October 04, 2004
.10.04.04. - tattoos [rihana-cliona]

[ic room]

(james)
Pure Bred
James didn't notice it before
his focus was trapped elsewhere
and it was something that dawned on the guttermutt in transit
but as he stands over the painwracked woman now
dark eyes watching her as he sums up the situation thus far
bringing Cliona up to speed on the wretched thing he brought to her door

it's unmistakable

this last and final one has better breeding than he, himself
it's something that gnaws on the BG Elderman's thoughts
...... the consequences that could come from her loss ......
his head shakes to push those grievances away

"Think y'c'n hel'?" brow cocks above deep umber, he's already outlined his hesitations on acts of samaritanship towards those he's.... not entirely sure want them "Dunn'a where else a tak'r."

(cliona)
She had been surprised at the knock on the door - but as soon as she'd seen who it was, she let him in, helped him lay out the woman on the couch while she listened to this... odd... little tale. Slender fingers push her hair back [different now. two-toned still, but backwards. Black roots, natural red ends... odd that.] with slender fingers [now permanently marked - much like henna, but without washing off. Swirls, lazy, random, hypnotic from elbows to fingertips] before she starts to examine the woman, fingers tugging at clothing here and there to find the nature of her wounds.

"I kin try, lad, tis th'best I kin do. O'course I'll try..." lad. He's what, 4 or 5 years her senior? but that impish, goodnatured grin breaks free as she peeks over her shoulder at him and finishes it off with "...James - yuf." and winks.

Then, back to Rihana, to see just what may be needed healing wise before she touches her.

(rihana)
Faints don't tend to last a long time, a brief period of being rendered unoncious. ON the journey over, she'd awoken, albeit groggily and barely so. A slow blinking of large eyes, jet pupils dilated in a sea of gold-flecked amber. A moments shocked, bewildred stiffening followed by a muffled utterance of pain. The clumsy lifting of a hand that feels first at the veil on her face as if to assure herself of its continued presence... and then the small hand (a petite woman and in the over-sized, bundled up clothing she is rendered all the more child like) fumbles just as clumbsily - and with equal determination - at the strangers neck. Patting. Padding. Pressing. There. A heartbeat.
And her eyes close again.

By the time they arive at the destination, the woman/girl seems to fade in and out on conciousness. Like flexing between restless, on-the-verge-of-waking sleep and then into a calm stillness of deep repose. Like she is exhausted and wished both for the shelter of unconciousness and the knowledge of wakefulness but can fully achieve neither. Cliona begins to check over her and, sure enough, sees fress blood stains on the upper-back and shoulders.
But there are no slash marks or punctures on the jacket with it's numerous and sundry colourfull patches - patches in need of patching themselves. Peel away the jacket and there is a long sleeved shirt beneath more stained than the jacket - the stains making a bit of a blotchy pattern. But the shirt is likewise un-harmed, giving no sign of cause for the blood. Lift the shirt. Prod it up and the mystery is solved...

...tattoos. Fresh. Deep. Intricate and detailed though hard to decipher with the caking blood and rising bruising. It sweeps from base of neck down to the juncture of shoulder-blades and outward... ending abrubtly, the work incomplete.

As far as physical trauma goes, it's a puzzlement: Tattoo's can hurt, yes, but surely this wouldn't drive someone to the sort of pain the Gnawer witness. The odd ritual he encroached upon. The exhausted, abrupt faint.
Perhaps she just has an insanely low tolerance for pain.

(james)
perhaps she has an insanely low tolerance for pain
though, given present company, tattoos aren't just what they used to be
James watches curiously, but unobstructively
keeping a slight distance between Cliona and himself
(he's already touched her, been touched.... already damned if he is to be)
little more help than the occasional concurring nod

"Lad."

chuffed in a soft laugh
nothing more than a murmur
he's more concerned about the strange woman and her stranger pain


(cliona)
Already damned. She's been damned herself an awful lot lately. She needs a new hobby, it would seem. Send her out in battle, something, but not puking up her lungs, if you please. She didn't stop then, however, and she doesn't now, even if the symptoms [if they can be called that] are completely out of the ordinary.

There is no sign of injury but for the tattooing. Odd indeed.

She settles back on her heels for a moment, and then with a brush of her fingers, tender, over the woman's brow, she lays her other hand against the skin - broken and bruised, tattoo'd far deeper then they should be, and with a deep breath [ofgaia] she let's loose the Touch of the Mother into the woman/child restless on her couch.


(rihana)
The Touch certainly has an effect; It doesn't heal away the tattooing nor does it evaporate the congealed and drying blood. It does, however, cease any fresh flow and the bruising becomes a thing of the pass, which makes the tattoos much more dicernable.
Not that there is much of anything to be discerned.
It could be a mad-mans tablet. An unearthed artifact. The both of them have probably seen an example or two of ancient Semetic sigils, Sanskrit, and heiroglyphics though they cannot identify or read them. They certainly know Garou glyphs whe they see the and they do here, mixed in and styalized with all the rest to make an oddly breathtaking mosaic as primaly appealing as it is... errie.
James felt that erriness when he came upon her. Cliona can share in it now. There is a certain mystic quality to the artwork.. the language... the picture.

The Touch also serves to relieve the exhaustion the woman seemed to be in, not to mention the pain (the physical pain at least) and this time when she awakens her pupils are no longer dilated. There seems to be a lingering lethargy about her as she lifts herself up, thin arms trembling slightly with the effort. Looks around above her veil and speaks in a voice hoarse and heavy tongued.
It also happens not to be English.
"Quienes... quienes son ustedes? En donde... donde estoy?"

(james)
a brow most certainly lifts as the healing reveals what's beneath
he's seen his share of inks and wounding rites in his day
but what Rihana's skin displays is another thing altogether
no doubt about the heebie jeebies James is feeling now

and she speaks!
.... sort've
brows drop back down to furrow beneath the avalanche of..... (quirk).... Spanish?
he understands as much of it as he does the majority of the tat's symbolism
though he's heard enough to hypothesize meaning out of the questioning tone

"Jamezzz." slurred with a thumb hooked towards his chest, then it rotates to the Theurge beside him "Cli-ona." then his chin lifts - Eagle style - at the woman "You?"

(cliona)
Slim reddish brows furrow as she studies the tattooing, though she's quick to help the woman sit up when she wakes and is insistent that she do so. There's certainly some eeriness here, and she glances at James again [whoooboy. what did you get us into?] but the majority of her attention is on Rihana.

She doesn't try to interpret the Spanish, letting James take the lead on that, as she stands and moves to the bar in the corner [having a rich mate has its perks] and pouring a glass of water, as well as grabbing a round of beer bottles for those who might want them.

Returning to kneel by the couch, she offers the water to the woman first, something to help get her orientated a bit better - and only after she takes it does she offer the beer to James. She doesn't open her own just yet, but nods to the introduction, and doesn't further confuse things with her hellish accent for now.

(rihana)
James speaks first and so it is on James that her gaze settles as she draws herself to a sitting position. A cautious pose, with an air remeniscent of a bird at its perch not sure yet if a situation calls for flight. Cliona moves and her eyes dart briefly in that direction... both curious and wary.

When speaking to someone wearing a veil over the lower half of their face, it forces one to focus on the eyes for want of other means of facial expression with which to discern mood, thoughts, etc. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, some people definitly have windows made of one-way glass. They look out. You don't look in.
She isn't one of those people.
Quiet openly her eyes furrow and quite plain is the confusion, unease, sadness, remembered pain, and - perhaps in paradox - hints of relief and curiosity in the child-like womans eyes.

She accepts Cliona's offered water and the heaviness of her brow briefly lightens as gratitude slips through.. she raises it up, a hand moving to lift the viel enough to allow her to drink and-
-stops before the glass completes the journey. Againt her eyes dart. Suspicious but hesitantly so. An afterthought. Like a person who was quite recently a highly trusting person, but has since found reason to believe that not all are to be trusted.

She wavers...
...holding the glass
Then opts for answering the dread-locked man.

"Rihana... Hana. Ah," She blinks owlishly like sleep is still insisting upon her company, but clears her throat and continues. English now, her words very much accented. "Where am I?"

(james)
the dreadlocked man gives her time enough to orient herself
not much to the imagination discerning how confused she must be
other than the pulse-searching touch - she was pretty much out for the count the whole way
relief shows as she switches to English
least the heavy accent will fit right in

"Hana." said slow so he can wrap his mangled tendons around the word and parrot it fairly accurately, won't take the woman long to realize he's got a thick Yankee accent worsened by a slur likely stemming from the notch along the left side of his jaw "Y'r at Cli-ona's pad, I brough'cha here, she heal'd yeh." .... a pause, seems this FullMoon is capable of empathizing emotion beyond battlelust and senses Rihana's apprehension - and exhaustion.... "Ain't g'nna hurt'cha. Think't best yeh sleep nah..... we c'n talk more'n th' mornin'."

(cliona)
She nods, slightly, and offers the woman a tender smile. "Aye lass, ye kin rest safe here. Tis a wee room off there ye kin sleep in, or th'couch here if'n ye'd rather. We'll nae hurt ye."

Soothing, and barely more then a girl herself, usually instilling confidence of one kind or another as she nods to the water. "tis jus water lass - though I've stronger if'n ye'd like somethin' t'elp ye sleep.."


(rihana)
No doubt about it: She has a hard time understanding the Ahroun. One eyebrow raises and her tired eyes - darkened with the miasma of things she is feeling and thinking and is, generaly, too exhausted to sort out - squint slightly. Then relax. Whereas many likely become stand offish - if not annoyed - at his troublesome speach; she registers that is is difficult to understand. Then accepts. Then seems to focus more on his tone, body language, and such matters of bearing than anything else. Even tilting her head slightly, a bird-like motion. She does the same with Cliona, then... there's a bit of a pause; then a slight relaxing of weary (marked) shoulders. Apparently she's understood the fundamentals of what they said. More over, apparently she seems be more inclined to believe them than not to.
Either she's a good judge of character/intention.
Or she's just too damned trusting.

She glances off at the direction of the indicated room, 'brow furrowing again. Then shakes her head slightly and pats the coach briefly,
"I stay here." Hoarse and quiet. A pause. She dares a sip of the water.. then another, longer, eyes growing more and more heavy lidded. She offers the cup back - wariness mingled with gratitude mingled with equastion mingled with shyness mingled with ease of humour - and then settles down on the coach, curling up in fetal-fashion, eyes still on them though they are but slits now.

"Gracias.... James... Cliona." 'James' she can handle. 'Cliona' she... ah.. makes a bit unique.

Then returns to unconciousness.

[end, cont'd next scene]

Posted by james at October 04, 2004 12:00 AM