May 18, 2005
.05.18.05. - lunatic revelations [retro in albany] *fr

[albany, ny - retro]

(something wicked)
How long has it been? Days, weeks, months? Minutes, maybe hours? It is hard to tell, really. It's little things, things that cause things to swim and fade in and out of context. Sounds, sights, and ugh. smells.

One sense at a time, starting at the worst.

Smell: Urine. feces. blood. rot.
wyrm.

Sounds. Muffled voices. One sharp, one slurred beyond recognition, laughter. Crying. A baby. hungry, wet, all of the above.

Sights... nothing. darkness. putrid cloth covers his eyes, blocks any light, an references.

Feeling: Shoulders ache, arms behind back, bound from wrist to elbow, something holding elbows high, so high shoulders feel like they're being pulled from sockets, body weight hanging, feet barely touching the ground, but perhaps enough room to stand and release some pressure. If he can stand.

Everything hurts.

Perceptions.... he is not alone.

(james)
scent

it's first choice tool for bringing someone to
smelling salt capsule broken open
ammonia mauling the unconscious senses
snapping a distant mind back to the harsh present
drop-kicking a soul into a situation it may or may not desire to be in
disorienting at best, debilitating in a whole new way at worst

the smell of urine isn't that far off

the animal wrinkles its human nose at the offense
drawing attention towards pain welling from waking bruised skin
it expands into the dull ache pressurizing skull
gravity calling to point hazy agony burning his shoulder joints

physical assessment finds its way home far before sight lazily returns

shadow people dancing in the blanket of darkness
ghostly voices echoing some parallel from some radio tuned just off-station
no..... that's not a radio.... that's not a blanket

perceptions.... he is not alone

ketamine's left a foul taste in his mouth
no telling if the bloodscent matches acid-etched lacerations decorating his chest
he couldn't see past the filthy blindfold if he tried - wanted to
lips pull back a distasteful grimace finding a stretch does little to relieve the strain on his shoulders
breath hissing past clenched teeth with little thought to consequence

(.... oh just what did you get yourself into now, Jamey-boy....)

(something wicked)
Movement, hissed breath, bring bored gaze around to the hanging man. whipsnap of something across unseen, unheard lines, and then the thud of chair legs landing on the floor.

footsteps move toward him, and just as he might consider stretching again, there's a kick that lands squarely in his side sending him swinging from his rope again....

"tick tock, it never stops" sing song voice hissed close to dreadlocks as he comes close again. This voice he remembers. The slur is new, thanks to him, and miss-healed jaw.

In the back, the baby abruptly quiets.

nails drag down bare chest, across the newest of his welted scars, still tender to the meandering, almost teasing touch. "Ready to talk, yet, Jukebox? Oh yes, we know who you are... we've been waiting for you..."

(james)
movement. sound. impact.

resultant grunt is anything but discernable "talking"
some gutteral exhalation in the language of his primal ancestors
it hardly does justice to bitter smirk twisting below the blindfold
there's some notion of self-satisfaction hearing a newly-placed slur

"Yeh?" gravely and clipped, whatever tones slide out of a parched throat get cut short by the command of touch tease/torturing not-quite-healed wounds "Y'r red carpe' welc'm'z a bit lackin' f'r gues'lis' vee eye peeeeeezzz...'less I miss th' fruit bask't on my way'n."

the lingering effect of whatever tranq's they're using produce interesting effects
far more pleasant than any loyal Gaian should be in such a situation
unless.... packing with all those Get truly has driven James crazy
a distinct possibility, for sure, but safe bet's on the intravenous cocktail swimming beneath his flesh
and that the BoneGnawer Elderman's far more cavalier than is good for him

"S'whenzz Mizz Walt'rssssshowin' up f'r th' innerview?"

(something wicked)
"Ah, yeeeeeeeeeeeeees..." the hiss as she slides around him, those nails still doing dastardly deeds across his flesh, sliding down along the sagging waistband of his jeans, teasing across the curve of hipbone and back up across the wounds again....

"Far too dirty for Mizz Walt'rsssss, Jukebox... a bath, first...."

She steps away, and there's the sound of voices, then of water, then? The pressure of a hose suddenly, chillingly held on him. Top of head, down over him, front and back, water draining down somewhere near his feet, some of the rancid scents draining with it. But not enough.

Another voice. frightened, timid, cowering in the corner. "wash him. if he continues to stink like that you'll redo it with your tongue you sniveling get." a crack and tumble, and a body stumble falls rolls through the slick floor. "and use this." clatter, then a groan. And a slam of the door.

There's silence but for the sniffling breaths of the person left, who grabs the wire bristled brush, dips it into a bucket of soapy water, and starts to attack the hanging body vigoriously. Apparently, S/he's already learned the value of doing the job right... the first time.

(james)
first contact inspired a beastial grunt
second brought the levity of a street performer to light
third? does justice to whatever gutter James hails from

cold reaction growl waxes utterly unintelligable to the wire brush's attentions
some gibberish of urban jive seasoned with slurring defamation in Gaia's high-mother-tongue
just for kicks there's probably a few words in there that haven't found their way into a lexicon quite yet

it leaves his chest heaving
(.....does that tickle or does it hurt?!)
shock jangling assaulted nerves as water rains to the floor
such a satisfying writhe of discomfort is wholly unintentional
tendons in his shoulders stretching with disconcerting creaks
blind cycling kick probably quite amusing - as it's clear he can't make it anywhere
might as well just forget about the glory of Garou super-healing

"ssssshhhhhhhhiiiiiit" that laugh must be nervous - else the ghetto prince is in worse shape than anyone ever thought "Wha'...." punctuated by a dramatic parade of long sniiiiiiffs which play at inspection - likely serving to keep his flesh from turning inside-out "..... ain' rose scen'ed?" that ... can't... be a pout.... can it? "I'm crush'."

those have gotta be some damned. good. drugs.
(.... cause he has to be aware of how possible that observation could be....)

(sw)
the... kin, one would suppose, stops. fingers halting in the assault of cold water and soap. There's a glance at the bucket, at the Garou, and maybe even a sniffling sniff to see. Nope. Something harshly industrial, for sure.

There's a finger over the brush, and then whisper soft across pouted lip, curious. before a harsh word is heard rooms over. a whipcrack, a cry, and suddenly that brush is applied with renewed vigor, until satisfied.... and the hose is put to use again to rinse.

Only after the assault, does the small figure cleans the bucket and the brush, near the Garou's feet, and the drain there. Industrial, or rose scented, both the floor and Jukebox smell better, which affords some sort of relief, one would assume.


(james)
reaction

it's an equivalent aspect to this little slice of Dinner Torture Theater
the Garou responds to provocation's assault on battered form
the.... kin? washer follows his lead by tiny acts of curiosity
it brings a shadowed wraith of showman's charm to split lips

if there's another smug expression making an appearance
it's presence is far too breif to register
a twisting rise of smirk hurrying away before the final rinse cycle
tasting whisper dropped on pouted lip
(.....purebred....)
whipcrack's cry pitched far too high for gender's ambiguity
(.....female)
there's a huffing breath filling splatter's pause when the figure cleans beneath his feet

"Thank'."

grin quirking lopsided on downcast face
following the direction of sounds caused by wordless chores
honing in on the fluctuation of this mystery figure's scented flesh
except for that obvious blindfold problem - James pulled off a reasonably direct gratuity
warm earthen gaze potentially resting on the washer's features
guided by the tunnel walls formed in tangle of hanging dreads
genuine relief showing to a decline of filth's intensity

just because he's a tried and true Gnawer doesn't mean he has to smell like the Great Trash Heap
just because his hosts lacked five-star hospitality doesn't mean he has to be an ungrateful guest

"I'd give y'a tip f'r th' firs'ra'e s'rvice... but uhhhh...... seems my walle'sssssss in my oth'r jack't....."

damned. good. drugs.


(sw)
thank'

The words startle the young one into stillness, looking up at the Hanging Gnawer with something akin to awe, and perhaps surprise. Ok - definite surprise. There's a quick glance toward the door, and then back to the man, [monster], judging... weighing the possibilities.

And maybe it's the smile, or the kindness, or the... drug induced humor. But the skinny little form stands, and there's the touch again, feather light, lifting the blindfold just enough to allow him all important sight, though it still is limited, and looks as if his gaze is still completely covered.

The view is now an empty room, cement floor, big old drain, water, bucket brush, and a scrawny female kin of maybe 15 or 16 years old. She doesn't look to be in much better shape then he is, except that she has freedom of movement, and uses it to bend to scrubbing the floor again.

Voices in the distance, but not moving closer, yet.

((oooooooooooh about 8x12. door in front of him, blacked out window, midsized, on the wall to his right, nothing on the back, or the other side. ))

(james)
he offers a word of thanks
he follows with a twisted phrase of wry satire
the ensuing pause is enough to tickle his attention
just enough to anticipate yet one more, essential reaction

somewhere behind the fuzz, a Warrior's mind calculates

walls at least a body's length beyond periphreal in any direction
water's washing towards the drain just below him
so the closed door's probably straight ahead with themthar distant voices
slammed shut with solid oak finality almost rattling some window off to his right
he wouldn't even have noticed it if it weren't for chipped black paint letting light sneak in
mingling with the sickening yellow glow off that bulb buzzing just overhead
..... probably right next to the hook he's been strung up on like a side of beef
but at least the muted smell gives way no other bodies in the room

there's no subsequent turn of phrase for the teenager's gift of peeling touch
no betrayal of what could easily get her killed if noticed
just a huffed grunt that stems from the sting of shifting weight
flickering smile easily mistaken for a hissing grimace
roaming attention delerious response to the numbing drugs and screaming pain

if..... one missed the split-second glance from far behind blindfold's shadow
revealing what isn't said swimming somewhere within earth-umber eyes
far too quickly floating back out of captured beast's lucid focus
it must have been a dream, a whim smoking away on afterthought
true monsters prisoned in chains aren't capable of such expressive emotion

(....aren't they.....?)


(sw)
it wasn’t missed, though it was not acknowledged either as she bends to finish her work, quickly scrubbing the rest of the floor and giving it one more rinse with the hose to send the rest of the filth down the drain, though his pants are beyond any type of repair, at least he, and the room smells better.

She gathers the bucket and brush, and with one last look toward him, she offers just the slightest hint of a smile before head ducks, and she's pulling open the door - with effort. It is certainly solid, and heavy - and disappearing around it before pulling it mostly closed again.

there's voices again, the kin's voice murmurs, another smack and whimpered cry, and then silence. Then footsteps. Heels, the strappy sort, of course, and heavier steps. One's he wouldn't recognize. Likely belonging to Krrraasssh.

His indulgent chuckle enters the room first, followed by an exhale of coying cigarette smoke, and finally his large, burly form. He's built like a shit brickhouse and he knows it. Confident, strong - and did we mention handsome enough to garner the adoration of many? Perhaps even, at some point in time, a pretty boi kin, should they ever meet.

"Much better. Now we'll have a little chat. Where's the one you call Blood Eagle." Cuts right to the chase, this one. The strappy heeled mis-aligned jaw steps to the side of the door, crosses her arms, and leans against the wall. Silent.


(james)
any acknowledgement is ignored
dark eyes sliding closed beneath lowered blind
sheilding themselves from the abrasive fabric
relaxing the strain on bruised and swollen skin

.... or.... James has decided it's a good time to revel in what's left of those tranquilizers....

either way, there's little observable reaction to the incoming entourage
neither the coying smoke or handsome looks pull his attention from inner thoughts
though his head tilts at the question, half-covered ears angling to properly catch the phrase
it inspires a movement that continues from swaying dreads to dry, dry lips

that laugh

not just nervous, tittering, high-pitched laughter - oooooh ho ho no
this is full throated, Ahroun's gonna regret it in a minute cause his ribs'll re-crack, kind of laughter
sort of like Krrraasssh just told an award-winning joke

"Ssssorry pal.... y'r guess'iz good'iz mi'e." momentary pause pulling breath in around freshly washed and complaining clawmarks "Ain' seen'm f'r munthssss." head turning to aim a seriously amused grin rather lopsidedly at the probable location of one apparently handsome shithouse "Wha's my cons'lation pri'z?"

(sw)
"Oh they said you were a smart ass. Not smart, by any means, but a smart ass." Krrraasssh seems.. amused. And it's no mistake that the woman, as perfectly made up as she is, cringes at that amusement.

"Now then. How bout we cut the shit, and you use that little totemphone of yours, and call him... distance may be far, but for bonded folk, tis never too far, is it..." A pause, as a hand rests of aching shoulder and pushes.. down.... slightly - just enough to set off flares of agony through tortured muscles. As for your prize, perhaps we'll let Farranth there get even for the little bit of surgery you did on her jaw. Or maybe we'll let you watch us take care of that little squalling brat upstairs. Time will tell. Get the bloodeagle on the line, there's a good boy...."

All the while he presses harder on that left shoulder.


(james)
one handsome brick shithouse facing off with a more disheveled than not guttermutt
both wearing the same. disturbing. amusement.
lopsided as it may be, James matches that cringe-worthy state ounce for ounce
agony helping rip that smile wide open
bearing his teeth just as much as what laughter rolls drunkely thick from battered chest

what was once his trademark easy grin is lost somewhere behind a hard expression that contorts a dark, hungry, hunter's smile - if only his captor's realized just who first brought it out in the raggedyman Ahroun.... poetic irony, there

"Dunna th' num'r."

blindfold hides mocking challenge dancing in those drug-hazed eyes
leaving translation of that smile to each individual imagination
sweat trickling down his jawline promises revelation through flaring pain
............. or the delighted masochism of a suicidal loon

"Set'cher wile-cat un y'r source.... fucker's been rea'in' outa da'e news."

(sw)
"YOU LIE!"

Crack(..ed), the armour of handsome devil shows weakness in the sudden swing and major backhand that sends the raggedy elderman swinging off his hook and bonds, as he turns and stalks toward his little woman lounging against the door. "Get it. Get it now."

She nods, and all but scurries out of the door. Her calm is twisted in the sudden wash of rage from the leader of this little pack. Krrraaashhh stops, and takes a breath, chin leading neck into a slow stretch of neck that pops the spine before he turns again.

"We know all about you. From Jersey, to Chicago. We know he's been roaming - been causing a bit of havok. We aim to put him to rest at last. You will lead us to him. Or you will lose anything and everything important to you."

He steps closer, he puts both meaty hands on James's shoulders, and presses. "Your pack. Your friends. Your challenge, of course...." and he leans closer and whispers in dangerous purr across Jukebox' ear... "And your oh so pretty brother..."

(james)
armor cracks and backhand sends the Full Moon a-saWAYin' in the breeze
(...wheee! lookit the pretty stars!.....)
grunted whelp mangled by that curiously returning laughter
jaw flexed in a series of rice-crispied pops that bid farewell to functional cartilege
(.... as if James didn't have a hard enough time speaking clearly before....)
blood splatters down his chin to mist on cement floor
it takes a few swipes of his tongue to clear enough away for speech
moments spent wishing he'd picked up a certain pain resisting Gift before this little adventure

"Th'ell yeh ssssssmokin', pal?" pause to lick, smear, and swallow "Wha' ma'e you thing I dunn lose ev'thing the secon' wilecat, ther', gut me righ' inna these bon'age digzzzz?" his chuckle is thick and wet "If yeh know AWWWLLLL abou' me -"

another pause, here
likely for dramatic effect by the urban showman
as he's just given up on managing that little waterfall flowing from gashed tongue
instead flashing Mr. Brutality there a rather red and equally silly grin

"- then yeh know how stup'd y'r soun'in' wi' these Jamez Bon' lines." fortunately, the dreadlocked captive decides against nuzzling into that purr with a witty remark concurring his brother's good looks, accepting instead a weak wiggle that shifts his dreads between ear and tickling croon cause there's few other available options under weight of meaty palms "Ain' gunna werk. Cuz I....

DON'T! KNOW! WHERE! HE! IS!"

head dropped back to holler a response as close to Krrraassh's ear as, well, a blind man can hypothetically aim
seems the brute had a hearing problem - should've been clear enough the first time
gotta make sure he gets the whole message in Round 2
must be that whole well-mannered, helpful, and gracious guest thang mothers impose on their sons
wouldn't Grisella be proud

...... oooooh lordy this is gonna hurt.....


(sw)
Oh. this is going to hurt. Head down, he doesn't even wince from the yell, and maybe it is the Wyrmspawn that chooses to nuzzle now, murmuring softly as he inhales deeply of the raggedly mans scent. "Oh, how I'm going to enjoy this..."

His messenger comes in, and Krrraaasssh spins again, and this time the force of his swing that connects solidly into the Gaian's ribs, sends his swing hard enough to pull the hook from the ceiling - flying gaian crashes into far corner, and Krrraaasssh takes a moment to straighten his shirt, smooth it across his belly.

Just as the little kin who had smiled at James, who had shown curiosity, and kindness, what little she could get away with, comes in holding the infant.

Nothing else matters but the child. Samson is his name. Nothing else matters.

The baby whimpers, and the kin calms him with a slow rock and soothing (...terror breeds under the murmur...) sounds.

"First I'll kill the child. Then you can watch the abuse and eventual death of the Kin, and then I shall pull you limb from limb. And then, I shall mail you back to your pack in pieces. One a week, perhaps. Until they've enough of a puzzle to end this silly cherade of innocence. I would not expect you to give up easily, of course. If you need to vomit, please aim toward the drain."

(james)
yup.
it hurt.
it really hurt.

Krrraasssh is about halfway through his oration before James can once again breath
it takes absolutely no medical training to discern several ribs are greviously out of place
he doesn't recall ever having cruuuunched with each cycling breath
so a professional opinion is bypassed in the sudden, critical assessment of his current level of health
time spent trying to rewind the movie and pick up that rooster's crowing speech

"Yeh?" chuffed laugh evolves into choked wince (... smart one, Jamey-boy), Ahroun worming his way between floor and wall to partially upright resting..... smear.... temple rubbed against an unbeLIEVably misangled shoulder to pull the blind halfway from his eyes "Where yeh thing that'a get'cha?"

neck rotates (...ow) to spit a mouthful of blood past his knee and onto the floor
squirming with tedious efficacy to find a remotely comfortable position

"Kill th' kid, yeh lose y'r lev'rige a wha' th' Gai'ns 're af'r. Kill th' kin -" chin jerks up at the girl before he can think better of it "- 'n yeh lose y'r maid a clean'p th' mess y'r g'nna make a me. Kill me.... 'n all y'r gunna get's my pack comin' cav'lry inna wh'tev'r trap y'r gonna set a try'n ma'e th' sa'e mess've'm.... 'n yeh still ain' gettin' th' guy y'r af'r."

pause. breath. spit. again. and try that breathing thing one! more! time!
(.... it's... not really working, James)
the Ahroun's level look is sorely misplaced in the pool of blood, sweat, spit, and ever increasing pain marionetted against the wall
downright comical with that blindfold slipping earthward most inopportuntely
at least it's blacking out those spinning concrete slabs and pesky stargnats floating about

"Nothin' more'n a temp'r tantr'm, in my book, pal. 'spect'd bed'r." a shrug translates through minimal smile and tilting jaw, sparing his shoulders any more immediate abuse "'lease giv'a guy a smo'e while y'r comin' up wi' s'mthin' that'll impress'm. Y'owe me tha' mush f'r th' le'down."

james roll persuasion: to ::Something Wicked::: 4D10 Dice Roll: 4; 8; 3; 8
diff 6
2 sux

(sw)
Persuasive little git, isn't he... "A smoke, is it?" There's a chuckle, deep - dark. demented as he nods, and with a fling of his fingers toward the kin and infant, he makes some gesture. perhaps he's asking for a smoke, or perhaps it's something else. He crouches in front of Jukebox and smirks. "And I expected better than this. You are an Eagle, you are the Ahroun everyone has been talking about, and my young comrade there brought you down before you could blink."

He sighs, dramatically and crouches in front of James. "I wanted this to be fun."

(what's that smell? )

"I hoped we could meet as equals. but you are really, really to low for me to bother."

(definitely smoke... and where they're smoke...)

The female with the preference for strappy heels clamps her hands on the slender kins shoulders, getting a whimper. The kin doesn't move. The smoke catches, starting to lick flames through the babies blanket. The baby cries. nothing else matters.

"But you're right. I'd lose the leverage with you. You're right. But that's ok - because you are not my only leverage."

And with that, he stands, and leaves the room. His packmate remains. The kin remains, squirming and trying to put out the growing flames without being caught, her eyes large, luminous, brilliant blue and filled with tears.

The baby cries.

nothing else matters

(james)
the attractive brick shithouse (......) crouches near
at least he's on this side of those swimming stars
much easier to focus on
and tempted as James is to flat out smooch the guy - just for kicks - while he's currently out of his mind
the tranqs and awkward position do little to assist such an Oscar-worthy performance
he settles for licking the blood off crusting smile as next best gesture

"Yeeeeh." the word is more of a sigh than hiss, almost fondly breathed as he angles his head to look out from beneath faltering blindfold "Alway' did 'ave'a weakness f'r vicious wim'n." the only clearly visable eye slips shut in leering wink "Guess ya shou'n't a wai'd f'r sloppy secon's 'n letcher bitch ge' firs' dibs. Too ba', pal."

ooooh, and then the insult comes
sweeping up after the travesty of 007 villain lines dropped like lead
and beatings which will have him finding out if his bones can be crushed without breaking skin
icing on the Wyrm-riddled cake that was..... supposed?.... to get the Ahroun's ire

it. got a laugh?

the sloppily wet sound rolls musically after the Alpha's theatric exit
brow lifted to wiggle the blindfold as glance tick-tocks to his apparent second date with the wildcat
time spent gathering his thoughts (... smelling that smoke rise....) in tandem with sitting up straighter against the wall

"Makin' yeh do'iz dir'y w'rk, 'gain, eh Legs? Sum Alpha." since a collapsing blindfold just won't do when one wants an eye-rolling observed in good measure, so he's twisting to rub his head against the wall and lift it back up out of his eyes as if nothing more than errant dread - it takes a try or two (.... flames are visable, Jamey-boy, if you haven't noticed....) but soon enough wedges on the bulk of tangled ropey hair and stays acceptably put on high-forehead "Yer kickin' my ass lef'n righ' 'fore we ev'n get a kiss'n th' firs' da'e..... 'n yer follow-up's slow roas'in th' infan'?"

his chin drops as if to shake his head in abject shame
as if he, too, had built a pedestal for the enemy to perch upon
the reality of shattered expectations far more heavy to bear than any physical assault
chest heaves in mind-numbing nerve flairs for the gratuitous dejection of breathy sigh
(.... the look of a Warrior who finally accepts defeat....)

then teeth grit - jaw joint cracks
abs flex - flesh pales and tears
weight shifts - boots snatch purchase on slippery cement
Jukebox stands - and his chin snaps up in a nod. Eagle style. before bone snaps as it grows.....

"Liked yeh bett'r pickin' a people y'r own si'e."

1. James shift chrinos, ST ok for breaking what binds his arms - drop 3 Rage for additional:
2. Staredown on Legs: to ::Something Wicked::: 5D10 Dice Roll: 6; 10; 6; 2; 7
diff 6
4 sux
3. James grabs infant from girl: to ::Something Wicked::: 6D10 Dice Roll: 7; 7; 8; 8; 7; 8
diff 5
6 sux
3. James bail out window: no roll needed, gravity will surely cooperate


(sw)
It happens like this, in battles hidden all over the world. Bantering, burning, frightening, scaring, scarring, tears and fears and perhaps a happy ending or two. It all starts the same too, always.

Rage.
(shift fight rar!)

James gives the nod up, Eagle style. Legs tightens her grip on the little Kin's shoulders and starts to say something - and then it's a mass of motion. James shifts, the bonds falling off his arms, that are achingly stiff and sore, but finally free of silver. Even with tranq's still in his system, he locks eyes with Legs, and she finds herself unable, unable to look away, to fight... to do anything but stand her ground, nails digging into the kins shoulders, drawing blood and a whimpered cry.

(the flames... the flames...)

Two steps across the room, and James snatches the baby in crinos paws and dives for the window. The Kin, the helpful kin reaches reflexively to protect the child and is left with the burning blanket, but the twist rips her from the stinging tearing grip of Legs and she turns toward the window - just in time to see it crash outwards, and her to raise the startled "DUCK!!!" cry as he and the baby, now crying in earnest, let gravity have it's wicked way with them...

thud.

(bam!blamblamBAM!)
Gunshots.

That catch the Kin as she races toward the window (escape! help them escape!) and silver rips into one eye, shattering her skull upon exit, another through her jugular sprays Legs with crimson warmth, and a third straight into her gasping mouth as she collapses, mercifully killing her as she falls...

perhaps blocking the way out of the window for half a second more...

(...run, Jamey-boy, run...)

Sniper snarls. And takes careful aim again...

..only to be sliced down from behind in surprise attack. Behold, the Calvary cometh...

(We are near.)

The infant, Samson, is all that matters..

(james)
the beast so near escape since capture finally erupts to raggedyman's surface
useless blindfold dangling from one velvet ear as those eyes finally unleash his pent-up fury
[....Staredown....]
Legs is held off long enough for James to do two very important things:

grab the child from trembling Kin's weakly grip
lunge for the blacked-out window and let gravity do her predictable thing

but before the snarling Crinos makes that fateful step and turn
deep umber eyes fall to the bright, tearful blue of that poor teenage girl
if she can see past the nightmare come to life, the silly man with a crooked smile watches out soul's window
(..... forgive me for what I am about to do..... I regret that I met you here but thank you for your kindness.... blame not yourself for being the one I wasn't sent to save .... your deeds will not be forgotten as I could not have escaped without your help or bravery....)
then pulls away to crash through black-lacquered glass towards the street below
she cannot see his hope her death is mercifully quick - he knows it will soon come

but one thing James of the Eagles is good at.... is falling

the landing needed work, but as glass and crimson mist rained amonst bullet hail from above
and the chaos reaped whirlwind (Maelstrom watching over me) from Cavalry's charge
there was yet one more important thing the shaggy Ahroun needed to do

Run.


the infant, Samson, is all that matters.... now tucked securely in his arms, the Full Moon does not worry of witnessing the dear Kin's demise, he cares little for the tactics used by those that were near or what battle ensures his escape, nor does he think of the lingering tainted dreams that will haunt his nights to come or the crippling pain that may get no chance to heal.... not even what he let happen to his flesh and soul in those risks he took to get within arm's reach of the child

the infant, Samson, is all that matters.... and Eagle's son will not stop moving until bringing him home

[end]

Ok! Verdict.

He got his objective. But Rends-the-Earth will see it this way.

His hesitation at the first house cost him. Bad. Because it resulted in his capture, the almost loss of the child, and had the calvery not arrived, the snipers very well could have taken him down.

therefore. James 'jukebox, drums on skulls' Branson remains fostern, is charged to meditate, to reevaluate, and rechallenge the next full.


Posted by james at May 18, 2005 12:00 AM