September 27, 2004
.09.27.04. - i am last [rihana]

[chinatown]

(james)
all things considered - it's a rather pleasant midnight in Chicago
weather's comparably mild and the winds hardly inspire comment
sixty-four degrees outside and James can get by in a wifebeater and workshirt
black tails of the open shirt flap lazily against his hips
strolling down the sidewalk with a belly full of Mandarin Chicken
dully shined Corcoran's beating an even rhythm on the sidewalk
hands shoved into the pockets of summer-weight BDUs
dreadlocks tied back benath what may have once been a gray bandana
Camel long hanging precariously from the corner of his mouth

by all rights and purposes - it appears as any other night
some quiet time on the boulevard just before the last shops usher out the late crowd

except..... there's a full moon floating up above partial clouds
and the urban primitive is no mere city bohemian finding his way home for the night
beneath his skin lurks the volcanic predeliction for merciless predator
and luckily, so far nothing's tapped the Ahroun's ire so far tonight

(rihana)
What is the value of oddities-
-in a world so filled with that which we cannot explain?
Who puts the price on signs--
--in a time when symbolism sings a swan song?
Where can the last of the unknown turn---
---when extinction looms 'round every bend?

A dark alley up ahead, that is where the sound comes from.
A howl.
Not that of the Bone Gnawer's People, per say, but the plaintive call of your average street-mutt (so, perhaps it is something that particular tribe would call kin), muzzle raised in ancient homage to ancient ties, thick in this blood. Coild in their instinct. A anxious note at it's plaintive end like the acknowledgement of raw, old magic, the likes of which humans have long forgotten.

Like a marker...
...of a time and a place and an event.
Of little consequence to anyone.
Of no consequence at all.

The howl reaches its mournful end, a slow decresendo and a sharp bark to punctuate it as humans will throw in an exclamation point. Silence. Breath drawn.
And it begins anew, rousing a light in a second-floor apartment above a store and the dweller within to raise his own menacing complaint in sharp. brittle Cantonese.

(james)
it's a peaceful night
there's the sound of distant traffic one district over
rattle of the Red Line as it zips through to the Loop's next stop
beneath that, the subelement buzz of a city's humming nightlife
skyway neon lights, far-off generators, a plane heading off to California
a dog barking in the alley over yonder, some lady barking back in Canto....

.... that's not the white-noise lull of absent cityness

whether it's the barking exclamation or stinging retort that gets the guttermutt's attention
the peanut gallery is left to decide
but it's enough to keep his attention on the walk ahead, and the approaching alley on his right
one arm drawing out of his pocket to pull the Camel free, ashes flicked to the asphalt

(rihana)
At the irrate womans scolding from up above the mutts howl gain in it a rebellious quality, the basso of its growl mingling with the tenor tolling like the (witching) hour struck.

This time it doesnt culminate with a bark, but with a series of whines, incessant and cajoling.
With the sort of tunnel-hearing that comes when a person tunes in on a particular noise amid the usual cacophny, the approaching ahroun can hear the sound reverbating in the delicacy of eardrum, perhaps tantilizing his own instincts.

Up above the scowling woman mutters in frustration and slams her window shut.
The weak, watery yellow light of a flicking, busted lamppost is blackened as something swoops in front of it with the rustle of winds born on the ever present - if tonight muted - city winds.
Hooting.
No, no... surely a figment of the imagination. One does not find owls in a city afterall... right?

Nearer still, The whining continues, accented with a growl here.. a short wuff there. And then another female voice. This one also speaking in a foreign language, though the voice is quiet. Quiet in that is strained. The strain of someone concentrating hard, the strain of someone holding pain at bay. THe voice attempts consolation, however, a universal intonation picked up on whether one knows a lanugage or not.

"Shhh... con calma, perrito. Cojalo con calma... todo... todo va a estar muy bien, ya veras, perrito..."

(james)
whines, growls, hooting, whuffings
it's the symphony of the street
the city's lesser beings offering their song to the moon high above
it would be primally beautiful... if it weren't for the underlying dischordance of pain

the angry woman's slammed window of finality is ignored
(Banaman)
James' sense perked towards the language he doesn't understand
tonality all too easy a translation to the ears of a street musician

the tall, lanky Ahroun stands silently at the alley's mouth
modicrum of skid row respect in announcing himself subtly before the addition of mangled words
but if presence (Rage) doesn't work right off the bat
smoke's pulled free and scissored between two fingers
lips pursing to aim a short whistle towards whomever's in the alley
curiosity cants his head, but the raggedyman yet remains at the sidewalk until invited within

(rihana)
It is the dog that first picks up on the prescence of the ahroun. Ears pricked and tail leveling. Shoulders shifting, shifting its weight as its ears levelo outward as well a position of alertness, not neccesarily of action. Again the low wuff and an audible sniffing... sniffing...
Growling.
Fluid, the shift from alert wariness to that of keenly coiled warning. The shiftng of its paws...
...the shuffle of fabric that denotes the motion of someone other than the dog.
A pause.
Not silence... there is no silence here and th dog keeps up its low growl. Typicaly a mutt would run when catching a whiff of a Garou - flight provoked in the face of a greater Predator. For the dog to stay suggest a few possibilities... one of which is that the animals feels the need to protect something here and remain, its sense of territory calling on fight instinct over that of (perhaps more sensible) flight.
Then the voice again... a figure made out as usual city cloud/smog cover allows natural moonlight to filter through revealing a small crouching human figure. Some fabric fluttering about its face like some sort of veil and more below to denote a skirt. She speaks then,
"Dejame--" The words hoarse with the low contraint of that same pained impression. The words broken midway as the small figures shoulders tighten. Spasm. The veiled, blue-silver washed head ducks down and a sharp breath is drawn.. then her hands move, figers touching deftly around her as the other seems to be holding a small boowl of some dark substance (smell of soot and sage an overtone to the rank pungence of the alley) into which the other fingers quickly dip before dartng out again like the motions of a passionate sidewalk artist.

The mutt moves closer towards the alley opening, the whites of its teeth exposed in a sharp snarl.

(james)
rolling growl gets his attention to drop downwards
carefully watching the loyal little dog doing its best to stand off the Garou
he can't help it, a fond smile ghosts lopsided over his face
but the expression is breif
attention strolling back into the embrace of walled darkness
to the figure huddled inside

Dejame
a line appears between his brows
that is not among the slanguages he's heard over the years
first clue that communication may be harder than first expected

so the big, bad Ahroun sinks to a crouch infront of the bristling dog
smoke's propped back between his lips so hands can dig in his pockets
weight swiveling to turn a muscular shoulder towards the little mutt
speaking to the animal in body language rather than depending on the predator/prey diatribe
one fortune cookie pulled free and plastic pried open
it's held on his fingertips towards the protective canine
dark eyes lifting back to the woman within once again

".... 'lo?"

(rihana)
The dog tenses further when the ahroun moves, upping its low growl in a general warning that it fully intends to perform a primative trychotomy on Jukebox should he move around anymore...
...then the cookie is withdrawn and offered and the mutts eyes flickers that way. Sniffing. A brief moment of suspicious calculation, cut short when the crouched woman further behind releases another taut, pained breath. The moving arm - the drawing arm, the left arm - quivers visibly and the dog gives another growl that melts into a whine and then the sharp, acrid ordour of urine. It lowers itself further and growls again though this time both at the Ahroun and in what seems to be the direction of the girl.

...the girl (a woman, but small enough to be confused for a child) is murmering now, giving no visible sign of paying further attention to the Ahroun. Cold sweat marks her deep-olive complextion, the smell of it yet another scent to mix with the rest...
...like the smell of fresh blood.
Not a copious amount of it, but the sudden brisk force of its metallic smell/taste. The light coloured fabric on her back is beginning to deepen in some spots just below the shoulder-blades. Splotches, like a liquid soaking into the cloth from the flesh below. It could be sweat... but the areas are too precise and singular to give much credence to that assumption. Surely it cannot be blood... she's crouching... drawing... who bleeds at such moments?

Her form jerks again...
shoulders clenching and small of back accented momentarily as her work is broken and she murmers low, rapid words with a cadence and tenure similar to that of middle-eastern religions... though the language still seems to be predominantly Spanish.

...the mutt barks again, shifting nervously. Whimpers.

The situation is all in all... eerie.
Not so much prevocative of danger but more of mystism old as the flow of lava at the earths core.
Spooky.
Though we shall assume that the Ahroun does not spook easily.

Okay, yes... she's drawing Solomon's Sheild around herself.. or, better known as a pentagram/pentacle. There are other markings within and arount, but I'm sure he's seen a Star of David or two somewhere along the line, if only on the front of a Kosher deli.
Grraack (10:54:22 PM): Yeh, he'll recognize the star.... though he won't get much more out of the Sheild that it's a pentagram and a hex ward, esp with all the additional markings
ShyGravel (10:56:01 PM): (nods) That's fine.

(james)
the mutt is.... generally ignored
fortune cookie's offered as pretty much a pacifier
cause it'll be hit by teeth before his fingers
right now James' mind is racing

soot. sage. urine. blood.
blood

the Ahroun may not spook easily
(he's visited Wonderland, after all)
but the metallic scent puts apex predator on edge

fear. sadness. grief.

manners be damned, the cookie's dropped and one raggedyman's striding towards crouched female
just back from a much-needed, highly beneficial, near month-long "quiet time"
he should know better than to enter a situation that's already adding up to "bad"
but the Hood in him simply cannot turn away

the Fostern cops a squat just before the veiled figure
all six foot one dropping down to a height approaching eye level
hers are on the symbol taking shape on the ground
(Star of David... Pentagram..... hex ward.... this ain't good, Jamey-boy)
careful not to step on the design
(you should know well enough to leave her to her business, Gnawer)
reaching out to gently touch what he hopes is a slope of shoulder

"'ey.... h'lo?" head drops to catch potentially raised eye "Y'allrigh'?"

(rihana)
The ahroun ignores the dog. But the dog is not ignoring the Ahroun... when Jukebox throws street-ettiquette to the wind and moves forward the dog spikes up again, wary and distrusting. He doesn't attack however, perhaps simply out of good sense on the mutts part. Furhter aided by the fact that the small woman blinks, pupils focusing in to register what is happening around her and she makes a shoft shhhhushing sound in the direction of the animal. Enough to make the dog keep its protest to the audio realm.

Above the small veil that hides away half of her face, the womans eyes slip to the approaching man. Beast. Demon. Good samaritan. Seeing him. Seeing through him. Eyes a good deal lighter than one might espect given her dark complextion, though the actual colour is indiscernable in this light or lack thereof. They are clear in this moment, however. Calm.
Large and sorrowfilled.

His hand descends on her shoulder and he can feel moisture there as the weight presses fabric against flesh. Warm moisture. Living moisture. Blood seeping into clothing. She winces and draws a slow, controlling breath...
...pain...
True.
Acute.
Physical.
Not unbearable, but clearly not negligable either.

Then she nods faintly, eyes closing then opening in acknoweledgement of his words. His query. His presence.
(a stranger. rage humming off him in waves. why isn't she scared?)

Then, "I am last. Final." Her English is heavily accented with the lyrical swell and sensual sweep of her native Iberian Spanish with its oddly Middle-Eastern cadence. Her head tilts to the side, like the motion of a small bird...

...her form tightens once more, taut as a readied bow....
A plaintive sound, a hushed sound of mourning...
...and then she slumps forwards. Onto the Ahroun should he deign to support her. Onto the ground should he feel inclined to let her drop.
Fainted.

(james)
quite right, the Ahroun ignores the dog
if it were to get a look, it would probably be one much like this:
bite me you'll regret my biting back
but his concern is focused on the woman
and those light eyes he knows are seeing right through him

he doesn't flinch
he doesn't try to hide
James allows the woman to see whatever it is she finds
fiercely proud and brutally open beneath the rays of his heavy birth moon

with moisture beneath his fingertips supported by her audible wince
his tentative reach recoils instantly to circumvent causing further harm
instinctive reach to offer his help curtailed before making contact again
a respect for her stoicism - yet an ache forms in the Garou's deep umber eyes
he may be Gaia's Warrior, born into his destiny that culls the taint from Her lands
equipped at first breath with the most important weapons of all
a living nightmare so horrible the mortals he indirectly protects cannot even fathom his existance
yet, above all, every Bone Gnawer knows that no creature should suffer needlessly

"Le' me h....."

fortunately, the Fostern had tilted his head towards the words accented heavier than his own
she struggles so desperately to connect with him
(she did not turn from your Beast, Jamey-boy)
he could not be so cruel as to force the efforts to say it again
leaning closely to catch whatever words spilled past lips pressed together to hold back the pain
so when his words ceased as her body crumbled towards the filthy asphalt
he was already there to catch her

.....juuuuust peachy.

in the few moments James uses to digest the current status of his situation
he's able to discern this faint isn't her last breath... yet
and since she fell into his veritably waiting arms and out of the protective hex
mellow Eagle that he is - he'll just go with the flow
dark eyes glancing towards the vigilant mutt as shoulders roll in slow shrug
(guess it's up to you and me, kid)
movement serving to remove the unbuttoned workshirt so it can be wrapped around limp form
rock back to his heels and the Ahroun's standing with the petite 5'1 package in strong arms

whatever the last and final may literally or metaphorically mean
(last moments? final breaths? last of her kind? final part of some bloodletting punishment?)
the Hood cannot simply leave her on the street in a filthy alley
(.... the hell you just get yourself into, Jamey-boy?)
boots pick a direction and head nods with a low sound for the dog to follow if it chooses
calculating the shortest possible route to his destination

if she survives long enough - he will offer the chance to heal
if she refuses - he will offer an end without suffering
if she passes on while still held safe in his arms - he will, at least, assure a decent burial
and if he is wrong, having misplaced his compassion at the mercy of malicious deception, then at least there will be no others to fall beside him at the hands of fatal mistake

Posted by james at September 27, 2004 12:13 AM