October 07, 2004
.10.07.04. - there is no rushing prophecy [rihana-cliona]

[ic room - con't from tattoo scene]

(cliona)
Her visitor still sleeps, and she continued to check on her on occasion, as well as on James, who has the run of the guestroom, kitchen (like there's anything to cook in there. scoff.) the living room with it's big screen tv and gaming system, complete with a handful of games that rumor left behind having already beaten them.

She's gone up to her room, and now returns much refreshed. Showered, two-toned hair still dripping down her back, dampening the thin cotton of her tank top which shows a strip of [scarred] flesh between it's bottom edge, and the top of her flannel pants that hang low on lean hips. tattoo'd fingers are occupied in pulling a brush through her hair as she moves downstairs, footsteps light on the carpeted floor. First, to they're guest, she checks to see she still rests, before she grabs a beer from the bar, and settles into an easy chair, curling up comfortably in the oversized comfort.

A nod to James, as she opens her beer and drains a few swallows. "ye finding everythin' allright?" ever the hostess.

(james)
while there may not have been much in the kitchen in the way of food
peace of mind comes from knowing there will never be a shortage of beer in any Fianna's home
it's one of these fine, endless bottles that James has helped himself to

"Mmmmmhm."

the answer a bit vague from where the Bone Gnawer is parked on the floor
long legs tucked into a neat crossed arrangement giving beer secure refuge within
ashed scars along his back pressed up aganst the front of the couch
dreads hanging damp and heavy from his own shower in the guest bath
dark eyes glued to the little digital car ca-REENING down the digital track
oh yes - Jamey-boy made himself quite comfortable with the big screen and Grand Turismo

"She still sleep'n'?"

sidelong glance/nod-up chanced only once the race is over and he's back in the pit waiting for the next track to load


(rihana)
At first her sleep was almost akin to her faint of a few hours ago: Deep. Dreamless.

Then, as sleep is want to do, it altered. Becoming a miasma of visions and sounds and smells and tactile reincarnation of that which she knows and that which is as alien to herself as is the better workings of the universe. Like a thief stealing memories of a place, a time, a people who once where, are now, will be...
...forgotten.

(what do you remember?)

Restless, became her subconcious, gossamer fingers slipping through files in drawers no one remembers and to which no one holds the key and then...
Awakening.
No, not an epiphany, but the literal sense of the word. She wakes up...
...and falls off the couch.
Small in form and rather depleated in weight, the sound it makes is negligable. But it certainly suffices to get her own attention. If she wasn't awake before, she certainly is now. And now that she is awake there is one immediate question in the forefront of that thought machine of grey-matter dogsmeat:
"Donde en carrajo estoy?"
After a moments blinking and hasty rising to a crouch, her conciousness pushes past the fog left by subconcious and into the more recent memory realm of just where on earth she is. And why.
She frowns.

(time passes. a few minutes.)

Jesus-esq sandals (a member of a Lost Tribe) make a likewise negligable sound on the floor as her shy, cautious (curious) passage takes her towards light and the sound of voices, male and female. And then she's at the door. She looked rumpled and the worse-for-wear when she was brought in; a state which has been made no worse and no better from her sleep save for a clarity of rum coloured eyes above her veil.

"Perdona," Still somewhat hoarse of voice, "...E'scuse me...?"

Her feet shuffle and her travel pack of brightly woven threads is held close before like the clutching of a talismen.

(cliona)
She watches the game a bit - she'd never gotten the hang of them herself, very little time to practice being as she doesn’t stick around 'home' any more then necessary on most days. Everywhere here there is the taste and scents of him - from the couch, his favorite chair she's now curled up in, his pillows his clothing.... all set off by the bare space on the desk upstairs where his laptop always was.

As much as she loves it here - sometimes she hates it too.

Still sleeping, he asks, and it's followed by a muted thump, and her own soft chuckle. "Aye - or rather, she was, wasn't she now.."

She glances up at the lass as she moves into the room, her pack held tight and close, and she smiles. "Slainte, lass... how're'ye feelin?"

(james)
though the big screen's volume is kept at a minimum
the Ahroun's close proximity coupled with couch's physical barrier
probably kept him from cluing in on the near-mute thump
but at the Theurge's chuckle and sound (feeling) of approaching feet
he thumbs the pause button and turns around to look back at their guest

muscle bulges and cuts as an elbow bends to rest on the couch pillows
supporting the twist of torso that allows dark eyes to peer over the furniture's top
skin's losing summer's tan but there are still the tell-tale paler marks of a Warrior
Eagle's brand on his breastbone, the mangled clutter of near-evisceration on lower left abs
blackened Garou clawmarks spilling down his back from where they begin somewhere up under those dreads
inks glitter on his inner forarm as right hand snags the beer to lift in salutory toast

(rihana)
The dog, a fair sized mutt, sticks close to the petite woman, sniffing audibly. Loyalty - protectivness - has it stick around, but its clear enough that proximity to the two strangers continues to make the animal nervous.

The woman, for her part, seems to be better gathering her bearings and takes two more steps further into the living room when Cliona responds. It take a moment to figure out what the devil she just said (Slainte? huh?), but the gist of it is understood and her eyes crinkle a bit in a good-humoured, rueful smile a brief interuption to her lingering caution.
"Ah, bueno... good, señora. Perhaps un poco - a bit - sore, si?" A bit of a chuckle, only mildly tinged with nervousness, as she dares to let one hand leave the pack long enough to passingly rub at where a hip might be beneath her baggy clothes. "Maybe needing a lee'tle masturbation of the limbs, si?"

Yes. She did just say 'masturbation'. No... that probably isn't the intended word.

Her eyes continue their passage then. Openly taking in her surroundings and the visage of those within the room. They note what shows of Cliona's scar... and what shows of Jameses' scars. Her brow furrows thoughtfully and her arms tighten further around the bag a certain tension seeping back in. But in her eyes there is a clear curiosity that bears the lacings of... hopefullness? Reverance?
It's kept gaurded, though visibly so. Subterfuge isn't something this girl is at all adept at, that much seems clear.

She dares to dart a glance at the TV then and her eyes widen. Not as though she's never seen a video game, but very much that it's not at all a frequent sight. The widening is a quaintly pleased thing though and she makes a breif sound as though she is about to comment...
...taking another step forward,
Then drawing herself up short, eyes flickering back and forth between the two present as if some voice in her head just advised her that now is probably not the time to get all enthused about the alien wonder of Western techhnology.

"Ah..." Shuffle. "Gracias- thank you... to let me sleep over your... seat."

(cliona)
She... well, that unintended word was timed with a swallow of her beer and she near chokes, trying to hide her laughter behind a cough, behind her beer, which she quickly swallows more of. She manages to get herself under control quickly enough, and nods. "Aye, lass, a bit o massaging might take th'soreness."

She waves her in and gestures toward the other seating in the living area, noting the excitement - as little as a widening of her gaze - as she sees the game. "make yerself at 'ome, lass. Think nae more about it. Tis nice t'have a wee bit o'company."

fingers slide over her belly, absently tugging her tanktop down a little, hiding more of the scaring of her mangled belly, as she continues. "Dinnae know if ye remember - but I'm Cliona... and that there tis James... he brought ye here when ye fainted.."

(james)
did she... just sa.......
if there's any indication James has a reaction to the incorrect word
it's hidden in a swallow or three of beer
he's polite enough to refrain from pointing out such a thing when she's obviously still unsure
let's get comfortable with one thing at a time
and offhand wave inviting her further into the room to explore at will
including the opposite end of the couch offering a seat between himself and Cliona

"Y'r sleep'n' pretty deep there, f'r the firs' bit."

explaining, in part at least, a reason for the lead-weight disorientation accompanying the bodyache
there is most certainly a matching curiosity in the Fostern's deep umber eyes
he has his share of questions... but they're postponed since this isn't an interrogation
noting Rihana's theater of reactions as she navigates her way along

"Jamez Brans'n," another trademark, habitual, nod-up, introducing himself a little more formally now that she's a bit clearer head "Fos'rn Ahroun 'n Bone Gnaw'r trib'l Eld'r."

most of his rank and title wouldn't mean much to a kinfolk
but it's instead the gesture to show an element of respect and put the woman at ease
even if she's a stranger and bares no apparent Rage
James still recognizes she is a creature of value and and he will continue to treat her accordingly
besides, he wouldn't have brought her here to be healed if he intended some malicious harm
here's where he quirks a bit of a lopsided, yet welcoming, grin

"Yeh go' ques'ns.... ask'm freely."

(rihana)
A bit of a smile in her eyes as Cliona tries to mask a laugh - and avoiding choking. Plainly she's used to people having such reactions and is fully aware that she mixes up words. Wich isn't to say that a blush doesn't further darken the deep olive of her skin - it does... but she inclines her head birdlike, catching the word Cliona emphasizes, presumed to be the right word. Nods a bit and then, with puzzlement and no little precaution (how badly did I mess it up...),
"Massasging" With her slippery, earthy mediterranean accent the word is made exotic, "What means masturbation, then?"

Good lord.
As if having bizarre tattoos on her back wasn't enough.

Invited to sit, she nods again and moves fully into the room. When she gets to it, though, she hesitates... darts a look at Cliona.. at the seating.. at James. Well, he's on the floor so it must not be an affront to the hostess. That decided she settles on the carpeted floor. Carpeting is, after all, quite a good deal more comfortable and luxurious than what she is used to. Legs crossed 'indian' fashion, she craddles the bag on her lap and makes a specific motion of her hand towards the dog. Said dog follows, if with more hesitance than herself, and lays down beside her, head on one thigh. One of her small hands moves to rest reasuringly on the mutts head, scratching behind one ear. Getting comfortable and awaiting a response from Cliona...

"Si... Clee-ona y Jamez. Rihana," Indicating herself, her name pronounced with only the barest breath of the 'h' and the accent on the second syllable.

Then James is speaking and she turns to pay due attention to him. Calm.. smiling a bit if her eyes are any indicaation (and they are). Right up only he gets out the words 'Ahroun' and 'Bone Gnawer' that is. The others, even if she does understand them, don't compute. But those two are enough...

She tenses. Not so much in fear of him, nore surprise really. For all her simple speach - simple ways... she is not simple-minded. But her wariness has returned and with the affirmation of her suspicions her unease seems to be born of feeling she might insult him. She feels the urge to stand.. but they are sitting.

Slowly her eyes drift back to Cliona, her request for the definition of 'masturbation' forgotten and she queries quietly;

"You...also? Yuesera... Bone Gnawer?"

(cliona)
What means...

Oh lord. Here she is, barely a year past losing her own virginity and she's being asked to clarify other matters. Slender fingers slide through two-toned hair, holding it back a moment, and then chuckles softly. "I'll... aye, we'll explain that'one a wee bit later."

She notes the relaxation, then the instant tension, even as she shakes her head. "Nay, lass. I'm nae a Gnawer, but Fianna. Fostern Theurge." Her head tips, slightly, and her voice is soft, soothing. "tis alrigh' lass, ye canna offend us lass, we're to o'th'more easy goin cousins ye'll find in Chicago, t'be sure. So ye go right ahead and ask yer questions.... we dinna mind, and will return th'favor with a few wee questions o'our own in time. Kin I get ye a drink?"


(james)
James' chuckle... isn't so soft
though it's directed more at Cliona's sudden loss for words than the mess-up itself
his Frankenweiler roots coming to the rescue and validating her question and efforts
(never would the Hood deny someone knowledge)

"Yeh nah tha' fa' off. 'S a more..." just how to put this without leaving room for misinterpretation or instigating further unease...."..... pers'nal sort've massage."


(rihana)
Fianna.
A bright spark in her eye. "De los Hada... ahhh..." THe furrowing of her brow, seaking out the english word. Her eyes close... a moment -- Eureka! a gleam of triumph and, "Fairies. Fairy-folk. Feh-ah-nah." Pronounce with the same supple softness similar to her own name.

Nodding, quietly, her brow furrows once more, fingers stroking the bumpy, rough weave of her pack with it's glittering bits of mirror, crystal, beads and buttons sewn onto it. The bag a magpie might bear if magpies had bags.

Her eyes open and her head lifts - veil rustling, giving the barest glimpse of a jawline and naught more; the shifting of the long coil of so-black-as-to-gloss-blue hair that curls onto the floor - looking to James, following his answer of her previous question... one jet eyebrow arching. A muffled sound like she's murmering his words to herself and...

"Oh." Yes, she blushes again now... but she also laughs and with that - coupled with her pleased reaction to Cliona's voicing of her tribe - it becomes clear that wariness of offending them aside...
...hope is winning out here.
Her laughter is soft, but earnest aand pleasently self-depricating. Good-humoured she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders a muted motion beneath volomous fabric. "That word I will not use again, si?"

Eyes crinkling with her smile, she goes back to looking between the two of them with that sort of hopeful pleasure that toys with awe.
Garou.
The Chosen.
Right here.

"Aldonza Rihana. De Los Que Viajen en Silencio - family of Silent Striders. Pueblo Crespusculo... Tribe of... Evening?.. no - Twilight. People of Twilight."

Now her gaze.. deepens. Darkens. Somber. The darkness of loss, in which the flame of hurt somehow manages to burn more brightly.
Light always shines stronger in darkness, afterall and this is made manifest in eyes the shade of rum held up to firelight.
"The people who where." Softly, that... and then she looks between them again, her next question voiced.
"Is there Strider with you?"

(cliona)
He starts laughing.. and she....
...well she just makes a face and sticks her tongue out at him. Sometimes it's fun being the 'youngun' and all, and far be it from her to not take advantage of that fact now and again. She just flashes that good natured grin at the young woman who shows such delight in her tribe, as well as her self-depreciating humor.

She tips her bottle at her in toast. "pleasure to'meet ye. As for th'Striders - tis nae around I dinnae think at th'moment, but I've a.." just what would one call that dirty old man with the lecherous eyes and good humor.... "friend who came by recently t'elp us out o'a wee spot o'trouble. He tis Strider, and I kin get ahold o'im anytime if'n ye 'ave need..."

(james)
Cliona's flashed one unrepetant and rather lopsided grin
packing up with a bunch of Get - he'll take any levity that comes along
appreciating Rihana's ability to laugh at herself, as well
things have bene far too serious around here, lately
the guttermutt tips a wink back at the realization
it leads to tip and drain of the bottle that's lifted for an empty toast to concurrence

"Yeh, prolly save't f'r special 'ccasions."

with his good-natured smile and smoothly low tenor
aside from the Rage and rank - James seems a fairly hard Garou to offend
he is, after all, a Council Elder sitting on the very carpet with a veritable stranger

"'e's th'o'ly Strid'r I' come 'cross'n th' las' year I been here

(rihana)
She smiles at James and Cliona's mild antics - seeming to take solace in what she takes as a display of companionship. Affection. Family.
Wise.
Which means wisdom enough to know the value of such things.

(the world is full of loners and it is over-rated)

Then she's working to piece together understanding the pairs accent and two-fold forgien vocabulary (what a trio this group makes). When she has, she doesn't respond straight away but contemplates the response - and that which she herself should give.
Her shoulders shrug - feeling the difference of her skin there. Knowing.
(there is no rushing prophecy.)
Finally,
"I see." A faint nod and acceptance in her gaze. "Then one I meet in time, if the Mother allow."

Now, again looking between the two of them, "You have preguntas -- question?" The smile in her eyes showing up again, even-tempered and knowing (lingering sadness). "About what you see...," No, that's not right. Past tense. "Saw?"

(cliona)
She is a sensitive lass, really, when it comes to making others comfortable, and she can't help but smile and appreciate it when Rihana relaxes. The three of them, their various accents and the way they speak would likely give a linguist heart failure, but it's a taste of what she loves her in Chicago - the flavor. And not just the flavor of the alcohol.

She tips her beer back and unfolds from her chair, padding on bare feet through the carpet to the bar, grabbing a round of beer for the three of them, refills on her's and James' part. Returning, she passes them around and nods to the question, stepping up onto the seat of the chair before curling up again, much as a cat would a claimed throne. [ye know what they say about Redheads and cats, dinna ye?]

She opens her beer, and then. "Aye lass, tis a foine, if wicked bit o'tattoo work ye have on yer back, isn't it now... twas th'only thing I could see twas wrong with ye o're then a wee bit o'exhaustion..."


(james)
as carefully as the Strider woman observes - she is being observed
James' expression a little more deceptive since he doesn't have the veil's protection
it's the art of a street performer to watch his passing public without pardoning a stare
the nod at beer's acceptance also serves as affirmative answer
only difference which woman his gaze tick-tocks to mid-movement

"I wan' a know ev'rything y'r willin' a tell me 'bout las'night.... includ'n' th' mys'ery a tha' tat."

Rihana recognized the word Ahroun
meaning she understands a part of his birthright is protecting those of the Nation within the city
he will allow the chance for her to speak of the things she deems important he hear
(surely, it seems, he is capable of finding some way to procure the details she chooses to hide... with little hesitation or regret... if the safety of those he guarded were in question)
a continuance of his display of respect - though quite possibly a test, as well

[pause]

Posted by james at October 07, 2004 12:00 AM