May 02, 2005
.05.02.05. - bring him home [retro in albany] *fr

[retro - albany, new york]

(something wicked)
Albany, New York. The streets of home, there's no place like it. They are on a random street, and across from a non-descript, normal, 1 story house that looks the same as any other house on the block. The Older Garou turns to face Jukebox.

"There is a child." Rends-the-earth does not offer any preamble, he does not offer any softening of the blow. He is Ahroun, He is Adren. He is too involved in the fight to do anything but give the required information for this challenge. The rest, as they say, will be up to Jukebox.

Who may, at this point, wonder - why is it always a child? Is it some failing they perceive in him still? Do they still count the sins of his past - as glorious to the nation as they had been - do they still consider his guilt a weakness...?

But there is little time for thought, for Rends-the-Earth continues. "Spirit-marked, true born. Parents are dead, and he was put for adoption by unschooled kin. He is there." Pause. "We sent a Kin to adopt." Pause. "They sent a strike team."

Pause. There is a long, steady look, gaze piercing and shockingly blue.

"Bring him home. Nothing else matters. No one else matters."

[Your mission should you choose to accept it...]There is no promise to come running if he has need, there is nothing else. Indeed, Rends-the-Earth steps off, steps back, steps away.

Bring him home.

(james)
Bring him home.

the steady look - so expectant - gleams a shocking, piercing blue
Gaia's crystaline sky boring down on the center of the earth
holding the Ahroun's deep umber gaze without question nor quarter
summer's approaching breeze flickers ropey dreads hanging before those eyes
but the movement does nothing to distract either Garou

James' chin drops, slightly, in the entirety of an answer
acknowledging the given information for what it is
(what about it's meaning, Jamey-boy, will you think about it that much?)
strategy forming and evolving in the dark corners of his mind

"'s'iz name."

the question is soft. and flat.
dropped like a stone in the calming night's proverbial pool
a momentary hitch in the pattern of cookie-cutter houses on just another suburban street
a singular challenge propositioning what should have remained as cut and dry instructions

Nothing else matters. No one else matters

judgement need not fall with the force of a sledgehammer
mistakes convict beneath the slightest whim of hesitation.... doubt
there is no evidence of either in the guttermutt's warm, earthen eyes

no lingering pause of wistful comaraderie drawn into sorrow's farewell
no final reflection which questions the competency of the older Garou's instructions
no skepticism born from expectations of a test's tricks and confusion
no wasted hope on begging the isolation to prove untrue with reinforcements just a mile away
all the raggedyman wants to know is the child's name

a single word that could weild more damage than the strongest silver
..... why is it always a child?

the Gnawer waits in respectful silence
parrotted expectation writ in only the shadowed crook of one brow
shoulders settled in the gentle slope of casual stance
one hand levers a steel pipe against his shoulder
t-shirt's sleeve wrinkling beneath it's lethal weight
the other is quietly tucked into the pocket of black BDUs

Rends-The-Earth can only hope he chose James wisely
he does not want to consider what could happen if the dreadlocked Gnawer wasn't as confident as he looked

((Eagle's Strength already invoked))

(something wicked)
A pause in the steps of the elder. A glance, a lingering moment. Then, quietly.

"Samson."

Perhaps it is the fact that this is the single question asked that allows the parting words.

"We are near."

hope.

(james)

Samson

James repeats the name in his mind, alone
chin dropping as another piece of information files away
his lips don't smooth into formulating his version of the word
instead, they half-twist into the lopsided, cavalier grin so familiar to those back home
breath gathering to chuff out near-silent syllable of amusement

it's those dark eyes that give away thought turned knowing phrase

Of course you'll be near. This is a test.

hard to discern if parting phrase brought hope or inferred mockery and insult
the Ahroun's disconnected levity betrays conclusion of neither
weight shifting to turn away before further observation could theorize
Corcoran's worn soles making little sound on the manicured sidewalk
several yards pass without even a hint of glancing back in parody of formal farewell to an Elder

if he is unworthy of this challenge - there is no reason James should know the path of return, nor the familiar face that would have greeted his success

he's a blooded and cut Eagle
willingly accepting what few others would attempt alone
states away from the strength of his bonded pack
he does not look for others to compensate a loner's weakness
he does not wear the arrogance of constructed assumptions of instinct's ideal
he does not invite the shame of questioning his own strength for number's safety

he knew his birthright long before learning to take the monstrous shape that embodies his Rage
never a day wasted by ignorance guaranteeing another would follow
accepting simply that should this night prove to be his last on earth
he will not stain it with doubts of why his heart beat so strong and true
(...... how deep is your faith, Jamey-boy)

there is something dark about the nearing frame of 1562 Cherry Lane
a premonition of what waits in ambush behind that door
an impish trick played by the porchlight approaching it's final luminescent hour

knuckles pale as fist flexes around four inch thick length of steel
animal's senses steeling against the information narrowed attention will bring
his heart thumps in powerful cadence
adrenaline electrifies telegraphing veins

this is why Ahroun are born

(something wicked)
This is why they are born. He is alert, he is watching, adrenaline sparkles through him on telegraphed waves of rage, for all the world he's shoveling right up to that house. There is the flickering light.

That clicks off.
Just like that.

Inside, however, there is music playing - perhaps different then one would expect, but then again, there is no real hint of just what to expect. It is the sound of classical violin, softly crooned from expensive stereo system, music to sooth the savage beast.

And from the back, somewhere, a baby cries.

[is that the snap of a twig? or a cocking of a shotgun? To the left, low...]


(james)
in the absence of light, sound has nothing better to do than amplify
harmony and tone a language itself to a musician's ears
music to soothe the savage beast - mournful scales caressing the Rage away
baby's cry striking the predator like a cattle prod - wailing pitch turning fibre to steel
single snap echoing another's approach - shotgun's trademark cock, weight's clumsy shift in the dark

scent follows sound
body odor faintly dancing in negligable breeze
carried from somewhere beyond the fresh aroma of tailored foliage
little more than a teasing presence closing in
five feet? ten? a stone's throw?

does it really matter?
Nothing. Else. Matters.
darkness blinds without prejudice

the first step results in a specific shift in his features
certain lines drawn lean while others thicken ruggedly
the second step plants his shoulder right in a sweet spot on the door
shoving it open to duck for entry hallway's side before it rebounds closed


(something wicked)
One would expect things happen in quick succession then. But oddly enough they don't. He shoulder's the door, and it breaks free, spilling the Glabro into an empty living room
Half a beat later (timed well) The wood of the doorframe splinters in spray after bullet hits right where James' head would have been a moment before. It's the warning shot against the bow, boys!

The baby cries louder. Hungry, perhaps, or wet. Or both. Gaia knows at that age it's a never ending cycle. There's other sounds from the back - the muffled voice of someone hushing the child, a harsher voice demanding the same.

And from across the way enters - A woman. talk, elegant, perfect. Dark hair, crimson slash of smirking grin, and cigarette in her hand, and apparently, a fondness for strappy heels. "About fucking time."

The violin music swells [sweet sounds of home], the cigarette is flicked with a smirk [darkly beautiful, expensive, scent of smoke in the air].

Shift.
It begins.

(james)
the door shatters and the baby cries
volume crescendoing in hunger. discomfort. fear.
two hushing voices and then She enters

darkly beautiful and smirking around profanity drifting away on lazily coiling smoke

how crushing the savage irony has become
if... James had stopped to think about it
if... he had stopped at all

clickclack of strappy heels supplied a devastatingly fashionable key to her approach
waste not the darkness nor momentum's beneficial force
she's on his way towards the child, anyway
Eagles strength driving a swing of that pipe to make El Bambino proud
gleaming point of the railroad spike primed to splinter skin and bone
that she's all the more teeth to smile at him with only makes it more beautiful
backhand recoil occupying the time she chooses to spend in shift

drop 1 rage for extra swing
james attack 1 9D10 Dice Roll: 8; 7; 10; 5; 1; 3; 5; 1; 7
reroll 10: 1D10: 5
2 sux
james damage 1: 12D10 Dice Roll: 5; 3; 9; 3; 10; 8; 7; 6; 1; 5; 10; 4 (diff 6)

5 sux
biotch soak: 9D10 Dice Roll: 2; 10; 7; 8; 8; 6; 3; 2; 5
5 sux, no damage
james attack 2 9D10 Dice Roll: 4; 5; 1; 7; 9; 9; 3; 1; 9

2 sux
james damage 2 12D10 Dice Roll: 8; 5; 8; 9; 1; 3; 3; 6; 2; 10; 9; 8
6 sux
biotch soak 2 9D10 Dice Roll: 10; 7; 7; 8; 5; 3; 3; 5; 2
4 sux, 1 damage

(something wicked)
He wastes no time. He had his orders - and thus, before she fully shifts, he steps [eeeeeeeey batter batter batter] and [sawing] the bar of his go swinging. It catches her square the first time, as she continues to shift, and square the second time.

He managed to split her lip, unhinge her jaw until it's actually pulled off. And she? ends up spitting her broken teeth at him, quite inadvertently. No one will want to kiss that mouth for a while., that's for sure.

So he wants to play it that way? So much for cat and mouse. She steps forward and it is a blur of rage as claws strike once, twice, three, count them - four times in rapid succession.

And from the doorway - BLAM. another gunshot.


(james)
(... oh you did not just spit your teeth at me, biotch.)

all that with little more to show than a necklace of broken teeth
were there time for comedic pause to study his expression
it would be one of .... no bueno.
luckily James is a seasoned enough Ahroun to not waste moments on such things
decisions snapping like fireworks behind those deep, dark eyes

.... let's dance

thunder growls earthquake shockwave through the small, non-descript house


1 gnosis, clap of thunder
biotch WP resist: 6D10 Dice Roll: 1; 7; 9; 3; 2; 8
1 sux
masterblaster WP resist: 4D10 Dice Roll: 10; 4; 4; 10
biotch attack 1: 7D10 Dice Roll: 5; 9; 9; 5; 5; 6; 9
4 sux
biotch damage 1: 11D10 Dice Roll: 1; 8; 9; 1; 9; 4; 3; 3; 3; 7; 2
2 dam
james soak: 7D10 Dice Roll: 4; 1; 1; 5; 7; 6; 1
0 sux
biotch attack 2: 7D10 Dice Roll: 8; 8; 7; 8; 1; 8; 9
5 sux
biotch damage 2: 12D10 Dice Roll: 10; 10; 4; 7; 1; 9; 6; 5; 9; 2; 8; 6
james soak: 7D10 Dice Roll: 1; 1; 3; 7; 1; 8; 7

(something wicked)
He should feel lucky. He should bow down and PRAISE gaia that she has her orders. He should bow down and kiss the feet of the Wyrm that she is well versed in her place in this little scenerio, because she?

Pulls that last swipe.
Not much, but just enough. It is, after all, why she was chosen to be at the front of the house. Her control.


She spits again, blood and saliva spilling in a mess to land square in Jukebox's face as he collapses and lays there, bleeding on her rug. Her brand new fuckin rug. She grabs her jaw and shoves it back into place, holding it there with a hand. A jerk of her head toward shotgun boy and he comes in gingerly, shotgun aimed at the incapacitated Garou. As if the shotgun really was a worry - the one with the silver bullets is in the back - with the baby.

The baby who's still crying. still hungry. still scared.

The kin with the shotgun grabs the chains from where they waited - silver, of course - and binds Jukebox's legs and wrists tight. Krasssssh makes his first appearance from the back room, and unceremoniously slings the unconscious gaian over his shoulder. A quick, silent glance coordinates the strike team, and they - Shotgun boy, Jawless, Krasssssh, Babysitter and Baby - make their quick, and silent exit out of the back of the house. Into the waiting van that SCREECHES away...


....and in the house, the Violin music swells to a rousing creshendo... just before the click of a button.

BOOM!

What now, oh mighty Ahroun..... what now?

((fade.... as Wolf panics and grovels before mighty Kahseeno..... realizing those that stray from the Church of Die for many months WILL. BE. PUNISHED.))

Posted by james at May 02, 2005 12:00 AM