shoulder-based pile of tangled limbs on hard concrete

"Goo' job." - his tone quite lost in breathless voice
taking a moment to wrangle the wind back into his lungs

(imogen)
Stumble, her hand going out in automatic balance, finding her centre. She bruises easily. Even something like that might leave a mark, a faint welt across her hip bone, pale purple against pale porcelain. He doesn't even need to prompt her to continue.

Imogen has a fierce sense of competitiveness. Or perhaps it's a fierce need to succeed. Try, try again. She's turning on the axis of her balance to face him again, almost before she's barely caught her balance again, wiping the back of her hand across her brow, even as he's speaking.

She isn't really listening, though she absorbs it. Looking back, later, she will likely be able to pick up what he said. Her focus, currently, however, is elsewhere. Get ahold of his arm, over the shoulder for leverage, twist and ...

"Bloody hell it worked," turning to look at the Gnawer, flat on his back, a smirk crossing her mouth as he compliments her, wiping hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, "Thank you," reaching out to offer her hand to help him up again.

(james)
"Welca'."

sound drifts off in standing grunt
lanky Gnawer untangling himself enough to stand

"Though nex' time...."

the quirky grin is too breif for her to catch
most likely as it's covered by another sweeping curtain of loose dreads
however by his twisting wrist in turn wrapping fingers around hers
(it's a light touch which will bruise anyway no matter how hard he tries)
the good Doctor knows James well enough to see it anyway

"Try a lan' it -"

Imogen is shorter than he by about a foot
which puts her weight hovering around 100#
if she's wrapped in a blanket, soaking wet, with several large bricks in her pockets
(he throws bags of feed heavier than her each night at work)
making it far too easy for the Ahroun to pull her weight towards him
and right on up over a shoulder, thighs angling down its blade

"- li'e this."

the arm wrapped around her waist all that keeps her from kissing concrete
Full Moon letting his knees buckle and weight drop
his sheer height compared to hers a goddamned saving grace
because slicked hair peels from forehead
firey curls reaching to gently poke all-too-near concrete

"..... 'r...... close."

he doesn't have to explain again the necessity of angle in this playful reminder
or how someone's body weight dropping to the ground precisely like this
would snap. their. neck.
he doesn't have to explain, too, his understanding if she's a little off during their practice
(he's a Garou, not Superman)
leaning to the side an letting Imogen regain her feet

(imogen)
She senses what is to come in the twisting of his hand as he wraps his fingers around hers.

He can feel it as he pulls her toward him: the sudden coiling of muscles and the pressure of resistance, the way her weight shifts to make the throw harder to maneuver. The way she fights back the demonstration.

The brief flicker of instinct in her eyes.

It gives a glimpse that even without his training, the education she's asked of him, Imogen would never go down without a fight, inadequate or not.

It gives a glimpse that despite it all, perhaps, she can feel his rage, and the instinct goes beyond her trust of him (for she knows him well) into a reaction. Or perhaps that she'd been thrown or dragged before and never quite found herself amenable to the issue.

Imogen is devastatingly light, her bones small and slender, her frame lean and taut. To feel the shape of her ribs as he catches her is to recognize that fragility, even when recognizing her strength of will and person.

He angles away, and she rolls to her feet, fingers scraping the ground for balance as she half turns to look at him, one hand lifting to push back strands of hair, falling free from the braid that had been tight and coiled when they started and was coming loose now, flames and fire and all the colours of the sunset. The setting afternoon sun sparks it in blonde. "I'd assume," She reasserts her dignity (because for her, something like that was a loss of dignity. A loss of control over the situation.) as she straightens, a slow deliberate movement. Had she been born a Garou, she would have had a sharper edge to the movements, something more warrior. As a kin, the movements are smooth and poignant as it is, almost grace, without being frivolous, "tha' th'move is t'be done wi'out the catchin' at the end," smirk shadows as she reaches down with a hand, straightening the hem of her shirt.

(james)
Imogen is devastatingly light
her bones small and slender
her frame lean and taut

and within the coil of Ahroun bicep and forarm
he could crush that frame easily as tinder
but he doesn't - instead letting her draw back lost dignity
(he knows well enough her assertation of control)
dark eyes drawing away when she straightens her shirt
(........ Jaaaaames?)
an intial retort visably, physically swallowed back
a moment's silence before he finds suitable substitute

"Yeh... s'much more 'ffecti' tha' way."

the dark glitter in those eyes when they return
more than obvious first retort's still on his mind
but he somehow thinks better of not saying it without prompt

(kemp)
Freakin hot and it wasn't even August. He was going to melt by the time summer got here. Seriously considering hacking some of his hair off when it stuck to his neck like it did now. Tromping towards the factory door in shorts and a sweat soaked faded tee. Muttering to himself. "I can feel sweat going down my crack."

(imogen)
Silence noted or not, retort swallowed noted or not, she effects not to notice, as a hand reaches beneath the fall of her loosening hair to rub at the back of her neck, "Righ'. So what I'll take 'way from today: 'Don't cushion th'enemy.'"

She sinks down to a crouch, reaching down to tie the lace of her shoe, pausing mid-loop to push back strands of hair from her face, before completing the action, "Quit while I'm ahead, shall I?" knuckles bruised and sore, but having at least caught the jist of the lesson offered.


(james)
there's something in the Ahroun's grin
that quiet honestly says the very same thing
though, instead, his chin drops in a curt nod

"Nuh." she's finishing shoving rabbit ears move with those shoelaces, he's straightening slowly to stand "They ten' a get back u' when ya do 'at."

something grinds as his arm's pseudo-windmilled around
rotator cup protesting it's offense at the insults endured today
bruises and strains that won't even be a memory tomorrow morning
shirt peeled off to function as a makeshift towel
or at least something to pull. those fucking dreads. outta his face.
until he can find something more appropriate for the job


(decker)
"Ain't ever wanna hear that again," mutters Decker, bringing up the back. They had a ride again. Not Decker's. Not even Kemp's. Some beat-up old rental pickup, the cheapest in the rental-equipment yard: nothing but four wheels, a cab, a bed and a stick shift. Radio is nonexistent and A/C is a distant dream. $15 a day, gas not included. Still, it was better than nothing, 'specially when one's carting around a large amount of boards.

Decker's been working on a new pet project lately. Out back behind the factory, there's a ramshackle little shack coming up, all naked wood, nails and trusses. He needs his private time, damn it.

Dropping the tailgate to the old truck with a squeal, he starts pulling out planks and 2x4's. "'Ey," raising his voice to call after the younger Fenrir, "earn yer livin', boy." Underhanded, he tosses one of the beams at him.

[cont'd]

Posted by james at June 13, 2004 12:00 AM