August 19, 2004
.08.19.04. - ol' ugly's expecting me [erik-imogen-absalom] *ac

[skid row - the iron coffin - forums]

(st)
[The Iron Coffin.
Skid Row, Chicago, IL
Biker Bar.]

Sweet Allah, what they won’t think of next.

“Ol’ Ugly’s expecting me.”
Magic phrases. The specific wording may change over time. ‘Open Sez’a’me’ becomes ‘What’s the Elven word for ‘friend’?’ becomes… ‘Ol’ Ugly’s Expecting Me’. Either way the effect is the same and the man is ushered into the backroom where he can only presume the strangers are waiting.

A middle-aged man from the looks of it. Average of height and wirey-slight of build - so far as might be discerned from his street clothes. A baggy, billowy trench, ripe for concealing any manner of sins and generally ripe from its general need for a good washing. Many-times patched to the point where even the patches are in need of repair and below it all cotton slacks that afford little sound as he moves. Once-upon-a-time he was perhaps a fair skinned lad, but such days have long since past and his skin is the deep, ruddy tan of one long exposed to the elements. Winds, rain, sunshine and road dust may account for the deep lines around his eyes, brow, and mouth or perhaps he is simply…older; more than likely it’s a healthy mix of both.

[watch the eyes]
A surprisingly bright blue, they slid around quickly. Proficiently. A hawk circling though upon his features is a smile like that of one who feels that everything is going quite well for him and thus must be true of the entire universe. It lacks a pompous air, holding in it rather a comfortable experience.
At least, so it seems for a moment.
Then he smiles broadly.
And some would call that smile mad.
Not ‘wyrmy’ mad.
More…
…How-Long-Have-You-Been-Traveling-MoonPaths-Buddy? Mad
Trickster Mad.
Strider Mad.

He closes the door behind him and,
“You the folks Cliona hooked for me? Name’s Absalom. Path of Sand, also Road not Taken, Fostern New Moon of the Silent Striders.” Scanning eyes. Discerning eyes. Doesn’t-Quite-Think-The-Same-Way-You-Do eyes. “I see Dreadlocks. I see the redhead… ma’am.” A tip of his head to Imogen, and then the fall of his gaze upon Erik. “You weren’t mentioned. I’m gonna open my coat… and if we require a pat-down I opt for Red there handling me.”

Yes. He waggles his eyebrows. A wheezing sort of chuckle follow that barely escaped being a giggle and is, at the very least, a snigger. True to his word, however, he opens the coat to reveal that he carries no weapons.
Living Weapons don’t really need to, eh?

Then, assuming no objections have been raised by this point, he drops comfortably to his haunches and scratches rather blackened fingernails at the sandpaper-quality scruff on his jaw.
“Time’s short. I’ve given Storm Winds the slip for now but it’s best to keep them unaware of that. I’m sure ya’ll’s got plenty of questions but for now, bare essentials if you plea-” He pauses. He inhales in marked manner and tilts his head slightly and his features brighten… then shift back to the old expression and he shakes his head. “Bah... thought I smelled gouda. Just sweat. I’m a sucker for some good smoked gouda. Anyway, I hear you’re pack are the people to go to when you’ve gotta deal with a pack a’ Lords doin’ what they do best.”

---------------
ooc: (chuckles) I know when I’m beat: Trying to find a time where all four of us can get on-line to play this out is highly improbable. So we’re doing this via forums and it should be brief. So post away!


(erik)
Smoke hazes the front common room in a stench that is all of cigarette and cycle exhaust and a road dust so fine it might as well be smoke. The place is full; dangerous men and men in danger and the women attracted to it. Yet their looks are guarded, their voices whispered, as if they know who the real danger is. No one nods, smiles, offers anything other than cold, wary eyes.

A bar, long and age blackened, stained in beer and blood, runs the length of the room on one hand, a double row of tables, wobbly as if they too partake of the whiskey commonly served to the riders, on the other. Behind the bar its keeper with one hand on a rag that can't possibly be any cleaner than the bar which he wipes it across, and the other hand out of sight.

The partons all wear the same colors, black for leather and demin blue, and other colors that only a rough rider would know. And patches. All the men wear patches, and all the men wear the same patch. It covers the back of their jackets; demin vests. An iron coffin with a front wheel like a hog, being ridden by a skeleton in a nazi-like spiked helmet, legs akimbo, up in the air like a pregnant woman in stirrups. Letters beneath, 'Iron Coffins'. All the men wear these.

Past the patrons in leather and denim is the back wall of the bar set with three doors. One by the bar, one stinks like piss and sweat, and one guarded by stout iron bars the like of those on the front door. That one, guarded by iron.

Erik sits beyond that door, a small back room, no doors out, no surrender. And certainly no fuckin retreat. He sits with dread and red, between, as if he chose his seat first. His jacket hangs open, the butt of a gun protrudes as if too is a player here. Cold eyes, the blue of ice, watch the strider and say nothing. Someone else is supposed to speak.

(james)
.... behind the iron curtain...

James, as unnatural as it is for a Gnawer to stand out in a crowd, stands out in this one
the bar's filled with denizens of human nature's roughest archive
regalia spouting homage to the street's dictation of whom rides the hardest and meanest
victory proclaimed by battle-scar trophies and glorified claims to biker's renown
silver honoring this record taking the form of chains, tire-irons, and the occasional piece
no fuckin' holiday retreat - but allegiance and accepted presence goes without question
patronage bought by the images flying on the Iron Coffin colors

dreadlocks, faded t-shirt, scruffy BDUs and Corcoran's to match
that raggedyman suuuuure seems out of place

luckily he stepped in on the heels of Ol' Ugly
earning both the Gnawer and kinswoman passage with little more than a studious glance
a glance that likely averts in wake of the Ahroun's ever-present Rage
brushed off in the benefits of minding one's own business

if Ol' Ugly lets the fellow walk a step behind him without even a hint of concern - what the guy lacks in fashion-sense probably compensates in matters of blood and bone, apparently the ticket to fitting right on in to this rough crowd

"Rum'r has 't."

Absalom's cut and dry inquiry met with lopsided grin
someone else was supposed to speak
James steps up to the proverbial podium as Eagle PR
here's hoping the Strider's travels made him a fairly proficient translator
accented slur's thick no matter how much the Gnawer slows verbal cadence down

"Name's James. Jukebox. Drums 'n Skulls. Full Moon Fos'rn a Eagle's warpack 'n BeeGee Eld'r. Guy tha' bought'cher way in tha' door'z my Alpha, Blood Eagle... 'n this'z Doc'r Im'gen Slaught'r, ME f'r Cook Coun'y."

lifted chin or hooking thumb visually aides each reference respectively
it makes the Camel scissored between index and middle fingers dance
coiling smoke circling over itself on path towards the ceiling
pack and Zippo's left on the table in open offer should Absalom choose
more an act of unconsciously ingrained hospitality than expected initiation
guttermutt's not wasting time dancing around the nicities of pretense
(the protruding stock of Erik's sho-gun effectively negating any need of that)
probably wouldn't think twice if the cigarettes were ignored or declined
logged ashes flicked into the plastic tray before James carries on
deep umber eyes never lifting their weight from Path of Sand

"Quick'n dirty, Abs'lom - what'cha got'n mine?"

(imogen)
One might well expect that two of the three present were mute, for Erik and Imogen not saying anything. And then, James speaks in his mangled tongue, his broken voice the spokesperson for the trio. Irony.

The red head had lifted a brief eyebrow at the suggestion that she might pat down the Strider to check for weapons, and while she might be the more pleasant option, by posture and figure she is the least likely. Amidst two warriors, Imogen is slight, slender and decidedly not a warrior, for all the fact her posture speaks of ease of movement and perhaps quick of movement as well. Amidst the rage, she is a black hole, through her pure breeding speaks just as clearly as rage can.

Her introduction brings a sharpening attention upon the Strider, and from then she is clearly listening, and the woman, who does not join James in smoking, though her eyes shifted to the burning ember briefly, waits to hear what the Strider has to say.

Out of the three, she is perhaps the one most out of place here, for all that there is a shadow of a gun beneath her coat.


[in play]

Posted by james at August 19, 2004 12:00 AM