August 02, 2004
.08.02.04. - welcoming committee [decker-primal]

[forum]

(james)
the call went out on the Barking Chain an hour ago
BG Elderman looking for the new guy named Primal

the phone call was troubling, to say the least
follow-up with the good doctor didn't help, either
but James is good for his word
soon enough heading towards a specific address in skid row
flanked by the ever-comforting presence of his Modi packmate
(think he wholly trusts the integrity of the information?)
dreadlocked raggedyman watches the streets as they pass

big guy with chains
shouldn't be that hard to find, eh?

(decker)
Decker's there. Same height. Same auspice.
Vastly different in every other conceivable way.

And grumpy. That shouldn't surprise anyone.

(primal)
"I saw a white light on the grass,
Grinning up at me.
It spoke, and sang, and listened well,
As I recounted amicably,
All my past and current state,
From woe, to joy, to those I've met.
Then laughed and read aloud my fate,
You ain't seen nothing yet."

~Legend's~Life, Fianna, Galliard~

SkidRow.

Plentiful Crime Rate. Miserable Populae. Nothing to do but shoot up, snort down, take a toke, pass a pill or kill somebody. Grime, grit, grease and gore with half a dozen reasons you'll never want to hear about on any given day. Reasons to come here let alone to stay.

SkidRow. Colourfully referred to as the Wyrm's Vacation spot. Or at least it should be. One can't wander one way or another without being visited by something unimaginable. Undeniable. Unmistakable. Wrong.

It is amazing how inhuman, Humanity can truly be in some instances and situations. Truly amazing.

An alley. A large man. Rattling Chains.

Hard to find, not at all. The lane is dark and narrow, the world both close-mouthed and seedy. The kind of place no Human would want to wander down, nor Monster wish to bother with. High walls, three stories on either side and smelling of old cardboard soaked with rain water, it was a monument to the lowest you could sink. The farthest you could fall...

...Or the easiet to watch the whole world from.

A pair of shadows at the Alley mouth, large and scary in that certain way. The howls of a half hour ago, picked up by dozens of strays and chained up pit bulls. A message intermingled.

"You tha' Guys tha' wen' 'n sent up tha' call a bit ago?"

A message received. A shadow detatches from the back, chains a rattlin' and barely 'n outline. Hooded, rat-clothed and big enough to be a Lightweight contender. Pausing...

...Waiting..

(decker)
One enters.
Other stays behind.

Decker, the latter. Primal gets himself a look-over. A single sweep of the Modi's eyes. Color:indeterminate. In this light at least. Something midtoned though. Not pale enough to glitter, quite. Not dark enough to smoulder. Invisible, his eyes, in the dark. But oh how tangible for the force of his rage.

That same rage makes him seem bigger than he is. Wider, taller. Hulking monster. In reality -- watch him as he throws his back to the wall at the mouth of the alley, and slouches down; see his proportions measured against the height of second-story windows -- he's six feet, give or take an inch. A little over average at best for a human, and he sure as hell weren't human. Short, for his tribe of towering northmen.

Primal's idea of a greeting garners another brief glance. Nothing in reply. The Modi finds himself a cigarette instead, battered and twisted. Lights up with a strike-anywhere match pulled along the seam of his baggy jeans. Guttering flame illuminates powerful shoulders and lean hips, a face that's all hard planes and taut lines: those eyes are grey, like a storm. He shakes the match out and smokes quietly at the alley mouth, not paying the conversation much attention. He's just here to watch his packmate's back.

Oh and. It's not a cigarette after all. Cloying scent of marijuana whips down the alley in the moaning city wind.


(james)
beyond the recognized borders of paved streets and project housing
there is nothing human about the denizens of dark alleyways
the air tastes unmistakably wrong this close to the Wyrm's Vacationary front door
these are the places none wander freely without mission
not unless they were legion with the monsters themselves

it's not hard to guess which full moon may be the Gnawer Elderman himself
though short for his tribe, the Fenrir stands brooding storm lurking at the alley's mouth
there's something invisable - a wall about the Modi - that suggests there are better ideas than to pass
for all the casual slouch softened by fragrant smoke inducing buzzing high
not a doubt exists on the single, severe purpose incorporated within fullbreed blood and muscle

the other man scary in that certain way a wholly different scenario
dreads shift against his shoulders with each easy, confident step towards the cardboard palace
errant weed-laced wind tickling mop-like mane to vague dance of it's own design
loose strands tapping tense fingers across his chest though the Fostern shows no hesitation
below faded BDUs, Corcoran's scruffing against the grimey asphalt quietly protest their need for polish
leanly muscular arms dangle loosely at his sides and sway in time with long stride
whatever light makes it this far casting dull, oblique shine on the inks across his inner right forarm
a portrait painted by the shadows solidifying form - gathering in the hollows beneath his brow

then the ghost in the darkness seems to catch life's breath
chin tipping up in salutory motion Eagle-style
rich, deep umber eyes glimmering refraction in the darkness
sharing a margin of warmth with the faint grin that crawls crookedly over lips

"Nuh." the tone carries the same casual ambience of the raggedyman's shoulder set, cautiously polite to enter another strange Garou's territory but smoothly cadent just the same "W'z jus' me."

the grin quirks wider, breifly wry before disappearing again
nothing wasted for all resources go towards clarifying speech
thick Empire State brass tarnished by a distinct slur
mostly likely caused by that notch of mishealed bone scarred along left jawline

"Go' th' mess'ge I w's s'pose a look f'r you."

(primal)
Sharp and jagged shadows stretched to the far reaches of the alleyway, amalgamating so quickly and so fully that it was impossible to distinguish between the large scary monster standing in chains and rags at one end of the alley and the pair of experienced Bogeymen at the other.

"Ahhh, see yeh be'n speak'n tah Meer. Roit, Roit..."

A pause, Bashful? Embarassed? Awkward? Something tense and worrisome in there, the shift of the chains sounding unnatural and uncomfortable, as if they reflected each emotion and movement a second before he offered them to be seen.

"Yeh s'pose tha's tha' proper way a' do'n thin's."

Another pause, the form straightening just enough to present that air of new and necessary kinship to Gaia. Nothing so far as a Ranking Defender but something to be messed with. Something to be proud of...

Something of the Thing that growls back at the Nasty.

"Meh Nam's Primal. Call meh Shatt'rsnap 'n tha' peep'ls tongue tho'. Full Moon Cliat' Bone Gnaw'r."

The sudden and sharp ricochet of chainlinks colliding off one another can be heard, swirling up either arm like constricting vipers, until both lengths settle neat and nice 'round the forearms adding weight, density and a rather ugly present for anyone looking to step into his personal space. The action is accompanied by a finalising

Click.

....He waits.

((Sorry this took me so long, internet connection went buggy for a good half a week or so.))

(james)
the rattle of chains speaks in cadent tongue
rhythm of uneasy discomfort mutely clattering between alley walls
disconcerting to most, it's easy translation to the street musician
quietly patient as the strange Garou figures his priorities out

"James Brans'n, Jukebox a some, Drums-'n-Skulls a th' Nation. BG Eld'rman a Fos'rn fullmoon've Eagle's pack." a tip of his head back towards the Modi waiting off yonder "Packma'e."

if Decker wants to introduce himself, he will
and now the raggedyman's turn to wait
kid wanted to be found - let's see what he has to say

((No worries))

(primal)
Armoured-arms clink together as both cross over the chest, tightening the links 'round musculature in either a show of BRavo or a reflexive gesture of protection and comfort. Either way the motion is distincly isloating.

" 'ear iz always nice tah greet tha' lords o' tha' manor ev'n if they got 'bout'z much'z I do, Drumz~rhyah."

The accent slaughter's the english language with as much finesse and elegance as a butcher's cleaver. The cowled fellow, his dirty features twisted into a hard-jawed scowl, stares straight forward meeting the eye of the Bone Gnawer elder with his dark and seedy own.

"Tha' Skid 'ear'z got Wyrm probl'ms, but I giss ya 'now that. Go'd 'mount o' thiz place'z got Wyrm probl'ms. Figur'd ya bes' 'now tho'. Wha' I kinna ne'd tah 'now iz if'n tha' Karn 'iz 'round 'ere 'n wha' kin' a Chiminage" This word is said with immaculate slowness "I gotz a do tah join..."


(james)
deep umber eyes watch Primal's repetoire of gestures
if the Elderman comes to any conclusions of bravado or consolation
he doesn't let it show past the lopsided curve that lends towards easy smile
whatever the reason chains tighten over steely muscle
James is content enough to let it be the Cliath's own
making no move to further intrude upon the other's chosen alley or personal space
the raggedyman seems quite comfortable leaning against this chosen spread of bricks
rusty dust clinging to the sleeve of his t-shirt where it's trapped between shoulder and mortared wall

"Eh... who needsa cas'le when yeh kingdom'z th' urb'n jungle a th' street'?"

one hand waves absent gesture dismissing laughter-laced words into the night
a knowing glimmer within dark gaze acknowledging the deference of rank
even if both Gnawers instinctively know the truth in Primal's observation
fancily trimmed titles are little more than words among the Omega Tribe
other things bear far greater importance

like..... getting a translator for the poor Modi standing watch over yonder
the Sons of Rat seem equally adept at effortlessly demolishing the English language
between the thick accent and battlescar slur - it's a viable concern if they are still speaking English
(no wonder other Tribes think they've all gone mad from generations of abject poverty)
and not some super secret lexicon shared amongst the jackal blooded alone

"Scab'za stain." shoulders roll in a liquid shrug supporting that yes, there are Wyrm problems all over the damned place, but what did they really expect otherwise? casual as he sounds, the guttermutt doesn't waver, meeting scowling gaze dead on without so much as a flinch "But we all done our part a make due. If y'r plannin' a set up shop here 'n join th' Union, y'u'll be 'spected a keep y'r nose'n th' stree's clean, no quart'r offer' f'r those tha' slack. 'Nuff fullblood 'roun' town a give ya plen'y a choice f'r formin' 'lliances've y'r own. As f'r th' Caer'...."

pause punctuated by the appearance of that faint, lopsidedly curved grin
general suggestion of Chicago's proverbial ropes outlined before the crux of the matter
dreadlocks swaying as his chin lifts up and head tips towards the South East
indicating the sacred site's..... general..... location from Skid Row's northern territories

"Head tha' way coupla mile'n give a call to th' guardin' pack, they'll lead y'in... guide yeh through wha's 'spected. We sacrifice' packmates'n our own blood a tha' Caer'.... so i'z no' my place a tell yeh what'll be pers'nal 'nuff a yours a be worthy chim'nage."

((Totally lost track of this thread somewhere along the way *hangs head* So sorry, dude!))

(primal)
The dark fleshed (was it grime?) brawler steps forward a pace or more, curbstopper boots thumping heavily against the asphalt. The chains continue to clink, their song sounding vaguely like a conversation, only through distorted static and completely one-sided.

"...Cas'le ain' got noth'n 'n tha' street, s'roit..."

He grunts and smacks a loogie off the nearby wall, a hand rising to wipe the excess across the back. If the Cliath seems uncomfortable with the Rank naming or otherwise, it doesn't show through. Perhaps a courtesy to the (Anti)non-tribe not ten paces away.

"...Ain' look'n tah blam' ya, Cuz. Tha' worl's a shit pit 'n we all got'r parts 'a do tah fix it."

He sniffed, obviously pulling back for another loogie though it fails to come right away.

"But if'n ya need'em, I gotz two fists eag'r fer tha' fight. Fath'r Rat's at my ba'k 'n I 'eard tha' Fam down 'ere built 'em tuff 'nuff...Jus' need'd a few mor'."

A pause is taken to finally spit that loogie, joining the other.

"So pav' yer own way, do yer own deed 'n dun' go fuck'n up. Tha' usual. Got'cha."

With no place to look that he hasn't looked at three thousand times before, the Cliath remains standing before his Tribesmate, offering a crack of the vertebrae and general roll of the head.

"Pay my respects 'n I fin' tha' place. Thanks tho'. So 'onest, injun...'ows tha' Fam' do'n in this place? We OK?"

It's kind of like asking if theres a problem that needs fixing in conjunction with a genuine concern/worry that seems to stem from some deeper need or compulsion. The chains flex and tighten under the swell of muscle.


(james)
"We c'n use yeh."

hell, they can use all the help they can get
steadfast reality for those fighting Gaia's War
never an able hand be turned down
though the desperation of the matter is covered by that lopsided grin
dire situtation narrated by the near jovial invitation
(Step on up to the plate, bub, join the team!)
call it some innate talent in the street performer Fostern
much like his ability to think little of Primal's penchace for hawking loogies at the wall

with some Tribes that's considered a treasonous breach of etiquette
with Gnawers it just comes with the territory

"We're hang'n' in there." brows lift as James' head tips in thought "Num'rs a bit light f'r 'spectations 'roun' a City a thi' si'e, but Fam'lies grow wi' time. Y'r not th' only new face'n town. Callin' a gath'rin' here soon, keep'n ear a th' Chain f'r specs on th' meet'n'greet."


[in play]

Posted by james at August 02, 2004 12:00 AM