July 15, 2005
.07.15.05. - interpretive dance [annemarie]

[pack haven]

(james)
"Ssssso....." the word floats only slightly slurred from just behind Ruhiger's right shoulder, it's soon replaced by a freshly capped Heineken, foggy condensation still spiraling lazily into the cavernous packhouse ".... ssuuure yeh noh g'nna le'me borrow y'r scribbleboar'?"

should the mute Fenrir choose to look back at her packmate
she'd be more than aware of James' teasing smile
however boyishly crooked it may ever-be
if not, the humor is present enough in his voice
warm in and of itself though the night's barely cooled to 70

it's got his t-shirt occupied with holding up his shortened dreads
make-shift do-rag contorted savagely so sleeves would reach and tie
a rope or two of trademark dreads still hangs freely down his back
strangely angled shadows against the pattern of ashen scars
blending smoothly with the summer-sun tan bronzing his flesh
iridescent inkwork decorating his forarm now not quite as obvious
winter's intrinsic paleness taking that tat into startling contrasts


(am)
Many others would jump at the sudden arrival, but there is one difference. He is pack. There was no doubt he was there, though perhaps the beer got a raised brow. She is not normally much of a drinker, but if there's one thing other then attitude that the Eagles foster - it's bad habits. Left hand lifts, slender fingers wrapping manicured nails around the bottle, to take it from the raggedy Gnawer.

His humor is evident, but hers is more difficult to ascertain. The Modi alpha is much more prone to expression then she is, with his variety of sneers and smirks. His mate is perhaps her rival when it comes to bland expression, though even Imogen is known to smirk and on the rare occasion, smile. Not so this Modi. Her expressions are far more reserved, far more difficult to tell - if one were not privy to the crackle of Totemphone that is a snort of almost amusement. A slim brow lifts, and she does look back at him, studying him a long moment, before a shoulder rolls into a negligent shrug. And putting any ventriliquist to shame, she is able to speak while she lifts the beer to her lips.

That would depend on if you could hold yourselves to writing in words of two syllables so that Decker and Kemp could understand.

Amusement. At their packmate's expense, even. She is finally beginning to feel as if she belongs. It's the little things that matter.


(james)
James is acutely aware of what habits associate themselves with what packmates and/or kin
Eagles may foster bad habits before a slew of other social activities
but the Hood is far from allowing selsfishness to be among them
his offer is, and forever will be, automatic towards those sharing some fashion of family tie
knowing that there is always the random event, or necessitative connection, that prompts acceptance
or maybe it’s just the simple confirmation that she does, indeed, belong
the other Ahroun also knows full well he'll happily compensate a refusal on her part

"Hmmmm....." he is not as adept at ventriloquism as she, and although the totem-line would easily allow his retort mid-swallow, it's all the more fun to keep the conversation one-sided on the open broadcast..... just in cast they'd pay enough attention to wonder "Dunna 'bout tha'.” beer’s lifted case-in-point-toast-to-fact, before the bottle’s base taps against his chest in reference “My edyehkay-shun’d go t’ was’e.”

then his head tips, brow alternately lifting in thought
top-heavy weight of dreads realigning in their fabric cage
lower lip nibbled as consideration slowly weighs itself out

“Could go all th’way’n lear’ sigh languige.” that humor-driven grin returns “What’cha think th’ Council’d do’f I ga’e my nex’ decissssion through int’rp’tive dance?”

(am)
Her free hand is tucked into the pocket of her slacks - a bit more rumpled then usual, perhaps, but it is 3am. Such things are to be expected. Even her obsessive/compulsive need for perfection eventually shows a wrinkle or two. The silk of her camisole clings to lean form in the lingering heat of the day. Her share of scars are mostly hidden, about the belly, hip and thigh. Her tattoo, however, is not - and is a relatively new addition - a spiral of runic design that encircles her bicep. Those who have seen her staff would recognize the story now told on her skin with the staff's dedication.

Those heeled boots puts her on even height with the other Ahroun, but only until she settles to sit on some makeshift piece of furniture or another, long legs crossed, beer set against her knee.

You could, yes. And perhaps it's not too much a stretch to suggest there may be wistfulness there. The last to speak sign language to her was Barny - before he attacked her. I think they would applaud, but only if you received your bother's attention to fashion detail. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying goes.

This time, if he looks, within pale eyes - greenish tonight, matching the shade of her camisole - there is a glint of humor, of amusement deep within.

(james)
the Adren audibly snorts his amusement
taking the time to swallow another third of his beer
perhaps not even dignifying that remark with one of his own
but soon enough the crooked grin follows a bout of soft laughter

“Yeh... ‘n I’d be showin’ up a th’ nex’ moot dress like one’ve Gaia’s cheerlead’rs ‘r Carm’n Miran’a..... Cubin Pete if I’m lucky.” amusement spotted - and not allowed to disappear again quite so easily “Bad ‘nuff’n th’ Jackal Blood’s gotta keep their respec’ pas’ mangle’ slur..... rank’n pack only go so far. Cum dress li’e that ev’n Eagle’z’d say I’m cert’fiable.”

while suspicions arise given his long-term choice of packmates
there’s oft the consideration James may be totally off his rocker
tonight, however, he seems well enough connected to the ground
weight sinking to half-sprawl against the carpet roll yet unfurled
dark pattern across his back pressing into the tragically out-of-style tempered.... is that shag?
it’s been fortunate enough semi-couch to avoid such a fate
who knows how long it’d last submitted to the pack’s domestic habits

some are worse than others, you know


(am)
Again, the slight lift of brow. And it is not said already? That he is certifiable, of course. The choice of a Gnawer to pack with any Fenrir, let alone Eagle's ragtag group of irritable Germans has been one of the more interesting things to ponder for the Modi. His deft touch of PR has been noticed, however, in the subtle changes of others now that he has returned. It is not only in the bits of comfort that are seen around the pack house [...even if it is shag...] but Kemp is more grounded. Decker more relaxed. Hyde... well. The jury is still out on hyde. The kin are certainly happier, however.

She, in her silence, misses little.
Very little.

However, and here, the smirk creeps from her gaze, to actually take purchase - briefly - across her lips. It would take some doing to top the Godi's new patches of rainbow colors on his head - he shaved skin off to rid himself of it after his challenge.

(james)
“Yeh.” once more his response is thoughtful, camping pre-swig of beer for the duration of sighed syllable “’n who’m I ta steal’iz spo’ligh, uh?”

the Gnawer’s thought of himself after the others is more than frequently displayed
from the routine collection of random leftovers puzzled together for their comfort
to the flat out cost of what he secured for Hyde after the Godi’s spiritual dealings
(.... venison doesn’t come cheap any time of year, you know.....)
all the way to a dozen other things most but the vigilant don’t even notice
the Hood assures when others need - he, or his brother, provide

he always asks nothing in return
already possessing whatever reward the pack could think to give

(am)
She blinks - and for a moment, she even begins to comment I didn't mean... to insult, to suggest. It is rare the brief glimpses of childhood that surface so quickly, only to fall again into the utter calm mask that she faces the world with. Instead, she merely watches him a moment, then lifts her beer to her lips once more.

She drinks far slower then he, mere sips where he swallows deeply, and finger tips slide across the glass to gather the condensation, before smoothing across the crease in her slacks. I wonder if it would grow a colored Mohawk... The thought slips free, before being reigned back in again with another slight smirk.

(james)
dark eyes strafe towards the backpedaling Modi
what could be rising ire in another situation
is little more than peaked interested right this moment
faint curiosity showing at why she'd recoil so quickly
he may outrank her when it comes down to it, in both pack and Nation
but he is still a Bone Gnawer in a pack heavy with her own Tribe's blood

right hand lifts into the cadence of lazy wave
haphazard organization of inner lighting glittering on his forarm's ink
any imagined slight dismissed just as it was never intended
any explanation required to his unspoken question rendered optional, or also non-existant

he asks little of his packmates in terms of object value
it seems his PR skills extend into the realm of resisting random questions, as well
just as with the others he's claimed by Eagle's bond over the years
James knows when to work his magic so nobody notices a loss of face
especially when it's one of the Fenrir involved

"Kemp'd be jeal'us..... ev'n if it'd fin'lly blend Hyde in with'r uniform'a funny speech'n unique hair....."

(am)
The he is curious, is not missed, but she does not answer. Not yet. Perhaps she searches for the words to a question unasked. Though she is of Eagle's Chosen, they know very little about her. Hyde knows she can fight, and that she can lose with grace - this is why she is still Omega. Kemp knows only his own perceptions, and that she will back him publicly without question. Questions are for pack alone, not for public view. Decker knows that she can fight, that she is steadfast, that she is Loyal. Those are what gained her Eagle's acceptance. They know she is silent, that it is because of her birth. They know her names, though not where they were gained.

They know very little indeed. Perhaps it is because she refuses to speak on it. Perhaps it is simply that they have not asked.

She settles for this however. My speech is not funny - merely non-existent.. Though slender fingers over short shorn boyish cut agrees she fits the uniform well enough there.

Blunt nails slide over the back of her neck, before falling again. There is a breath, and then the curiosity, perhaps, answered. I was raised by my grandmother. She insisted on perfection in everything, every manner of action was to be the perfect one or there was punishment. I was Metis, but not an animal, in her words. Part of her lessons involved carefully choosing words so as not to offend any of higher station. I made a mistake once - with a Gnawer. He was not so forgiving as you. There is a negligent shrug of shoulders, but her gaze is determinedly elsewhere. Old habits tend to die very hard.

(james)
"I c'n dig ih."

likely, that's a response to her, entirely
his own tormented past enough to keep him from interrupting
quietly allowing her progressive association of totem-carried thought
he would not direct her share what others connected were not allowed to hear
though shows appreciation through attentive gaze that she chose him worthy of the tale

"Mos' Gnaw'rs schools'a thought fin'e sim'lar threads." can't change you're lot, so might as well make the best of it and prove the other fuckers wrong while at it "Dunn blame yeh."

muscular shoulders roll dismissive shrug against [.... shag] carpet-roll
of the pack's members - these two know least of the other
little beyond the Totem and Garou's belief in their inclusory worth

they would not be Eagles if they were not worthy

"You'll fine it takesss quite a lo'h to cross me, 'n I'm more a fan a workin' it ou' rath'r'n battlin' who's righ' by might. Mellow'r'n y'r av'rage Garou..... n'matt'r wha' th' deedname hint'."

(am)
I hope that does not mean sparring is completely out of the question... Sometimes she is far more typically Fenrir Modi then others. When it comes to sparring is one of those times. There is little more she loves then to take her staff to a willing body. Repeatedly.

But the rest of the commentary receives a slight nod - understanding. She is many contradictions wrapped up in lean strength, further confused by the mistake of her breed. Though she still loves the Grandmother who raised her, even in her death she still fears repercussions missing the smallest detail of the old woman's teaching.


(james)
"Depenzzzz." the Gnawer looks over to flash cavalierly lopsided smile "Wheth'r'a not you ask th' ques'on."

(am)
I would never turn down a spar. Though if I beat you, Hyde will never let you live it down. Lips quirk into an expression that is almost more then her typical smirk. The difference is subtle, but it is there. It glimmers darkly behind pale gaze, while fingers of her left hand reach up to idly run over the tattoo that twists around her bicep.

(james)
Why not?

the transformation of his voice from concrete to abstract is phenomenal
while the warm, earthen tones actualized in his dark eyes remain
the Empire State accent is so much brassier without slur's inevitable diffusion

I'm not ashamed of being beaten by someone with more skill.... Cliath or Elder. what -has- recently shamed him is another story entirely, one that likely is not shared within casual conversation, James instead focuses on the reputation of his packmate's Tribe prowess in battle as a whole There's no defeat in learning. it's only then the glitter draws into his deep umber gaze, playfully dancing amongst the pre-dawn shadows Just in your challenge to show me something new.

brow lifts towards t-shirt turban holding back dreads
seems the Gnawer seldom turns down the chance to spar or learn
for there could be no clearer invitation for friendly match

(am)
A silent snort that echoes over the Totemphone. He beat me. Barely. That is why I am omega..

She catches the tones of something behind the words, and his earlier questioning gaze is now mirrored in her own - though acknowledge that this is perhaps not the conversation for it, nor is there lack of possibility her ears are not whom the story is meant for. Instead, she takes the wisdom of his farther words, and her chin lifts, her back straightens.

There is a moment where she sets the remainder of her beer aside, then this time, when fingers slide across the tattoo, there is the glimmer of Dedication at work as the staff flows into her hand. 7 foot long iron wood, strong as fuck and carved with runes from end to end. It is, quite simply, beautiful.

And deadly.

But she intends this to be friendly, and as such. I will only bruise where he will not notice. Challenge glinds deep in pale gaze now, as she stands, and moves to grab a practice staff she has been working on for Gisele. It is not complete, the runes just started, but it is as strong as her own. Flipping it into her hand, she spins it once, testing the balance, before offering it to the lounging Gnawer in offer to help him rise. Name your terms.... rhya...

Oh the challenge - as close to playful as is ever seen - that lurks in her gaze now.

(james)
beautiful and deadly
the Ahroun can appreciate fine weaponry when he sees it
just as his own weapon of choice spreaks of utilitarian function - and massive trauma
gratitude's nod tips towards her offer and James leverages off the ground
but the Gnawer will supply his own staff, thank you very much
(....what's that about never arriving at a party empty handed, Jamey-boy?)
iridescent inks swirling the transconfiguration of dedication
supple pattern melting out of his right forarm into the unforgiving length of steel pipe
the edge christened with a bone-shattering nine inches of razor sharp spike

it's hefted in rough palms until the business end points away from target
this is a friendly match, after all

"Firs' a three win, fat'l strike, submish'n an' disarm count, no point f'r draw, 'n no headshot'." it's homage to her careful placement of bruises, though the quirked grin teases his own existing battlescar which really doesn't need help in any shape or form "I win, you teach me 'bout those Runes a yours."

closer inspection of her craftswork unspoken interest, of course
but it's the significance of the symbols that interests him most
much more interesting stakes than who buys the next pizza
brow lifts again - confirmation of terms and her request of trophy

(am)
A brow quirks as his own weapon appears, the unforgiving steal complete with spike, though the spike is turned away from her, the intended target. While in crinos, she could wield both staffs with equal [...bitter...] grace, in Homid and friendly match, it is unwieldy at best. She leans Gisele's staff back against the wall, and spins hers lazily before her as he lists his terms.

And adds her own. Rage at will, 1 gift, homid, no eagles strength. And if I win... There's a pause. While she fully expects to win, it is the spoils of such a battle she is unsure of. She does not known him well enough to ask for certain, so in the end, there is a slight, negligent shrug. You buy dinner for Gisele and myself. Not that he knows who Gisele is. Not that she knows why, exactly, she included her in the terms other then the fact that her staff was recently in hand.

But a nod confirms her terms.
And they both know, shed still teach him of the carvings.

(round 1 total: james 6 bashing dam, am 2 lethal. am 2 rage left, james 4, score james 2, am 1)

(am)
The deal struck, the nod to begin, the gifts chosen. As with all eagle battles - whether it is against others, or against each other, furious or friendly, it is a flurry of motion. He is her elder, and faster, and his strikes make their mark.

So do hers.

If anyone were watching, it would be a blur of motion - silent on her behalf, nothing but her breath as she spins with her staff easily. The staff and pipe strike, and strike again. When they break to step back and circle, Jukebox is bruised - but true to her word, they are placed on his torso, and he breathes through aching ribs and belly. She, as well, is injured, and just a bit worse then he is. He is clearly the stronger of the two - but she has speed, and determination.

She finishes the round with a love tap across his shoulder and a grin - yes, a full on grin - that says she pulled it on purpose. Whether she did or not, is up to him to decide.

Enjoyment sparkling in her gaze, she falls back, and takes her stance, idly spinning the staff once, before she nods at him to come again.

[Bring it on.]

(round 2 results: am - knocked. the fuck. out.)

(james)
her terms - balls to the wall, anything goes
and don't think he'll take it easy just because she's a girl of lower rank
the Modi's got speed, determination, and skill
friendly enough competition to keep the Adren on his toes

and for the better part of the next ten minutes
the two Full Moons match each other hit for hit
neither one pulling notably ahead before the other catches up
what advantages he holds in experience and strength
she makes up for with sheer force of will

.... and the ingrained instict of a metis to duck when things go wrong
maybe it's the pre-existing repercussions with the less-forgiving Gnawer
maybe it's her Grandmother's teachings to stay clear of looming danger

it all sums up to a total-miss swing that leaves the Gnawer laughing to himself during regroup - they'll touch on interpretive dance just yet

but it all boils down to the final swing
fatigue breaking through the Fenrir's pain resisting barrier
or the guttermutt's sheer combat know-how and patience
AnneMarie looked left and dodged right
when all the difference in the world came from a reverse itinerary

three inch wide steel pipe connects solidly with her ribcage - knocking the remaining wind right on out with her conscious awareness following close pursuit

it's another amusing instance of interpretive dance coming next
James juggling the pulled strike while stepping in to catch crumpling form
head smacking concrete floor would definitely violate the bruising perameters

his makeshift junkyard reject weapon disappears from whence it came
her lanky frame not weighty enough to give him any real trouble in transport
the raggedyman hadn't noticed his Omega's claim of personal space within the pack's current home
so his own mattress and claimed area would have to do until she woke in the empty afternoon several hours later
upon doing so, she'd find a note very neatly (deliberately too neat) inscribed on her scribbleboard propped up nearby
the pad and pen must have fallen out sometime during the sparring match
cause there's little chance the Gnawer would have rummaged through her pockets

Let me know when and where the reservations are for your and Gisele's dinner so I can be sure to pick up the tab.

it's signature consists of little more than a goofy smiley face
they both know she would have taught him the runes, anyway
they both know he'd still spring for dinner, too

Posted by james at July 15, 2005 12:00 AM