August 09, 2004
.08.09.04. - day late and a dollar short [jim] *mp

[forum .07.29.04. - day late and a dollar short]

(james)
somewhere, in some back alley, a scruffy shepard sinks to his haunches
closer looks reveal canid heritage that seems to have bred true
wide ears are a little too far apart on a frame just a little too big
the shape of it's skull seems blockier than modern breeds
tail's plume resembles pipe-cleaner's bristles more than sleek lines genetics call for today

on closer look, this is obviously not your average shepard
even with the blackened saddle darkening the deep russet browns of his coat
and... it almost looks like.... he has mini-dreads?

James tips his muzzle to the sky and starts a series of sharp barks

[b]I am Jukebox... Drums on Skulls.... Gnawer Elder and Eagle Fostern Fullmoon... seeking help..... one and half moons past BeeGee Cliath chased by six Garou and black ghetto bird.... maybe hurt..... spirits followed but returned..... knowledge will be repayed.....[/b]

he waits, head tipped to listen as the message is picked up and passed along
it's a bit long for preference - but the city's population does a good enough job
clear enough to spread the word and hopefully get something back

-----


OOC: Not sure if the character or player is still around, but unfortunately James just found out about this through the grapevine. Anyone's welcome to jump in with information if they have the wherewithall to hear the call, send a message back, or otherwise contact him through cell/kin/etc.

(st)
The reply comes late. Maybe James has even assumed what anybody would expect - the young Bone Gnawer is dead. It was only a matter of time. Six against one are impossible odds, even with the 'home turf' advantage.

Chalk it up to another friendly fire casualty (no wonder the Wyrm is winning..).

"...Hides in Alleys seeks Drums on Skulls." A loud bark replies, days later. "Tonight.."

[skid row - .08.09.04. - mersenne prime chapter 10]

(st)
The reply comes late. Maybe James has even assumed what anybody would expect - the young Bone Gnawer is dead. It was only a matter of time. Six against one are impossible odds, even with the 'home turf' advantage.

Chalk it up to another friendly fire casualty (no wonder the Wyrm is winning..).

"...Hides in Alleys seeks Drums on Skulls." A loud bark replies, days later. "Tonight.."

--------

Down the road from the meeting place, the line to soup kitchen and shelter is slowly growing, spiralling down the church's stoop into the sidewalk. A long row of Chicago's filth waiting for a piece of stale bread and luke-warm, watered down soup. Prostitutes, bums, derelicts, drug addicts.. and worse.

The meeting place was down the street. Jim insisted on meeting in the filthiest section of Chicago, true to his tribe's heritage. A humble meeting place behind a local Quick E-mart. More specifically, behind the dumpster, behind the Quick E-mart, where nobody was likely to bother them. A floodlight anchored to the back of the store was the only source of light, chasing away enough shadow to offer the illusion of safety and security for whoever brought the trash out. Litter blew across the empty space, and rats scuttled out of sight, burrowing deeper into heaps of trash.

(james)
tonight
after so long without word
all too easy to assume the worst
they're Gnawers... it's what always happens anyway

but by the time the moon rises past building's horizon
and the floodlights skew the friendly shadows into hungry ghosts
worn down boots scuff along the alley's filthy asphalt
slow steps echoing between Quick-E-Mart's wall and another nameless building
rats scurry away from the approaching monster

(st)
Nobody is here.

A rat pokes his head from the trash to look curiously at the monstrosity invading its territory. Nose twitches, picking up the delicate shifts in ordor, as its tiny beaded eyes fix on James. When he turns, it scuttles away, burrowing under trash.

Minutes slowly tick by in silence. And there's no sign of Hides in Alleys, or any other living soul for that matter. The rats and shadows are Jukebox's company for the better part of fifteen minutes.

And maybe as James is finally begining to grow impatient, he hears a glass bottle roll across the ground, rolling over cracks and ditches and the decaying paved urban floor. Rolling over dead weeds and small pieces of indistinguishable paper - rolling across the ground to Jukebox's foot, where it lulls to a stop, bumping against his shoe. And looking up from where it came, a silhoutte that wasn't there before begins to reveal itself from the surrounding shadows.

"Drums on Skulls?" a quiet voice asks. Its the sound of a voice that has spoken the name of his savior, but still doesn't believe he's right there.

(james)
fifteen minutes.... twenty.... twenty-five?
he begins to get the nostalgia of one umbral DMV
except this waiting room's filled with sounds of the urban wasteland
not the spiritual equivalence of muzak
James fills the time arranging an urban beat at the tips of his fingers
restless against the camoflaged fabric smoothed over thigh

it stops when the bottle tumblyrolls towards his boot
dark eyes dropping down as if to catch it themselves
then wander to his left and the shadow melting to form
gaze cast from beneath the tangled curtain of dreads

"Some call me tha'."

the voice is soft
far quieter than the bottle's introductory roll
barely louder than the tiny, hopeful whisper

(st)
The silhoute begins to take shape as it takes another step forward. Features manifest - eyes, nose, mouth - and slowly take on a life of their own as the move into the light. The creature looking at James is the skeletal reflection of a boy in his late teens. He is thin, wiry, and pale. Worn our jeans and a dirty t-shirt hang loosely from a malnourished body. His spine curves forward, the unconscious posture of a creature that is accustomed to hiding and groveling. But what stands out the most are his eyes. Sunken and unreflective. In a word - dead.

"I'm Jim," he offers, shyly. "Hides in Alleys? You were looking for me, and I was.. hoping to find you." He's rambling, just filling in the uncomfortable silence with words. "I'm a 'Gnawer.." he offers, forgetting James already knows this. "And a Ragabash."

(james)
"Clia', right?"

head tips, dropping dreads off his shoulder
long ropes swinging freely as weight shifts
slow turn enabling him to face the boy
unconscious turn of hands offering palms to the sky
no weapons held in secretive wait to strike
just the inky pattern of tribal tat along his inner forarm

"Ahroun, Fostern, Drums-on-Skulls, Jukebox.... tho.... s'easi'r a call me James." last part falling from the faint curves of what may be an easy smile "Hungry?"

what Gnawer in his right mind isn't?
it isn't the first time James has seen a Ganwer with dead eyes
the question of the matter is whether or not the life can return......

(st)
Unreflective blue eyes narrow. Its a too familiar expression on the street. The look of somebody that's waiting for undisclosed catch, the trick. "I don't know," he replies, looking down at the ground while trying to decide. One missed meal turns into two turns into a day or two without food, turns into a constant gnawing at your stomach. Hunger becomes the norm. You stop noticing it, stop feeling it. Just white noise in the background. And occasionally it will get strong enough to really make your stomach ache with true pain - enough to remind you that you're not dead yet. "A little," he confesses, looking up.

(james)
"Aaaaa..."

there's a knowing glimmer in deep umber eyes
hovering somewhere above that lopsided curve of a smile
slow and easy the pull from where he rest against the wall
stroll beginning in the direction away from the young Ragabash

"C'mon...." striking, that a Fostern would open his back towards a stranger, unless..... "There's'a burg'r join' down th' row good 'nuff a earn a C ratin'. Since I hate eatin' 'lone.... I'll buy when we get there, if you stick wi' me, 'n 'long th' way tell me if y' really are hungry 'n why you were lookin' f'r me."

brows lift at the question
hands lift to show no strings attached

"Deal?"

Jim doesn't have long to come up with his answer
James is already moving away

(st)
Hunger is a painful motivator. After thinking for half a second, the smaller Bone Gnawer quickly scuttles up besides James, falling in line next to him as he moves in the direction of the burger joint. "Just a little hungry.." he says, "maybe I'll steal a few fries, or something?"

Sighing to himself, he runs a hand through his ruffled and mangy brown hair - anxious relief.

"I was lookin for you, or anybody really.. to find the Caern. Its up, right? It made it? I mean, it had to, right? .. I just, want a safe place to stay, you know?"

(james)
"How c'n yeh steal 'f I'm buyin' an' giv'n it to ya?"

brow lifts over a sidelong glance
and the older Gnawer tips a slow nod
confidently leading the way to the burger joint
weaving around a couple blocks
waiting until there's an empty stretch of sidewalk before continuing

"Makes sense, givin' those guys tha' were af'er yeh. Why dunn ya send a call through th' chain?"

(st)
"Are," Jim corrects - present tense. Suddenly aware of his own situation, the Bone Gnawer casts a glance over his shoulder, peering into the darker recesses of the streets and alleys, into the shadows. There's nothing there, nothing there that he can see, and the Gnawer looks forward again, unable to shake the feeling that somebody might be watching him.
He moves a little closer to James, unconsciously taking comfort in his presence. James meant protection, even if it was just for a little while.

"I don't know.." he replies, shrugging his shoulders. "What chain? You mean.. the barking dogs and whatever? I didn't know about that.. Or maybe I just forgot?" Scratching his head, he finally just shrugs his shoulders, unable to offer much for an answer.

(james)
are - question one answered
whatever the urgency of getting the others aired out and solved
James doesn't particularly show it
calm and centered in direct contrast with the Raggie's tense closure
the step off the street comes in time, not an escape
two meals ordered at the counter: burger, fries, and drink
guttermutt leading them back towards a quiet booth
given the caliber of clientele around Skid Row
it's his Rage instead of potential smell that keeps potential neighbors at bay

"Eat it slow." warning before he relinquishes one meal to the Ragabash, even a Garou's constitution will protest if he hasn't eaten for too long "Then tell me y'r story."

(st)
Jim follows James in submissive silence. Slow steps follow him through the burger joint, to the back, holding whatever food is handed to him while dead blue eyes stare into the windows turned mirrors.

As he sits, three fries are already in his mouth, and almost swallowed whole. Cows are known to swallow grass whole, to avoid being caught by a predator without finishing a meal. Jim has a similar philosophy - swallow now, digest later. But taking Jame's advice, visibly restrains himself from stuffing his mouth with more fries. Instead he takes one, and eats it slowly, his nose wrinkling as he takes in the unfamiliar feeling of food inside.

"We came from Detroit. It wasn't just me, you know. There used to be a pack of us. I mean, barely out of our passage, but still a pack, you know? Well word starts getting around that something big is happening in Chicago. Rumors at first. But then we start hearing stories about a new Cearn being built. Then, stories not about a new caern, but bring up an old one. Well.." snatching up his burger, Jim takes a healthy bite out of it, and continues talking with his mouth full, as tiny bits of ground beef come out while he talks. "--everyone's excited about this. But worried too, you know? I mean, this kinda stuff gets a lotta attention. The wrong kind. Which means people gotta be there to stand up, fight the good fight."

"So we're young, dumb, and fulla cum--" Swallow. "--And we figure we'll come out, we're gonna help raise a fuckin' Caern. We're traveling from Detroit to Chicago, taking it the old fashioned way - heal-toe express, really rubber tramping it. The nature lovers love this kinda shit."

"We're still in the middle of nowhere, close to Chicago, in some backwoods when we get ambushed. All of us. Not BSDs, or banes, or formori. But humans. I'm not talking about farmers with shotgun, but guys dressed head to toe in fatigues, military style guns, the whole nine yards. They take down one of us, one shot. Done. Just like that. The rest of us try to put up a fight, but we lost before it even began."

".. The rest.. " and Jim, visible shivers as he begins to think about it. He looks down at his tray of fast food, and shyly takes his soda, and drinks from it as a distraction from the words that are going to come out of his mouth. "Its a lot of a blur.. They gave us a lot of drugs.. and other stuff." Fingers run through hair, eyes looks sideways at the mirrored windows. "I remember bits and pieces, you know? Voices. And I remember the small room they kept us in.. more like a cage. Each of us in a different one. .. And you couldn't really tell if it was night or day because there were no windows. And we kept trying to step across, and we couldn't... And we'd shift, and they'd shock you.. or drug you.." He shivers, and takes another sip. Another distraction.

"And then one day I wake up in the woods. I got out. Escaped. I don't even remember a lot of how it happened, I was still doped up. But the next thing I remember is a pack of Garou hunting me. I know they're Garou because I hear them barking at one another, telling them where the tainted one is, and they have to kill me."

"And that was a month or two ago. And I've been giving them the slip since.. and I've run into those guys again, since. Gave them the slip too. And.. I just want to be able to sleep one night without waking up in a sweat, or having to run again. Or just die. Becausing dying is the same as going to sleep, you know. Just one long sleep."

(james)
the boy may be doing his part to take the ordered time to eat slowly
neither of them wanting sudden rejection hurl blanketing the table anyway
James, however, finishes his meal in classic Gnawer style
lacking the occupation of words to slow any swallow
it's a gooood question of whether or not he actually chewed

"You unnerstan' I can' take ya to th' Caern 'til I figger out what they did a ya, righ'?" compassionate as the Elderman is supposed to be learning to be - he sure isn't afraid to be blunt, even to a desperate young Garou "C'n pull s'me strings 'n getcha safe place a sleep. Think you'll 'gree we can' lead'm there, though." shoulders lift in a slow shrug, time bought with a finishing slurp off his own soda "Know if th' oth'rs 'r still alive?"

(st)
Jim is silent. Looking down at his half-eaten hamburger and barely touched fries, he just nods his head. Like he's listening to his own death sentence. Its the simple gesture of a creature that has accepted his fate in this world is to die - not gloriously in battle, but lonely and forgotten. A name that will not be sung or remembered past the fading memory of that packless Gnawer who died sometime in Chicago. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

He takes a sip of his soda - notably less sweet than he remembered. "Last I saw them they were. Probably wish they weren't though."

"Guess I'm the lucky one," he snorts.

---

forced pause, james'll keep watch over the kid sleeping at some hotel


Posted by james at August 09, 2004 12:00 AM