July 19, 2005
.07.19.05. - no won'r he driveza f'rarri.... [imogen-jack-rox-razor-aodhan]

(otherwise known as getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!)


[downtown]

(james)
four hours before midnight
four points before Luna swells Full
four..... score degrees and holding

the hour plus between now and sun's set may as well be eternity
now near habitual AM/PM Icee doing little to quell the day's heat
faded grey bandana holds weighty dreadlocks off hard-angled face
cigarette smoke coils twin reflection off little round sunglasses
white t-shirt has probably seen far better, brighter days
and why hasn't someone invented better air-conditioning for army-surplus BDUs James has yet to understand......

but of course, it's not the distant super-star's radiation that would worry a pedestrian most
nor the potentially devastating effect it may have on the raggedyman's choice of deoderant
there's something far more acidic cavorting invisably about the lanky Gnawer's step
whatever the unseen barrier may be, he pays little attention to how it eases resistance to his strolling path

either all-too-well aware of a certain presence his otherwise unremarkable appearance masks
or way-too-far past the caring (....breaking?....) point to bother with yet another month's few days of concern


(jack salem)
Well, he should have expected as much. The more absurd his jokes turn, the less likely Imogen is to be amused. So he pursues the subject from a different angle, struggling as always to find common ground with the doctor. If only to shake it up a bit once it's located...

"So...what? He's hired by the families of the corpses? Or is he, like, one of those lawyers who just looks over your shoulder all the time to make sure you're doing stuff the right way?"

(imogen)
Her gaze lifts past Jack's shoulder to James visible in the distance. He's easily recognizeable - by the dreads and the height, by the sheer way he walks. Three years, she can recognize him from a distance.

Her gaze rests a beat, and then falls back to Jack, a smirk touching her mouth. She speaks slowly, explaining. "He's a district attorney. He's paid fer by the county t'prosecute charges. He uses me f'r testimony." Her expression is never ... well, expressive, but for a moment, it's even less emotional, guarded. "From time t'time."

(jack)
Jack begins shifting his weight from foot to foot, suddenly becoming very restless. Maybe he's caught a scent on the wind...or maybe he just has to use the bathroom. It could go either way, really. Regardless of why, the end result is the same.

"I don't want you to think I'm rude, but I really need to take off. I...it's late. There's some...stuff I need to take care of. You know how it is. It was good seein' ya though, Dr. Slaughter."

He knows there isn't any need to wait for an answer from her. It'll probably only consist of a three word sentence...vague, yet completely devoid of any identifiable emotion. He's comfortable with that.

So its only moments later that he's sliding behind the steering wheel of his van, bringing the engine to life and pulling away from the curb. There's only one taillight to follow, and it disappears around a corner soon after Jack leaves...

(james)
Imogen can recognize James from a distance
after three years, one would hope the detailed oriented Doctor would have at least that
the raggedyman perhaps has something.... else to his advantage
picking up on the distant clarity of certain scent
honing in on a familiar presence of one all but legally bonded pack
following some pre-arranged directive associating time, street, and occupation
or maybe the man's just more of a predator than intially expected

given the urban-primitive silhouette of top-knotty bouquet of dreads, well.....

two blocks and closing, he waits until half remains before lifting his chin notably up
the gesture's directed at Imogen, her disappearing (...... escaping?.....) associate gets little more than studious glance past dark lenses

(imogen)
Imogen glances at Jack's disappearance, following his movement for a moment, before she turns her attention toward James, dismissing Jack as quickly as she'd acknowledged him.

"One o' yers," she says, before shrugging, "or something." If a Garou had said that, they might have meant one of his tribesmates, but Imogen speaks in much broader terms. She likely means simply that Jack is Garou, and just as likely is not sure of what the tribe or auspice the Garou is.

The kinfolk must be straight from work - a pale blue suit, complete with long suit jacket, a white blouse. This late, it might be shocking, but only to thsoe who do not know Imogen.

(rox)
Four hours before midnight. One hour wasted on semi-intellectual conversation over a few beers, dinner had yet to be ordered, and the date was over with. Thirty of those minutes spent arguing over looking at other women while dining, to the ten minutes it took to waltz out of the front door of the resturant and into the parking lot. Two minutes to deflate all four tires on the expensive Lexus owned by her date's car to nursing the bruised knuckles on her hand and walking away down the street.

So much for a blind date. Never let your cousin set you up.

Roxy trekked the several blocks it took to hit Eagle's territory, well away from the commotion that would begin after she slashed the tires on the car. The quick snap of high heels drums a harsh staccato over cracked and concrete sidewalks. The hot humidity sends small beads of perspiration rolling down her forehead, slicken small wisps of platinum blond hair against the temples, as short strands curl freely along the line of her jaw and dip to the shoulders.

The hard lines of compact muscles were wrapped in a basic black dress, sleeveless, that stretched across the chest, down over the torso and bringing the hem just a few inches above the knee. Collarbone and round shoulders exposing a broad expanse of skin, the half sleeve of celtic inkwork worn like a banner upon her right bicep. A small purse clutched in her left hand, she slips around the corner, taking the next few blocks to find the nearest payphone.


(james)
the van speeds away, mostly dismissed as if never actually there
make, year, color, license plate..... those little details tucked away into memory
but in that split-second, seems as the Gnawer wiped Jack out of existance or importance as well
dark eyes flicking towards the smartly dressed kinswoman behind even darker lenses

"Yeh." it wasn't a confirming question, rather an affirming statement "Saw'm las' moon." a pause politely sipping about two inches out of that Icee, just enough to barely avoid brainfreeze however much that would have unexpressively amused the good Doctor "S'wi' th' new folksss settin' up camp'n th' woodz."

James, it seems, is more privy to the exact details of the Garou's introduction
while unfamiliar with the nuances of Jack's personality or intent
a lifted brow perks towards the bandana in all he asks of such a question
if the Cliath did anything of notice - Imogen would already have it prepared for his own attentions


(imogen)
She takes another drag from her cigarette, not her usual American brand, but something european, the smell distinctly different. She takes a drag, drawing it out, as she glances in the direction of Jack's disappearance, responding, absently to James's unspoken question.

"Idealistic kid," she says, "asks a lot o' questions."

(james)
"Dunn s'rprise me."

the low sound in his throat tends towards amusement
but how amused an Ahroun can be just before full is the true question
it may show easily right here and now.... but will it last?
the way his chin drops to look at the filter between pale, slender fingers
seems his humor's chosen to stay at least another few phrases

"Those s'pose a count a not puffin' up 'gain?"

likely, he'll get that butt snapped right at his nose for smart comment
but at least it's better than channeling Moon's mood into far more destructive choices

(rox)
The pavement eaten up beneath her quick steps, the fluid movements of a stalking gait, like a jungle cat, seen in the way she walks. Deep blue eyes flicking across the urban landscape of buildings and side streets, wary of the area of town she was in. The distance blue-lit sign of a payphone booth caught like a beacon to the wary Glass Walker.

A mask of irritation worn across the pretty features of her face, painted up light makeup. Dark liner to halo her eyes, making the blueness stand out against sun-kissed complexion. A hand lifts up to run calloused digits through her hair, pushing it back from her face. The image of two people caught in her peripheral, the striking highlights of red hair caught her attention of the well-dressed woman. Imogen?

Upon closing inspection, veering away from the path of the payphone to cross the street, Roxy approaches the good doctor and her raggedy companion. A loud sigh of relief expels from her lungs at the familiarity.

(imogen)
"No," she says, thoughtfully, "I suppose tha' he has th'look."

She tilts her head upward to look at him, and with the light fading as it is, the gold chain at her throat is nothing more than a dull flicker as it catches in the sunlight's fading rays. A faint smirk touches her mouth, ironic, "No," she says again, this time with a different tone - where her first negative was musing, this one was heavy with arid humour, "they count."

Other people might have more to say - ask him if he has a lecture, or if he minds letting her smoke in piece, some comment that perhaps speaks to the fact she expects some disapprobation for her long familiar habit. Imogen takes another drag from her cigarette, nearly finished now, and drops the butt to the pavement, crushing it out beneath a sandalled shoe. Roxanne's footsteps behind her become clear, and the redhead turns away to look over her shoulder at the blond's approach.

(razor)
They probably don't even notice unless they're into this sort of thing.

A motorbike.

If you are a bit of an afficionado, then its only fair you'd recognise. Ducati 999s. As some would describe? A sweet ride. (I'm sure I've heard that phrase used before, haven't you? By someone here, no doubt. In your mind, no doubt.) Low, long and narrow in its customised black, its sometimes more shadow than beast, sometimes more beast than machine, in the changing lights of the street. With a body made to flex and lean against, in between your legs and grasped tight by your hands. All aching power.

All just sitting there, still and silent. Across the road, parked near a dark alleyway between an Italian restaurant, low on business and quiet within, and a closed camera store on the other side, only some fluorescent lights lit within.

(aodhan)
Just before the full moon, the warriors' moon, is the moon belonging to the song singers, the tale tellers, the lore keepers. It's a creative moon, one prone to driving artists to great works. Under this moon, everyone's favorite Latin playboy - who happens to be walking through a bit of Eagle's territory towards that of his own pack - was born, both into his human life and his Garou one.

He sees Imogen, fire and moonlight, first, followed by her dred-locked companion, who he's only seen once or twice before. Obsidian eyes, heavy and absorbing, rest on her for the barest of moments before sliding off to Roxy, piss and vinegar, and the girl on the Ducati (a sweet ride, indeed), an unknown.

The Galliard's learned that his own vehicles don't fare too well in the presence of Eagle's brood, so his transportation for the evening is the well known and loved heel-toe express.

It's not that he's rude, at least one of those present knows better. It's that he's a healthy dose of self preservation - for the moment, at least - and has no desire to run afoul of that particular pack.

...Again...

So he continues walking with the slightest of nods to indicate he'd seen them; should he be hailed, he'll stop. Maybe.


(james)
Imogen - well dressed in a pale blue suite and white shirt smartening up the downtown grime
Rox - well dressed in a slippery black dress that's...... dressed to kill?
James - standing out sore-thumb casual and hiking a brow towards dreads in double-take

he's seen the good Doctor in her business attire fit for any hour of day or night
while a date-worthy composition was never considered impossible for the Walker kin
it's not anything the Adren expected to randomly greet near sunset on nameless street
it may not help the irritation ebbing way in familiarity's sigh
but James indulges low whistle at the Peroxide Fox's visage
making up for the lack of manners with held-out offer of Icee

"I'm woun'ed, Im'gen." the guttermutt chuffs disdain "Dunn ev'n share a countin' one wi' me."

he'd even pout... if it weren't for the flick of attention at a passing Galliard


(imogen)
Imogen's eyes too, linger upon the Glass Walker dressed fit to kill, and it's probably the first time the redhead has seen the blonde in a dress. It is only a moment's lapse, and then her manners reassert themselves, and she only nods (incline) a greeting, before turning her attention back to James and his comment.

A brief sound that is scorn, "I didn't want to offend your American tastes with European fags," she replies, and of course, her terminology is deliberate. It does not matter what Americans thought fags were, she meant cigarettes, and she intended to call them so.

Soon after, her attention follows James's to Aodhan, and while her attention rests there a moment she does not hail her (former) tribesmate, only her dark eyes acknowledging his presence, before she looks away.

(rox)
"Imogen." A word to accompany the nod-up offered to the redhead in greeting, taking in a brief moment to admire the blue suit upon the woman with a casual air. It made her feel a little less out of place upon the street.

Dress to kill, perhaps, but her heated gaze levels on the source of the slow whistle, jaw muscle clenched slightly, then relaxed as a smile breaks across full lips. "James." A small flicker of amusement flashed in her eyes, laughing a little, at the offer of the ICEE, which she accepts. Hold ing the cup up to peer inside, to see what flavor, before daring to take a sip. She stands closest to the 'Gnawer, looking towards them.

"Congregation goin' on here or just random encounters?" She barely noticed the sleek figure of the Latin Princeling as he sneaks his way across Eagle territory. She acknowledged his presence with a moment's glance, extending the ICEE back to James. "What is that?"

(james)
it takes a moment for the Adren to follow-up Imogen's deliberate remark
dark eyes following the Galliard's passing by with studious intent
he overheard the Fenris' final warning last they.... tangled
acknowledgement not even reaching the fire-haloed kinswoman's barest glance
with the Moon growing heavy so far above, all the Ahroun needs is an excuse.......

but for now, the pleasure remains
smirking sharply as he shifts back to far more pleasant company

"Since when'm I 'mong th' eas'ly offen'ed?" then gaze shiftslips to the Walker's semi-sidling up to his shadow "Blueb'rry."

(aodhan)
Aodhan's done quite a bit of sneaking in his day, and will do more if necessary to the service of Gaia. Now, however, he's doing nothing of the sort; rather, he's sauntering through in his black slacks and pretty boy short sleeved sweater, clinging just right to pecs and abs . . . he's attractive, and he knows it, but that's neither here nor there.

Oh, the shark has pretty teeth dear
And he shows 'em, pearly white

He's all but ignored by the little gathering (...what big eyes you have, Mr. PR Man...) and nod turns to something like a smile (but more like a shit-eating grin, or perhaps a baring of teeth) as he pauses to light a cigarette, a European sort that smells an awful lot like Imogen's, but of the less filtered variety.

Beat.
Beat.

And he's off again towards home, towards pack, his appearance of negligible impact and import.

(razor)
In the alleyway.

Razor leans against a filthy hopper, unmindful of any stains that may leave themselves on her leather riding gear. Instead, her focus is entirely on the individual in front of her. A guy of average height, not particularly tall and always given to wearing shades at any hour of the day, or night: the fact that the alleyway was cloaked in utter darkness that fails to be penetrated by the streetlights, still does not change that habit. Whatever. Razor wasn't here to see his eyes. Despite the heat of the night, he wears a leather jacket, long and down to his knees. Oversized for his frame, if the breadth of that jacket and the shoulder support beneath could be any indication. And he smelled. Either he did, or the hopper. The overpowering stench of sweat explained by his unwillingness to wear appropriate to the change in the seasons, the putrid underlayer that kept tickling her nose, kept making her screw it up unconsciously as it offended, unexplainable. Truth was, she didn't want to know what he did to himself to be oozing that shit from his pores.

She just wanted the goods.

Her chin jerks up, blonde hair trailing around that delicate face, the rouge of her lips fresh and like an ink stain against the pallor of her skin. "Well? Freddy told me you could help me out." The accent is Swedish, but lightly so. Another contrast then, with his very American own. Very American, with a twist. "Sure," is his answer, a leering grin on that ravaged face to go with it. The flash of browned, meth-eaten teeth in many places capped and silvered. Sure is his answer, except it doesn't quite come out like that. Syllables slurred into each other so its more a hoarse whisper than the true anunciation of the word. He's giving Razor the creeps - even through her slightly chemical-hazed state. That grin sure didn't help.

"Told me you had a little problem as well."

A shiver runs along her spine.

(imogen)
Imogen, James.
"Roxanne."
It's almost a b-movie dialog.

"Never." She agrees with a shrug. "I'll mind it with my next cigarette," she says, shifting her grip on her own purse - something she carries like it were a nuisance, handle caught and twisted between her fingers. Her other hand lays flat against her stomach, her fingers tapping against her blouse briefly before her palm falls away as she smirks.

It doesn't take much to have caught Jukebox's stare. "S'no wonder tha' his ego is so great, and everyone stares at 'im where ever 'e goes.," she notes, wryly.

(rox)
Perhaps, its the pleasurable thrill that forms from the heated essence of rage, which draws shivers on her skin that draws the Glass Walker closer to James, or the presence of Aodhan that warrants another look from Roxy. Fenris' final warning a ghostly echo in the back of her mind. Whichever, she slips into his shadow for a moment, flanking his right side to drop an arm chummily across a scarred shoulder, using the tall 'Gnawer as a leaning post. Small purse tucked against the palm, thumps absently against his arm as it dangles from her fingers.

"Huh, blueberry," a tilt of her chin to look into the cup in her hand, shaking it up to loosen more of the blue ice inside, stealing a few more sips, and extends the cup back to him with a now lipstick stained straw, "Ya want it back?"

She tosses her head back, removing a few stray wisps of blond hair from her eyes, grinning at Imogen's words. "He's just so pretty, Imogen, like one o'em high-priced poodles ya see at them dog shows."

(james)
Oooooh, the shark has, pret-ty teeth, dear
And he shows 'em, pear-ly white
But he swims so, out of reach, dear
Far too chick-en, for the fight

that shit-eating-teeth-bearing grin didn't escape the Gnawer's attention
of all the things it could draw as reactionary action
the appropriateness of what does come to pass is questionable as his easily offended morality

James laughs
maybe loud enough to carry all the way to Playboy's sauntering back
maybe not enough to even cross the street
the raggedyman doesn't seem to fashion any intention

"They 'ave to..... seems he only go' guts 'nuff a sneak'n'smile fr'm safely a'cross th' stree..... yeh gotta stare cuz he dunn get'ny clos'r." Rage-filled Ahroun granite beneath Roxy's chummy slouch, not that he would have been much affected by her slighter frame to begin with, at least it's enough to draw attention back where it should be - even if eyes are crossing behind sunglasses at just how close that straw suddenly is "Nuh, keep'ih.... ain' my col'r."

(razor)
"And I'd love to help you, darling. Knew your boy in New York, see. Told me some things about you."

Still casually leaning against the hopper, not a muscle twitches in Razor's body as that information sinks in. Dilated eyes, jaw inclined to work - suddenly she's wishing she hadn't taken when she did. For a long moment she stares at the man in the shades and the leather trench, mind drifting to idly what he must have beneath it that its so damn big and when he was planning on getting the rest of those teeth treated. Just silent, just staring with those wide, dark green eyes. Then suddenly brows rise. Sink in. Sunk. "You knew Scythe? How?"

Against the hopper, she straightens. "What'd he tell you?" All casual gestures - she's been in this place before to show too much alarm. So its just interest that mingles across the haze of her face. She straightens, and though she's not wont to - she even looks away, a smirk stretching across her lips. "No secrets, I'm hoping. He did promise to take them to the grave - I really believed he had." Just shadows lurking in the currents beneath. And always that ignored fear. That spike of tension.

"He told me your uses," is the enigmatic reply, though the way he says it around that thick, ungainly tongue, seems to suggest a lot more than just sex. She should be appreciative of that. Really. Except with Scythe's kind, she knew what else that could mean. She knew just what this guy might be, but not.

Still, she says nothing except: "Look. Show me what you got, and if I like it, I'll get the money, okay? Then we can talk about this other shit. Priorities first."

(aodhan)
Laughter's fine, as the breeze blows just the right way to carry the sound to Aodhan's ears; it's the guttermutt's words that cause the straightening (stiffening) of already perfect posture, the chilling of an already fairly icy demeanor, and the pivot of steps to carry him back a few feet and across the street to the gathering, that grin going from shit-eating to high society polite in 1.2 seconds. There's a drag taken from that European, unfiltered smokey treat as the Latin prince of a Fianna surveys the group with those black hole eyes.

"Dr. Slaughter, Roxanne. A pleasure to see you both again (though, of course, the pleasure is questionable) . . . and I don't believe we were properly introduced. I'm Aodhan Salto."

There's a nod that comes close to being a bow, his hand offered to the Adren for a shake; it's clean (but for the nicotine stain on his middle finger), the nails impeccable and just short of manicured, though clearly calloused from some sort of work or another.

It's like calling Marty McFly chicken, minus the temper tantrum. It gets results.

(imogen)
A glance and a smirk for Roxanne's comment, that she compares Aodhan to a poodle. Perhaps the Fianna prince is well described as that. Primped up and well-bred. A show dog, worth nothing more than his appearance. Were the assessment accurate, or Imogen believed it so, she did not give much reaction, beyond the flicker of the smirk. It's only as James speaks again that she answers, her voice even.

"Or he isn't spoilin' fer a fight."
As you are.

Some might say that James has been around the Fenrir too long. Then again, the same can be said of the lithe kinfolk with her flaming hair and dark eyes. In this case, perhaps not so much, but in most, maybe.

Aodhan crosses, and Imogen glances over her shoulder at him, before she turns her gaze toward James, "Do me a favour?"

It's pratically not a question - as if making it a request belittled it or her somehow. She does, however, wait for acquiescence before she continues. But it is apparent that the (former) Fianna kinfolk is leaving.

(rox)
Roxy pffts, wrinkling her nose as she nudges him gently with her hip, drawing her arm off his shoulder to her side. Purse tucked under her arm, pinning elbow to her ribcage. "More for me then," she chuckles, peeling back the domed lid to snap it off, condensation flicks away into the air. The cup brought up to drink the blue ice, tilting her head back for leverage.

"He's got balls." Her words sounding hallow as they echo from inside the cup, a flick of her eyes to watch Aodhan's approach. Tilting the cup down just enough to acknowledge the Fianna Princeling with a wry smirk, "Hey, darlin'." Imogen is warranted a slight quirked eyebrow in response to her asking for a favor. Roxy listens closer, curiosity gnawed at her, wondering if she'll witness a fight that might satisfy her moody temper from the botched date.

(james)
Aodhan's flourished greeting is put on pause momentarily
the Gnawer draped by one kinfolk now turns to the question of the other

"Yeh?"


(imogen)
Strange little scenario here. Imogen's jaw is tight as she speaks to the Gnawer. "Ask Rohl if he spoke wi' the Knights about the territory dispute. I went back t'work as o' today."

(razor)
She says, he does. Sometimes its that simple. He doesn't try to stop her, doesn't seem concerned about her walking out of that alley - doesn't seem the predator that she could have sworn he was two seconds ago. Except he is, he just knows his prey. And for certain things? The prey always returns. And he also happens to know just what Freddie told her - and the bait that he had just dangled on top of that? Makes it guaranteed.

Razor was never one to heed her fear. Just like she'd said, priorities. He flashes the little plastic bag in front of her, the white powder within calling to her veins on sight. If it were food, she'd be salivating. She suffers, instead, with a clench of those muscles across her stomach, a sudden inflexive inhale through the nostrils, and a sharp nod as her eyes catch hers - or she believes they do - through the dark lens. Without another word, she walks towards her bike.

On the street.

She emerges from the alleyway and crosses to the Ducati, her fingers going to the helmet hitched to its back, the small black pouch placed within. Green bills rifled through and removed, to be tucked into her black leather. Under the helmet, another carry area - where she keeps the sig232. Never been used. She didn't know how to use the damn thing, but she's not so fucked that she can't ignore the warning signs. Some comfort to carry, right? Except impossible to hide with the leather she wears. Its put in the helmet, and the helmet dragged along, carried under her arm. When she straightens, its just a quick furtive glance around the street, ensuring noone noticed.

Most in the street just get a cursory glance. Most. That gaze however? Rests intently on James and Aodhan: and recognises them for who they are. No sense of rage. No sense of their identity. Just knows - much like she always has. Her lips quirk slightly, before that gaze goes to the women with them, a fleeting inspection but the ragtag bunch in her mind? Woman in a suit, woman in a slinky dress, dred-locked garou casually dressed, and the other garou distinctively metrosexual: all recognised. She'd guess it, even if she were wrong.

Fingers run along the hard surface of the helmet, nails clicking their little dance, before she's returning to the alleyway and disappearing within.

(rox)
Territory dispute and Knights in the same sentence has her attention. She wrinkles her nose up, swinging her eyes to Imogen. She and the Knights held no love for each other and the last time she crossed their border, without knowing it was theirs. They threatened her life.

"Territory dispute, eh?" Roxy asks, "Are they threatenin' ta murder kinfolk if'n their borders are crossed again?"

(james)
there's a nod, concise, as Imogen prepares to take her leave
message taken and deliverered - secretary and PR department for the pack
which means he finally gets around to taking Aodhan's waiting call
though there's no operator's croon apologizing for the long stay on hold

"Jamez."

the hand's taken
by one far less clean and far more calloused
and judging from lopsided smile he could crush bone if tempted
but the Gnawer seems to know enough about public etiquette not to do so
no matter how much that compounding pressure of Ahroun's Rage seems to be growing
he's smooth as silk, cool as cream, and not impressed by Mr. Fashion Sense on his closest "stare" up to date
a brow lifts, expectant, to whether or not ballsy Galliard has anything more
proper introductions proclaimed, and all


(imogen)
Jukebox nods, and Imogen inclines her head. "Ta."

She takes her leave without answering Roxanne's question,and without saying good-bye. If the goings on within the alleyway catch her attention at all, it does not for long, as she turns and walks off.


(razor)
He had moved to the mouth of the alleyway, still skulking in the shadows. Had watched her - watched her play with her helmet, shift something into it. Watched as she straightened and looked around, as her gaze paused - lingered - on the group across the road. Noticed the tension that filtered through her body: invisible to anyone but someone looking for it. Oh yes, he knew her. Knew enough.

So that as soon as she is stepping back into the gloom of the alleyway, eyes squinting to adjust to the dark, then widening suddenly when realising he is right there - he's asking, "Were they?"

Course, in her current state of mind, her own thoughts in that direction - he can only mean one thing. She answers without thinking. "Yeah." Then immediately snaps her mouth shut, startled by the admission. An attrempt to cover up, "What do you mean? The group I was looking at? Just liked the guy's dreds, is all. They were cool.."

Sure, it doesn't come out quite the stammer and with the nervousness the less practiced may have. There's an ease to her lie thats admirable, and certainly a pace. Still, he knows what she means. See, he was looking for it, too.

(aodhan)
Ballsy.

You ain't seen nothin' yet
b-b-b-b-bay-be, you just ain't seen nothin' yet

Arrogant.

You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner . . .

Suave and debonair.

No need to ask.
He's a smooth operator . . .

"A pleasure."

And no, he's nothing more. If he notices the (former, we must not forget!) Fianna's departure, there's no indication given; instead, there's a rakish smile directed at Roxy before he turns back to James and nods his way out.

(rox)
There is a rakish smile flashed her way by Aodhan, who makes his exit long after Imogen has departed ways. Roxy says nothing to halt the other kin's retreat, sympathizing with the hectic duties of sleep and work. She knows the routine personally herself, fortunately, Roxy's had the day off tomorrow. She could afford to spend a little time to loiter around.

And loiter she does, stepping back a pace from the 'Gnawer man, finishing off the slushed blue ice in her cup. Her eyes focused across the vague image of Razor across the street, attention won and held their for a brief length of time, waiting to see what happens with Aodhan and James. She was starting to ride on some small wave of adrenaline brought on with anticipation of events.

(james)
ballsy
arrogant
suave and debonair
........ which means absolute shit to a Bone Gnawer

especially one that's jipped a proper introduction as custom dictates
at least it did so last he checked.... Rank and Territory meant something, didn't it?
(.... that's what... strike four and five at this point?)
as the rakish smile oozes towards Roxy, dark eyes drop behind the sheild of round sunglasses
looking distastfully at his hand still semi-dangling in the air before his abs

"...... no won'r he driveza F'rrari. W'z tha' f'real?"

blinking once or thrice - this poodle is a piece of work, indeed
the Adren never thought he'd ever entertain this thought....
but as he's smearing remnants of Aodhan's skin cells off on the fabric covering thigh
.
..... James feels strangely unclean
(.... eeeew!!!! getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!)


(rox)
Roxy tucks the dome lid into the empty cup, crumbling it up as she looks for some place to toss it away. She looks back at James, inching back up to his side to nudge him with her hip. "Hey, let's go get somethin' ta drink, shugah. Shoot some shit. Looks like ya can use a nice distraction for awhile." Winking at him, Roxy tosses the cup away over her shoulder, letting it roll into some alley way. She touches the 'Gnawer's shoulder, draping her arm across its scarred surface again.

(james)
the Gnawer actually grimaces
tongue sticking out past curled lip and whole-nine-yards to truly canid expression
it would seriously convey the ridiculous creepiness brought on by the Galliard
(... what that really for real?? he takes himself that seriously?!
were it not for the Full Moon subdermally bristling his flesh
and the bright blue stain on extended tongue wholly ruining the moment

at least he's aware enough of the stain to genuinely laugh the whole thing off entirely

steel-belted muscle shuddering beneath scarred skin literally flicking it all away
(.... you're just trip.pin.out. on this, aren't you, Jamey-boy?)
Roxy's casually draped arm is not, however, dislodged
some reality-check-connection wrought in touch unthought of mere months ago
his own arm drapes mirrored image across her own bared shoulders

"Distrac'shun?" smirked "Think ya dunn owe me a dring f'r tha' Icee?"

now aren't these two a pair
bleached blond vixen dressed to the nines in black dress and heels
dreadlocked guttermutt running escort uniformed in the best Surplus Sam's has to offer
Peroxide Fox needing to vent a little steam after the date gone awry
Jukebox caught somewhere inbetween levity and brutality brought on by Full Moon's rising tide

...... stranger things couldn't be more normal smack in the middle of Eagle's territory, could they


[end]

Posted by james at July 19, 2005 12:00 AM