drums-on-skulls: March 2003 Archives

March 23, 2003

.03.23.03. - you don't know anything about being Garou, do you? [jody]

[forums]

(james)
((continued from a scene in north jersey last night))

the tattered trench wasn't the only thing the Gnawer brought from the condo
he also grabbed a Hefty 40 gallon garbage bag and a few thick towels
powerwashing blood out of the Tacoma was one thing
he doesn't want to find out what it takes to get blood off of charcoal leather interior
there's a wave to Imogen, before the Ahroun is leading Lucca towards her car

that's right folks
one Bone Gnawer
one Mercedes Benz CL500
(aawwww yeeaaah bay-bee)

now, he'd never actually ask to drive it
the thought would never cross his mind to make such assumptions
or to actually treat himself in such a way
but it wasn't only keeping Imogen out of the car with a strange Garou that made the decision to take the proffered keys and subtly suggest the purebreed kin to not join them upon this journey
it's a sweeeeeeeet ride

after setting things up so the wounded Strider doesn't leak all over the leather
the ride out of the Hibernia is rather uneventful
for as bohemian as the raggedy man looks
his driving is rather mundane
there's classic rock on the sound system
there's a speed limit that's obeyed
there's ... you got it ... one uneventful ride

at least the scenery is pretty
the way too early morning hours are too dark to see the trash the city squadrons haven't picked up yet
rush hour is a daymare that the near empty streets have forgotten, for now
there's only the city's neon glow reflecting off the lingering clouds high above
then the near absolute darkness as the highway passes out of civilization and back to Gaia's own
of course, there's still Luna waning from full high above
and the fact there are not one, but two Ahroun in the luxury car
but one is wounded, the other is fairly mellow, so the Benz is in little danger of Rage inspired damage

he made a few Totem Phone calls on the way
getting to Batsto is one thing
but he knows Zoe's cabin isn't exactly in Batsto, just somewhere near
she's no Theurge, but she is a healer
it's only a wrong turn (or two) that gets him through the little township and to the right cabin
expensive German engineering pulling to a stop without even a hissing sigh of the brakes
his chin lifts towards the cabin
well.... the two cabins that are there
one possibly Zoe's
(the other would be Corrans, but he doesn't know it)

"There's a kin named Zoe that lives in one of those two cabins, healer, herbalist, if she can't heal it, she'll know someone that can.... tell her I brought you and she shouldn't turn you away."

a brow lifts a little
he'll walk up and help make intros if need be
but that's up to the Strider
and he does need to get the car back before Imogen needs to go to work.....

(james)
Lucca took the Ride. He even helped where he could to get things set up. He was even less easy about finding how much it took to get blood out of the charcoal interior. Thanking James for the ride. And asking him to thank the kin for him. He's not good at thanking them and was sure James could get things acrossed better. Even mentioned once that he was glad at night. Probably safer with two Ahrouns in the car. They'd probably both suffer road rage and only one of them was driving. With the Ride made he nodded to James. Thanking him. And told him he'd pay him back for the help if James wanted it. It was only fair for the help he and his pack in extension had given him tonight. Then he moved up to the cabins. Picking a door and Knocking. Holding himself up. He was an Ahroun. Mauled or not he would hold himself up.

(corran)
The door opens slowly and there is a blond haired 15 year old girl in glasses. She blinks. Her eyes widen and she looks up

"Um.... I think you want my brother...."

The door slams Muffeled voices, then a chuckel and the door reopens. Standing there is a 6'3 man. Sandy blond hair. Dark lime peel green eyes, athlectic built. He's dressed in dark brown pants, hiking boots fit slip fashion. a tan zip up shirt and leaning on an ironshod ironwood staff. He lookes the man over and arks a brow.

With him comes an aura of support and clamness that once felt can never be forgotten. A certin something that seems to up lift you simply being around him. His voice is a pleasent baritone.

"Can I help you?"

(james)
"No problem.... take care of yourself, Lucca."

chuckled with a wry grin
there's a bit of a wave
but when the door's closed
James is pointing the Benz towards home
should he ever need the favor repaid
he'd be sure to call on it

the drive home is just as uneventful
other than the warming sky from the rising sun
aaaaand a few more stops than on the way out

soon enough, he's on Imogen's balcony
she's opening the door to head to work
and suddenly there's a lanky Gnawer filling the range of her vision
head tilted to the side
wearing that easy lopsided grin
holding out one set of keys to a black CL500

a black CL500 with a full tank of gas
with no sign of anything leaky on the charcoal interior
with still steamy breakfast sitting on the passenger's floormat
with a bottle of orange juice in one cup holder
a large Irish Cream coffee in the other

she's going to work
he's damned well going to bed

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 22, 2003

.03.22.03. - on the road to a healer [lucca]

[forums]

(james)
((continued from a scene in north jersey last night))

that's right folks
one Bone Gnawer
one Mercedes Benz CL500
(aawwww yeeaaah bay-bee)

at least the scenery is pretty
the way too early morning hours are too dark to see the trash the city squadrons haven't picked up yet
rush hour is a daymare that the near empty streets have forgotten, for now
there's only the city's neon glow reflecting off the lingering clouds high above
then the near absolute darkness as the highway passes out of civilization and back to Gaia's own
of course, there's still Luna waning from full high above
and the fact there are not one, but [b]two[/b] Ahroun in the luxury car
but one is wounded, the other is fairly mellow, so the Benz is in little danger of Rage inspired damage

he made a few Totem Phone calls on the way
getting to Batsto is one thing
but he knows Zoe's cabin isn't exactly in Batsto, just somewhere near
she's no Theurge, but she [i]is[/i] a healer
it's only a wrong turn (or two) that gets him through the little township and to the right cabin
expensive German engineering pulling to a stop without even a hissing sigh of the brakes
his chin lifts towards the cabin
well.... the two cabins that are there
one possibly Zoe's
(the other would be Corrans, but he doesn't know it)

"There's a kin named Zoe that lives in one of those two cabins, healer, herbalist, if she can't heal it, she'll know someone that can.... tell her I brought you and she shouldn't turn you away."

a brow lifts a little
he'll walk up and help make intros if need be
but that's up to the Strider
and he does need to get the car back before Imogen needs to go to work.....

(corran)
The door opens slowly and there is a blond haired 15 year old girl in glasses. She blinks. Her eyes widen and she looks up

"Um.... I think you want my brother...."

With him comes an aura of support and clamness that once felt can never be forgotten. A certin something that seems to up lift you simply being around him. His voice is a pleasent baritone.

"Can I help you?"

(james)
"No problem.... take care of yourself, Lucca."

chuckled with a wry grin
there's a bit of a wave
but when the door's closed
James is pointing the Benz towards home
should he ever need the favor repaid
he'd be sure to call on it

the drive home is just as uneventful
other than the warming sky from the rising sun
aaaaand a few more stops than on the way out

she's going to work
he's damned well going to bed

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

.03.22.03. - bone gnawer + benz = ? [imogen-lucca]

[noje]

(imogen)
After days upon days of rain, it has finally stopped, the clouds not yet breaking across the sky, shattering only in bare spots where the stars manage to peek through, a small edge of the waning moon, the rest obscured by cloud cover. It's been raining for days, and yesterday a thunderstorm had exploded, lightning searing the sky. Rain soaked the streets and anyone brave enough to step out into it.

And now it was over, though the air still smells of rain, moist and damp, earthen smells of wet earth, grass soaking up the rain, still brown from the long winter. She sits in one of the chairs on her balcony, legs tucked beneath her, slender frame curled into the wooden supports, a suede jacket for warmth, fallen open over her dark blue turtleneck. It's almost fifty degrees and maybe in a few weeks the weather will seem almost human, as opposed to this grey dreariness that spring brings.

A cigarette burns, held between her fingers, wrist perched on the armrest, the red glow reflecting against pale skin, cancer stick held between her forefinger and middle finger, careless and half forgotten. The other hand drags through her hair, the long dark red strands sliding through slender fingers, her eyes set on some vague point, undefined and unnecessary. because she isn't really noticing so much as giving her eyes somewhere to rest as her thoughts take her attention away.

(james)
"Long day?"

her thoughts took her attention away
so she didn't hear the door sliding quietly open
so she didn't hear the Gnawer stepping softly onto the balcony
she may not even have felt the pre-emptive wash of Rage
because even if the moon is only beginning it's waning diet in the sky
the bluntling!, being home, and the rain seems to have cleansed his natural angst away

dreads hang in sopping disarray about his head and shoulders
fresh out of the shower, squeaky clean, and needing a cig
that's what drew him out to face the just as freshly scrubbed world
but it's the distant pondering of the Kin that drew his attention
black Zippo CLACKS open
the orange flare warming his features
creating some reflectant fire deep in umber eyes
making that easy grin seem even more friendly
even teeth clench into the bespeckled filter
one long inhale before the lighter's snapped closed
breath fogging the air thickening with the exhaled smoke

(imogen)
Her attention jerks from... whatever it is. Watermarks on the balustrade, a dent in the ground. The ashtray left at the leg of her chair. His words draw her abruptly back to the humidity-laden night air, her head turning, eyes lifting to cross the distance of heights and space to look at the Gnawer.

She doesn't particularly answer the question, not quite directly, a soft sound in her throat, musing, perhaps grudging agreement. A smirk touches her mouth, caustic and self-deprecating, as her cigarette hand shifts, eyes sliding from the guttermutt's form, to the cigarette with it's pillar of ash. Her centre of weight shifts, leaning forward to tap the cigarette downward toward the ashtray, a spill of flakes like so much snow.

As the cigarette returns to her mouth, her head turns again to look at him, her hand tucking back strands past her shoulders, her chin tilting in a half gesture as she inhales smoke into her lungs, a slow drag. Her words are mixed with smoke as she speaks, "You know th'explosion a' th'NorthWest Labs?" an eyebrow arching to mark her question.

(james)
the response is a soft sound in her throat
sometimes he wonders....
if he didn't have the Garou aspect to his normal senses
would he even hear half the answers she gives him
he didn't expect much more than the wordless acknowledgement
knowing the Kin's affinity for normal salutations and all

she begins the collection of movements to create her own snow
the cancerous ash falling toxic into the tray
the growing gray and white dunes remniscent of the snowcover just bare weeks past
he begins the collection of movements to lean/sit against the ballustrade
tucked back by the wall so it's nominally dry
plus it gives someplace for the muscle lining the back of his shoulder to rest
one tank boot braced against the tile, the other's heel tapping against protective barrier

"Vaguely heard about it through the barking chain.... was taking care of some family stuff up in Albany when it happened."

most wouldn't notice his native accent here
Yank precision and drag through certain words so much like the Jersey speech
but compared to her Cornish lilt, it's obvious where he was born and raised
what he doesn't ask, is why she brought it up
given their past experiences together
she wouldn't bring it up without a reason
so he waits for her to continue through the next lazy drag

(imogen)
Her weight shifts as he speaks, and looks at her, waiting for her explanation, turning in the chair, shifting so her back is against one arm rest, one leg sliding down to rest flat againt the balcony floor, while the other perches on the edge of the seat where the armrest opposite to the one at her back support meats the seat of the chair. Bracing her elbow against her thigh, the cigarette near her mouth, as she speaks, after a moment.

"One o' th'duties o' the medical examiner's office is identification durin' major disastors like that. I 'ave the good fortune o' having experience in that matter. So, I was assigned." A faint downturning of her lips, barely visible and hardly there, particularly as she dispells it with a smirk, the quirk of her lips half hidden as she takes another drag of the cigarette, inhaling deeply on the filter, cancerous fumes filling her lungs.

Their accents are such contrasts. Her's is a burr, a clipped sound, pronounciation skewed. Where he would surely pronounce a consonant she throws it away, and where he would truncate a word, she pronounces it, syllable for syllable. But like how, if he did not know from where she came, he would not be able to pinpoint her accent, she cannot pinpoint his. They're all American, to her. All yankee, from the southern drawl of the Fenrir Modi, to James's own New York slang.

"Anyway, there's three survivors, and Decker wants me t'go talk wit'em find out what I can." A tilt of her head toward him as she exhales the last dredges of smoke from her mouth, before speaking again, "And I wanted to see if y'had any insights on what I should ask o' em."

The momentary pause before the next might be telling, "An' see if you wanted to tag along, make sure I don't forever traumatize someone or trip o'er somethin' I shouldn't." The smirk is caustic once more, and the pause, as mentioned might be telling. Chances are, this part was not her idea. Chances are, she would never admit to it.

(james)
Decker wants her to go talk and find out what she can
she suddenly wants his input on the situation.... and to tag along
chances are - he's figured out the unsaid portion of the conversation
(nice feeling, to have a packmate trust you to this extent)
on the next exhale, his lips curl into a rather amused smile
the plume of smoke offered the night quickens as breath heaves in chuckle
he doesn't mention that it seems they were chosen to do the gruntwork
..... again.

at least, this time, they'll be on a mission, and not trapped in a motel room
that should be some degree of improvement

"Suuuure I'll tag along." just what are you getting yourself into, Jamey-boy? "Though I wouldn't know what to ask them, off the top of my head, I'll chew on it a bit."

the filtered Camel is flicked in slow arch towards the coffeecan turned ashtray on his own balcony
palms meet and rub together in mock anticipation
(oh goodie)
those deep umber eyes turning back towards the Kinfolk

"When do we leave?"

(imogen)
One has to wonder how on earth the kinfolk and gnawer end up doing the oddest of things, grunt work is a good way to put it. Sitting in a hotel room, waiting for the wandering heroes to get back. Her job was to stay alive, and his way to keep her that way. A morgue over thanksgiving weekend, the smell of old decay in their noses. And now, hunting down three survivors to play question and answers.

"I've got did they see anythin', what they did at the labs, which is not an answer I can get. I'll ask Rune, too." All the words said casually, emotionless as her arm uncoils and drops down to ash the cigarette in the tray.

"And whenever I c'n get the time off work. Hopefully, soon, though. I'd rather catch them at th'hospital than go to th' 'omes."

A smirk touches her mouth, as she resets the cigarette in her mouth, "This's goin' t'be 'ard enough as it is."

(james)
all in all, he's not really complaining about the situations they simply get thrown into
while he, of course, would rather avoid such situations
(the scent of a decaying child lingers for days)
at least she will be doing something that could be considered interesting
at least he is not having to babysit a blind and raving Stargazer
find that gleaming lining, James

one hand, and then one finger, raise
(hold that thought)
lean form disappears back through the sliding doors of whence he came
not even two minutes later, he's back on the balcony again
two bottles grasped by neck in that very pausing hand

since they're not racing towards the car to play good cop bad cop
he shifts his weight off the railing
the empty hand, strong and firm, curves over the sculpted stucco
one boot hikes up to find purchase
and the Gnawer crosses the great divide between the land of the Kin and the land of the Garou
or, in laymen's terms: their balconies
the six foot abyss is a far easier feat for him to accomplish than she
given the length of stride one has when taller by nearly a foot
dreads weighted by the recent shower (is that.... Rune's.... shampoo?) sway only a little as he flops into the empty chair
one bottle hissing it's complaint to being opened
but he's handing it over to the firey kin
then settling down to his first beer of the night

"It'd seem more kosher to do it sooner" he has caught on to this whole covert thang "Decker mention any theories on why it was done?"

(imogen)
She leans forward to pluck the beer from his outreached hand, the other hand taking the cigarette from her mouth again with a muttered, "ta," as she drops the cigarette end over end, the ember twisting as the cancer stick tumbles down to hit the ashtray, the burning orange glow shattering and scattering to dull and die in the tray.

Her head shakes as she raises the bottle to her lips, pausing scant inches away from her mouth, "He didn't mention," interrupting herself for a swallow of cold liquid, picking up the sentence as she brings the bottle down, resting the butt of coloured glass against her knee. "The current story goin' 'round is that it was a trucker, smoking in a restricted area. They dealt with certain volitile substances."

A lift of her shoulder as her free hand gestures slightly for him to sit, if he wants to, "S'just so odd that ... well." Another smirk, she throws them out easily, sometimes, caustic and meaningless because really they're just motions. "Considering the lab, I suppose one can never be too careful, can one?"

(james)
by the time she vaguely gestures
he's already made himself comfortable in the empty chair
going so far as to slouch down, stretch out, and kick his feet up on the railing
ankles neatly crossed at the end of long legs
his bottle is lifted in toast punctuated by another soft bought of laughter

"You'd think..... in a place full of chemicals like what the lab dealt with.... the entire area would be non-smoking."

somehow, that current story just doesn't jive
not in his world

being in love wi.....

..... being in a pack with Rune, he's used to smirks
caustic and meaningless and downright familiar
it's not that he doesn't notice the expressions
it's that he takes them all in stride

"What I wonder..." taking his turn to interrupt himself by digging in cargo pocket for pack and lighting up another Camel, the little carton and Zippo offered absently to the Kin out of habit as well as manners "... is that we knew there were more in that pack than we offed. So." another gesture, stabbing at the night sky with the glowing cherry "May be someone coming back to cover tracks.... finally. Though I don't know why they'd wait five months.... much less how we'd prove it."

(imogen)
"It was all non-smoking." She explains, "S'even told to everyone who enters th'area, visitors and the like." She shakes her head at the offered cigarette, her head indicating the pack perched on the arm rest over her shoulder.

Only ony addiction at a time tonight, it would seem. "And unfortunately, my information on it is ... hazy at best. It's not as if I could go poking around and ask th'fire inspector if he suspected arson or not. Two witnesses, who I suppose I will attempt to track down, said they saw a trucker smoking where no one should. And it appears to be the ..." a pause, as she takes a swallow of beer, "... accepted story."

The corner of her mouth lifts, "As for the rest, I leave the speculation to you. I 'aven't got a fuckin' clue."

(lucca)
Lucca made his way towards where he had met the glasswalker and her pack. His duster over something that he kept bundled up with it. His backpack not on his back but hanging on his side. Hurting as he is he was wondering if they'd spot him first or if he had to find them.

he reached back and pulled his shirt off his back. Marked with blood like it was. He made his way towards the apartment. That being basically where they'd noticed him before.

(james)
at the decline
he tucks the pack back and Zippo into the pocket on his thigh
his lower lip wiggles a bit
sucked in and nibbled in thought
released from the assault only for another swallow or three from the beer

"I wouldn't know how to go about it even if we didn't have the restrictions on what we'll be able to ask and get away with."

the Gnawer is honest, if anything
returning to a breif brow furrowing of thought

"Most I could do sidestep and powwow with the banes that'll cling to the aftershocks like leeches, see what they'd spill, if anything."

now, since she has been sipping her beer without backlash
that is not a bitter beer face the Ahroun is wearing
even if that last part was mumbled mostly to himself
it's a rather distasteful thought, if he's ever had one
moving right along

"Aw common Imogen" chuckled wryly in a sidelong glance "You know with our luck it's another pack moving in, all rank 12 uberSpirals with bane klaives for talons and belching thunderstorms with green lightning in their eyes. It would never be as simple as someone tidying up before running back to whatever hole they've been in for five months."

yes, hello, my name is James, I'm the guy with the Apocalypse waiting on my doorstep
because the sarcasm in that last statement rivals what she can produce in her own
for Gaia's sake.... where was that vacation all employees deserve??
mellow as he seemed, guess the trip back home wasn't said vacation
(waning.... the moon is still more full than not....)
dark eyes slashing across the lawn spread before them
then his chin lifts a bit, nodding towards the figure just outside the ring of condo's porchlight

(imogen)
It must be a little bit of a double take for Lucca to notice them, because they're actually on the wrong balcony, at least from his perspective. Next door, instead, the slender kinfolk, who may be memorable if only for the song of blood that runs through her veins, the symphony of pure breed, and perhaps for her silence. And then the other, one of the pack, sitting opposite her, lounged in a chair, cigarette between his fingers. Both have beers.

A shake of her head, "I'll do m'best to get out what I can, if I can. S'just. High profile, and classified which makes it worse. And it's not exactly if I'm in the need to know category. But I need to know what's most important." What to look for. What to ask. Where to go.

His wry chuckle is mirrored by a smirk of her own as she leans forward, draping one arm across her leg and resting the bottle back on her knee, "We can..."

Whatever her sentence was is truncated and halted as her head turns toward James's indication, and Lucca's approach. An eyebrow lifts, and she takes a long swallow of the beer.

(lucca)
He did notice them. But only when he was about to approach the wrong apartment. Then he stopped Looking for a way up to the two instead of the way he was going.

(imogen)
That would be the stairs. The condos are seperated and are not cojoined, so he will need to pass from one path to the next, but sure as there are stairs for one, there are stairs for the other.

(lucca)
He spots the stairs and heads towards them. To make his way up to the two he'd seen on the other Balcony.

(james)
he can't help the bit of a chuckle at the doubletake
just moseying on with the flow
seems they'll finish up their conversation later
knees bend, and boots are pulled off railing and settled on the tiles
weight shifts forward to settle elbows on knees
chin jerks up in what is the Eagle Pack's form of hello

"Evenin' Lucca.... what can I do ya for?"

(lucca)
"Oh. I got something I didn't want left Around. thought you might know a good way to get rid of it."

(imogen)
Her eyebrow arches slightly, as Lucca speaks, twisting in her seat, sitting rather unconventially sideways in the wooden chair, back against one arm rest, one leg perched on the seat. She turns, hair sliding forward, dark firekissed strands sliding over her shoulder to obscure the pale carved lines of her face as she drops the beer bottle beside the ashtray. On the upward motion, she reaches behind her, picking up the package of camels, and begins to pull one out as she resettles, her other hand running through her mane of hair, all the vibrant colours of red, pushing it away from her face.

Intent on pulling out of the cigarette, and now, the lighting up, she does not appear to be all that interested in the goings on before her. The cigarette slides between her slips, and a hand digs into her suede jacket, coming up with a bronze zippo.

Click.
Flame gives birth to her cigarette, a dull orange ember as she inhales.
Clack.
The zippo lid shuts closed and she repockets it.

Smoke exhales slowly from her mouth around the filter, as she rests one arm on her bent knee, fingers dangling loose downward.

(james)
there's..... a bit of a nod
the hand holding the beer bottle and the hand holding the Camel spread slightly apart
even if Lucca can't see it, exactly, from where he's below them
there's that general expression of

..... and?

then when the Strider gets closer
there's that distinctive scent of blood
which leads to a rather canid head tilt of curiosity

"The hell ripped into you?"

(lucca)
He makes it a point of climbing the steps to them before speaking again. And he's slow at doing it. To the point that they can realize he'd let his backpack slip off his shoulder and let it rest on the bottom step when he came up to them. The duster wrapped around something under his other arm he drops it and motions for james to take a look at the bundle of glyphed tape.

(imogen)
Her attention flicks toward Lucca as he drops his backpack and gestures for James to come take a look at... whatever it may be. A frown crosses her brow, briefly, before she turns her attention back toward her cigarette, taking a slow drag as her other hand lightly brushes some bit of lint from her jean clad thigh.

(james)
hands full, he... uh.... looks at the bundle
then looks at his beer
that's settled onto the tiles with a nearly empty hollow thunk
the Camel placed between his lips
deep umber eyes squinting a bit past the smoke
and he's picking up the bundle of glyphed tape
brow..... lifting a bit when he unsticks some of it to stretch out and read
putting together the markings (can ya feel the power a' tha fetish, boah?) and the way Lucca gingerly moves

"How'd you piss off a Gnawer enough to get whomped like that?"

idly tucking the tape back into it's ball and glancing back at the Strider

(lucca)
He rests with his butt against the rail. unconciously aware to keep things from pressing on his back. "Wandered onto their territory without knowing it. One of them started bugging me with lots of questions. I got a little upset. His ahroun friend came over and basically stuck me between them and on the defensive from the start. I threatened to throw the one that was bugging me over the rail if he didn't stop. The ahroun threatened to throw me over And tried to make me do introductions in the street. I jumped over and waited for them to come after me or not. Prepared to fight if necessary as well. They came after me. This time the one that had been bugging me got behind me. I spoke to the Ahroun and introduced myself. She told me who she was. Her pack mate trash talks to much. She trash talked to. I was tired of them and leaving. The Ahroun threatened to chase me down and cut me to pieces. I'd had enough and drew my knife. They attacked. I worked over the Ahroun pretty good but the damned annoying one Got me in the back. Then the Ahroun went Furry. I went furry in response. Was moving to dodge their blows and going to meet the annoying one with blade in my War Formed hand and he got a lucky shot to my back with his claws. Knocked me out with the blow. Woke up with that stuff binding me to the underside of the railing on the boardwalk. Ripped myself free. Ripped that off. Drug myself to an alley to enter the umbra long enough to heal. and have basically been laying low most of the day. Remembered you guys and thought you might know a way to get rid of this stuff. Do the honorable thing instead of leaving these guys little calling card out in the open for everybody and maybe start a war." He spits it all out in a rush to get it out. And feeling a bit like he was going to faint from the exertion when he was done.

(imogen)
As he begins his story, the fine-featured woman's attention flickers toward him, dark blue eyes settling on him rather disturbingly. Mostly for the fact that she has no hum of rage and no crackle of Gaia's fury. Which, combined with the cultivated song of her blood, would likely make her kin. As a rule, kinfolk and humans cannot look at Garou in the direct manner she is. In the eyes. It's often taken as a challenge in his sort of world, and humans and kinfolk alike shy away from such contacts. The entrancing redhead does it, seemingly without thought.

Her cigarette still burns between her lips, the ember sparking brighter as she inhales again. The smell of cigarette smoke on this porch is prevalent. The woman is smoking, and this is likely not her first, considering the ashtray at the foot of her chair, with a butt and ashes already coating the receptacle. James smokes, too. Alcohol adds it's own scent, buried beneath the smell of dampness, because the rain over the last few days has coated everything with it's particular odour.

One hand reaches up, pulling the cigarette from her mouth, hand dropping down to tap the fag in the direction of the ashtray, ashing it.

(james)
halfway through the avalanche explanation, the Gnawer stretches to stand
since both hands are full with the tape, one boot hooks around the leg of his recently vacated chair
sliiiiiiding it across the tile towards the somewhat paling Strider
(sitcherself down before you fall back down the stairs)
other than wood sliding over terra cotta - he's silently listening

"Well.... some folks are touchy about their territory." he's known packs that kill for less "Where'd this happen?"

just so Eagle's are aware of such territories that apparently aren't clearly marked
and since they claim most of Northern Jersey as their own
would be nice to know if another pack's encroaching on such territory
there's a bit of an apologetic glance to the purebreed
not exactly sure if she minds Lucca parking it for a bit
but better he rest before moving on than passing out cold on her balcony
pack crashing on her couch is one thing, Decker may not approve of a strange Garou
and he's not about to take any part in any blame the Modi could construct on the situation

(lucca)
"Along the Boardwalk. Where's the Strider Territory? From what i gather from what I can piece together. Their south of theirs. Though I didn't see any Strider signs or anything when I was there."

(imogen)
An apologetic glance her way, and she lifts her shoulders in a shrug, in that sort of 'what can you do' manner, the faintest twitch of her mouth, downward rather than upward. The cigarette is dropped to the ashtray, carefully, positioning it against the rim of the tray, and her hand moves over slightly to pick up the beer bottle by the neck, lifting it to drink deeply of the half finished goods.

(james)
Boardwalk.
good.
that means Atlantic City
that means waaaay out of Eagle's place.
no turf wars for them
though... he is a bit curious as to why the wounded Strider would travel 140 miles to find them
rather than stay in the area and search out the locals
but to each their own

"Think the ones you're looking for are on the upper Boardwalk..... Bodville or something. Last time I was in AC was long before they supposedly set up shop, so I couldn't tell you where to look."

that passing expression from Imogen gets a twitch of a smile in return
business is business, they both know it just as well

(lucca)
Needless to say his wounds probably weren't going to heal over today excursions. But he went where he knew there were Garou for sure. Not for searching. He felt the Tape needed taken care of first.

(imogen)
"S'in Bodville." She clarifies, speaking up now, even those few words a beacon that she is not from this country at all, but perhaps somewhere in Britain, or maybe even Australia in the outside. Her accent is smooth and rolling, burred along the edges, perfectly matched to her voice, which is the colour of well-aged ale.

Speaking of ale... she takes another swallow of the beer, her eyes scratching across Lucca as he speaks again, flicking up and down as he speaks, an eyebrow arching before her attention shifts away, as she puts the bottle back down by her chair, with a hollow sound of glass against cement.

(james)
there's another low, soft sound
that's laughter in the lean Gnawer
seems he's been in that same predicament a time or two

"I'd offer to let our Theurge take a look at you... but he's off on another one of his spirit journeys."

meaning stoned out of his mind
but nobody needs to know that
he only had periphreal contact with the bluntling!
and he knows Livingston's been in proverbial smokelodge with the spirit for two days now
no telling when the Walker will be returning to this time zone, much less planet

"I'll call you a cab to getcha to the Barrens, if you want, coupla healers out that way."

the Strider gave him a shiney new fetish to try to understand
it's the least James can do

(lucca)
"If you can tell me where to find them...i think I can manage it..."

(imogen)
Another glance, an arch of a coppery eyebrow, as her hand trails away from the bottle to retrieve her cigarette, nearly finished now, and resetting it between her lips. Her piece said, she doesn't appear to be inclined to add anything more to the conversation.

(james)
dreads creep over his shoulders as the Ahroun nods
fair enough

"Bodville..... north Boardwalk then, clear of the PMSing Gnawers" he hoists the roll of tape a bit "And I'll make sure to tuck this somewhere it won't become an issue."

(okay, make that directions to Batsto for the healers, it's late for Wolf)

(lucca)
"Might call in a favor from the cranky gnawers for taking care of their left around garbage. They say their Territory was clearly marked but I don't know if it was. I was looking at the ocean. Not the gang bangers signs in the alley ways out of plain sight." He looks around. "How are the cops If I actually found somebody smart enough to hotwire a car around here?"

(imogen)
"I don't know about the cops," and lo and behold she speaks again, straightening to sit up from her half recline, drawing her leg back up, and tilting the angle of the other, to sit half cross legged, sideways in the chair, "But I'll be rather unamused if you go hotwiring my neighbour's cars..."

The words are cooly uttered and without inflection beyond the curl of her accent in her songstress tones. She speaks almost reluctantly, as one hand drags through her hair, the other resting against her knee.

(james)
"The cops are pissy around here." this neighborhood is not cheap, not to mention those are his neighbors, too, and so far they've been quite tolerable of the Garou pack living unbeknownst next door "I can spring the cab, or drive you myself."

(lucca)
"I was just asking. Doubt I'd do it. I'm probably bleeding to much. And that's why I don't want a cab. With my luck it's probably be some bleeding heart new cab driver that will take me to the hospital.

(imogen)
She snorts faintly, untucking her leg again, perhaps restless in all her movements. But no, her hand digs into the pocket of her jeans, digging out a set of car keys, her index finger hooked through the key ring, and her attention flickers toward James. Silent offer, reluctant again, recalcitrant.

(james)
"Well, you're stuck with a bleeding heart Garou who's gonna take you where you need to go. Common."

something about the Ahroun's tones aren't giving room for argument
(because he? is definitely not a bleeding heart, just your average Hood)
the way Imogen offered the keys probably helped secure that decision
because he's plucked them from the dangle upon her finger
tucked them into a pocket of the tattered BDUs
then he's flicked the embered smoke out off the balcony
beer picked up and slugged back to finish
(probably not instilling any more faith the Kin would have in his driving abilities, but one beer will not get him a DUI, no matter how low his tolerance for hard liquor is)

"And I promise to return the car before curfew with a full tank of gas, mother."

winked in tease at the firey purebreed
then he's climbing over the six foot airspace between the balconies
heading inside his own condo to put the ball of tape away and grab his coat

((and I really need to get going, so whenever y'all are finished playing just say James came back out and drove Lucca wherever he needs to go?))

(lucca)
Lucca doesn't seem to mind the departure. He merely picks up his duster. Moves down the steps and grabs his backpack and waits for James to come down.

(imogen)
"I don't give a damn about the gas, just don't fucking crash it, y'hear?" Giving him a narrowed eye glance, perhaps already regretting the offer of the mercedes keys. It's a sweet damned drive.

James'll get a kick out of driving it. James departs into the nearby condo, and the slender woman unfolds from the chair, getting to her feet, something hissed under her breath, and without a glance at her guest, walks to her own door, and walks inside. James'll be back out in only moments to get him on his way.

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 20, 2003

.03.20.03. - forethought [rune]

[noje]

(james)
there's a rhythm beating agaisnt the panes of glass
the light drizzle that's been pouring down all afternoon
like the sky mourned the setting of the sun
and now, finally, just on the horizon, that giant orb is settling down for the night
slowly and tentatively touching the horizon
as if testing the waters for that midnight swim

the Ahroun climbed (fell) out of bed a while ago
just fascinated by the colors prismed through the rivulets of water down windowpane
the way the rainbows glinted and bounced through the strangling bars of blinds
he moved (stumbled) to collapse in a cross-legged heap infront of the window
wrapping the sheet that followed him like a stray puppy around his waist
(one doth not remembereth how he got undressed....)
and he's been quietly sitting here ever since
just watching the fires lit on the underbelly of black clouds
just listening to the primal rhythm of the rain

long. live. the bluntling!

dreads hang in tangled disarray over bare shoulders
(the right held higher than the left)
long curve of slouched back crisscrossed by the ashed scars
(so deep, they nicked bone beneath)
then the sweeping folds and twists of the black silk that's wrapped sarong style
legs tucked in all nice and neat
the setting rays of the sun branding his chest
(something to accessorize eagle's glyph)
just those few that peek through the heavy cover of clouds
barely bright enough to cast the faint orange glow deep in umber eyes

(rune)
She was still awake when he crawled back to bed, barely into her third beer, sprawled on her stomach on the floor, laptop open in front of her, legs bent at the knees, feet in the air, bathed in the blue-white glow of the screen. She was still awake when he crawled into the room (doubtless that's how he got his clothes off) and she was still awake hours later, back at the computer, her beer warm now, but still drinkable.

Still drinkable. She finished the sixpack and played at the computer until the sky beyond grew pale with morning light. Only then did she give in to exhaustion, and the depthless sleep of their kind.

Evening now, and the sun is low on the horizon. The Glass Walker - sprawled across the bed - stirs and wakens. Eyelids flutter, lashes brushing heavily against the curve of her hand, flung there at some point to shade her eyes from the light. He has the silken sheets, wrapped around her body, and she has the weight of the comforter all to herself (as per usual: a daily battle to follow the nightly one. Covers! Mine!). The first faint movements of awakening stir the sleek weight of the down comforter, minute slick whispers of sound, before the sudden woooosh as she kicks it off, entirely.

It's a slow crawl to the edge of the bed, then, a sidewinder-slither of pale skin upon gleaming black, accompanied by the familiar quiet slosh of the mattress that rolls beneath her weight until she gains her objective and rests her chin on the bedframe, gazing over the side.

"...morning, sunshine." Morning-voice, slurred and thick with sleep, rough with the remnants of last night's cigarettes. One lazy arm curls down from the bed, and her fingers begin a slow crawl across the carpet toward him. "Back in the land of the living?"

(james)
whoosh!
the heavy (waaaarrrrm) down comforter is flung away
some big black manta ray sent on its journey to follow the diving sun
as it flutters and ripples to quiet docility, he words filter through the thickened atmosphere that surrounds him
(morning sunshine)
his chin starts to pull away from the scene unfolding before him
starting the process that will eventually take eyes from blazing sun to smouldering Glass Walker
though apparently....
that process is too complicated
for as her fingers begin the lazy crawl across plush carpet towards him
he's leaning backwards as if they were reeling him in (hook, line, and sinker)
weight flops, elbows digging into the carpet, lean body lengthening into longer stretch
his head misses cracking into the frame by mere centimeters - and it's questionable if he'd even feel it
dreads spill like creeper vines tickling thick pile to find some root in the expensive floor covering
one or two blinks and finally he's grinning and looking at her (focused!) at the same time

"Absolutely not."

that grin is simply sereeeeeeeeene
one elbow nudges beneath him to act as a central support
shoulders easing back against the heavy frame of the water bed
arm now free to do its own bidding reaching up
curling round where he'd hug should she actually lean off the bed
but since she's not, he settles for allowing wandering fingers to play through bed-mussed strands of silken ink

"Sleep okay?"

(rune)
"Mmmmph." The reply is little more than a sigh of sound, rumbling through her throat, thrumming through the curve of shoulders, spilling out into the waking world from between barely parted lips. Last night's eyeshadow and mascara are smudged and dark around her eyes, a familiar bruise against her pale skin, and the remnants of last night's lipstick still clings to her mouth, an imperfect cover for the curving lips beneath.

She inhales, exhales, luxuriating in the first warm moments of awakening, feeling her body anew. Opens her mouth (with the way her chin rests on the frame, it looks like her jaw remains still while the rest of her head moves) and snaps (playfully) at the his fingers idling through the disarray of her fine dark hair. "..yeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhh."

The semi-coherent word is accompnied by a rippling suggestion of a long, easy, toe-curling stretch that begins half-way across the bed and ripples up her body, stretching the long muscles of her legs, arching through her lumbar spine in a rising crescendo of movement that lifts her torso from the bed and expands her sprawl until she looks (briefly, comically) like a paratrooper in freefall. Both arms shooter out from the bed, twisting and turning and reaching and curving in the lengthening stretch. She scoots forward half-an-inch as at last her arms fall, and her hands find his flesh, one settling on the muscled shoulder, the other on his flank. Her fingers crawl over the lean definition of his musculature (inevitably lower) until they encounter the knotted sash of the sheets around his lean waist.

"What's this?" Lazy surprise alights in the depths of her dark eyes, some sparking interest delivered slyly, sidelong, from the veil of half-lowered lashes. Some sly, smug, mocking little smirk as her hand trails over the knot tied in the slippery fabric. "...modesty?"

(james)
suffice to say, whatever he was going to say in response to that 'yeeeeaaaaaaaah' or playful snap is totally lost in her stretch
it's easy to see on the theater of expression that plays across his face the slow degeneration of singular, linear thought
all those delicious words and loving responses.... fwp!.... right out the window
(or ear, as it may be, tumbling to get lost in the deep pile of the carpet like Dr. Livingston in the jungles around Lake Victoria)
brows lift a little
pupils dilate a little
jaw drops a little

spend a handful of days away from your lover and damn the things that impress you when you're back

her hands fall and find flesh
warm from where it baked reptilian in the setting sun
emberous heat seeping from the blood that thumps full-moon driven through his veins
and probably a great deal more since that little electric current of touch has been completed
her question inspires a little chuckle from the chest beneath her palms
vibrating up through tendon and bone and skin

"Modesty? Naaaaah...."

his hands fall to cover hers
trailing over the knot in the slippery fabric
which really isn't a knot at all, just some deft twist of sheet to hold it in place
because easily as that he's pulling the sheet free
running it between both hands like some overly long scarf
the theater of expression now segueing to the talented flair of one raised in the theater of the street

"It's forethought."

or something just as smooth pulled from first thought that came to mind
he's looped the sheet up and over her head
satin pulled tight across shoulderblades embedded in the musculature of her back
under those long stretching wandering teasing limbs of hers
and puuuuuulllling her off the bed and into his lap
.... mostly..... coordinatedly

(rune)
...mostly... coordinatedly, he pulls her off the bed; and ...mostly... coordinatedly, she falls into his lap, some long, sinuous twist of lean-muscled limbs, skin a pale glowing furnace of warmth from furious sleep coiling richly into the langorous fury of awakening.

Her mouth, her teeth find his skin, the smooth flesh interrupted here and there only by the brief tangle of sheets which provide the barest of modesties, conducting body heat while somehow cooling skin from the slippery smoothness of the shining weave.

Movement is little more than a slow blind crawl at first, sweet and lazy, heralded by the moist heat of her breath on flesh, the sudden tangle of her hands in his hair, the light, suggestive trail of sharp nails across the nap of his neck. He has been gone for days, and now is a quiet moment to rediscover him, some vast unknown country. She cups his elbow beneath his hand, curves her cheek against his chest, coils her thighs around his waist, twists and turns in his grasp like a fucking eel as she finds a new nook, a new cranny, a new furrow of scar tissue, ashen against brown skin, and discovers him anew.

The long slow sweep of her attention changes focus, midway. The sweet, lazy dreaminess of her shifting touch gains strength and fervor as her left hand crawls up the hard cut of triceps and over the knotted muscles of his shoulder, settles there, thumb grazing his collarbone, fingers splayed downward on his back. Her weight is a sudden pressure as she uses that point of contact for leverage, uncurling her legs and twisting around until she is no longer a mere tangle of slippery, sleep-warm limbs but a coherent whole, body moving in easy concert as her thighs wrap around his waist and her right hand tightens viciously in his spilling dreadlocks, pulling his head sharply back so that she can kiss him once, so that she can devour his mouth again.

Beyond the dim room, the sun has fallen at last beneath the horizon. The moon is rising, only a sliver gone from its full face. The moon is rising, and it calls to their warrior's blood. Behind the clouds, a pregnant presence, bright with reflected light. Beyond the room, the city moves. Long ropes of traffic wind home as the day winds down, headlights cutting bright paths across the gathering gloom.

Whatever she was going to say (welcome home. i missed you. do you want a beer? i need a shower. oh - good show.) is lost. She has found the heat of his mouth, some smoldering fire burns within, conversation is no longer an option.

(james)
hello.
my name is James.
I am putty in your hands.

the wolf that hides a venomous serpent beneath her flesh
the woman that suddenly coils and and twists and turns as if each part of her body had its own agenda and suddenly the movement stopped at some perfect pristine harmony of body and motion and flat out fitting together like the long lost pieces of the holy covenant's puzzle
the world outside wanders along at its own egoist pace
the world inside has just found some perfect pause

it's that quiet moment of rediscovery

just as thoroughly as she redefines him
he's just as thoroughly (desperately) reacquainting his hands with her planes and curves and swells and tensions and warmths and wets
he doesn't say a word
nothing that's coherant or well formed
the shuddering groan of a breath too-long held
the offhand gasp of yet another little surprise triggered by touch
the easy exchange of breath through the vicious lock of their kiss
strangely, the tones and soundless vibrations form a language (litany) all their own

(I am so glad to be home, you have no idea how much I missed you, I'm so sorry that I took off like that, I promise to tell you everything you want to know and more, just not now, not yet, because all I want to do is be devoured by you, I don't want to think about anything else existing, I don't want to know about anything else that's going on outside this room, all I want is right here and right now - because I've realized, again, all that I want is you..... need is you.... and all I ask is this moment of your time to remind me you want me too....)

beyond the room, the city moves
the moon rises wrathful in the sky
She ignites the primal fires buried so intrinsically in their souls
She watches over her Children as they are suddenly consumed in this flame
they know not the urban sprawl of the scab's gleaming high rises
they're lost in some ancient jungle somewhere
riding the swelling tides of primitive need
following some animal ritual that's built an altar sacrificing all else
navigating the midnight pathways tangling twin beast souls lit only by the Full Moon ever watchful high above

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 19, 2003

.03.18.03. - the bluntling! [rune-livingston-pack]

[north jersey]

(rune)
The brief stint of spring-like weather - highs in the 50s, lows in the 30s - is beginning to fade. It's cold outside, and a blanket of orange clouds covers the sky, reflecting the city lights back down to the earth like the aftermath of a holocaust. Quiet, in the development. Most lights are on, and people are going about their evening routines: television, or the internet, or perhaps a book or the newspaper before bedtime.

The Beemer (purple, metallic) pulls into a space in front of the condo. Headlights flash off the downstairs neighbor's bay window, and are then cut off entirely. The engine follows a moment later.

Rune climbs out of the driver's seat, a bag of take-out swinging in her left hand, keys jingling in her right. She pops the trunk and grabs a bundle from within, then pushes it gingerly closed (never slammed) and takes the stairs two at at time. The moon is hidden behind the clouds, but it is still a pregnant present in the back of the Ahroun's mind, made worse, no doubt, by the irritation of the last few days. Keys jingle in her hands as she fumbled at the door, juggling the two burdens, and then she's inside. High heels on carpet, high heels clattering against linoleum as she rounds to the kitchen, depositing the bag of food on the counter, before heading back to the laundry room. The bundle is dumped into the washer, liberally laced with bleach and detergent, before she pops the washer on. Then it's out to the back balcony, fumbling for a smoke, lifting her eyes to the cloud-covered sky.

(james)
the moon's been full
heavy and swollen and glaring down from the sky
even with the clouds thick and gray above
he can still feel that silver stare watching every move

the balcony door slides open
Rune's heels are sharp on the tiles
the sound pulling deep umber eyes from where they browsed the horizon
studying that nuclear orange glow: the city's perpetual sunset
long breath expels a plume of harsh smoke to fog further in the chill
and he's stretching one arm to offer the joint to the Walker

he's been gone since before the weekend
and now he's appeared just as suddenly and without word
one Bone Gnawer stretched out on the patio chair
boots on the railing, propping the chair up at angles mom would lecture
dreads hanging some cape behind as they reach towards the floor

(livingston)
The Eagle Pack's revelotionary Theurge is wearing his casual, trashy outfight tonight (like he does every other night for that matter.) Dogtags around his neck, casting reflections of spiritual essence, worn-out Khakis that is due for some serious time in the washer machine. Yeah, Livingston doesn't care to much about material stuff like having mainstream appearance, nor demenour created by the captialstic society that he unfortunately have sworn to protect alongside with his packmates. His scawny fingers wrapped around the lit joint snap for a moment as he flings away some gray ashes. "Fuckin' cold outside tonight." mutters he under his breath as he brings the Mary Jane closer to his lip, and takes a hit worth waiting for.

(dire)
The Jetta comes pulling up to the condo. A little goose of gass at the end to make the turn. Neon green ground effects glowing till it powere doen and Dire steps out. He streches and closes the door heading for the stairs.
He's dressed in his usual get up. Steel toed boots, Jeans, overlarge black leather jacket, but tonight Danni seems to have dressed him in a silk shirt. Black. The black ballcap with the red explination poiint is on pulled low. He roates his left shoulder and grunts.

(rune)
Rune flickers a glance a James, both brows lifting in brief question, before she lifts her chin in a nod up to Livingston, in the nigh-universal pack greeting. The pair of them, James and Livingston, are more likely to be taken for packmates than Livingston and Rune. She is dressed to the (somewhat subdued) nines as usual in leather pants, high heeled leather boots, a white camisole that has settled silken against her lean torso, wears a suede blazer as ward against the cold.

"Always fucking cold out here," the Glass Walker mutters, leaning back against the rough brick wall of the condo. "Fucking always cold."

She takes the joint, takes a hit, and passes it on, pulls a pink cigarette from her colorful pack and lights it, for good measure. Because one can never have enough smoke in one's lungs. Stretching out one long, lean leg, she taps her booted toes lightly on the back rung of James' chair. "Where you been?"

(james)
one in worn khaki's, dogtags, ratty jacket and dreads
one in worn BDUs, some travelworn sweater, torn up patchwork trench, and dreads
one in leather and suede and silken creamy white, sans dreads

easy to tell which two would naturally pack
but regardless, the joint keeps a smooth rotation
even the hazy smoke undisturbed by two Ahrouns trapped on a balcony beneath the full moon
hit, hold.... and pass once again

"Back home."

voice just as quiet as the smoke on the breeze

(dire)
He heads on up the steps. Steel toed boots clomping. He nods to those there as his lanky frame accends.

(decker)
Convergence, is what they call this. On the tail of Dire's Jetta is Decker's Tacoma. Engine dies, Modi gets out. Blistering rage trails like the aurora fuckin borealis, nearly visible on this full-moon night, a shimmer of heat, a sheen of electricity.

Stompin up the stairs to pull the nearest joint out of the nearest hand (Livingston's, as it turns out), sucks down a huge hit. Coughs. "Jesus," coughing still, "hell you put in it? Like smokin oak bark."

(dire)
He hikes up onto the rail. His balance like always, perfect and uncanny. Ok... well not always. He fell once but it was the goblin's fault. He watches.

(lucca)
Lucca was a young man. 18 at best. Bearing his Line. The Dusky skin. the thin figure with nice features if not for the fact that they were so plain. Muscled and clearly strong he still moved with dexterity as he made his way along the streets. Coming in from the north. Backpack on his back. Golden necklace of egyptian design on his neck. Eye of Ra tattoo around his own and egyptian design Tattoo's down his left arm in basic and yet intricate pattern. He moved with a way that spoke of being used to traveling. Carrying the faintest touch of death to the perceptive even now.

(livingston)
It's hard to tell Livingston's ethnic origin with the black hood pulled up over his head tonight. Only sporadic spaces on his face are uncoverved with shadows or those thick, black, curly, dreadslocks that stick out from the hood pulled over his head. "As cold as a day without, Ganja, My Lady." He replies, never taking his blood-red eyes away from the passing joint. Ever so slowly, almost in slow-motion (probably because he's stoned like a muthafuck!) he draws off the hood from his head and releases those majestic dreads to breathe the air for a few good seconds before he turns, tosses James a greeting, and heads back inside.

You can fool some people sometime
But you can't fool all the people all the time
So now you see the light
You gotta stand up for your right

As always, hearing Bob Marleys' voice in the periphery of his mind wherever he goes...

"Hey, you full-moon dick. I hope you brought with me some Zagnutz? No? Skittles? C'mon, man, you know I kinda dig Snickerbars..." Only time Livingston has the gutts to talk to Decker like that is when, well, when he's married with his beloved bride, Mary Jane with a capital M.

(imogen)
"Just don't boke in my goddamned car," she'd informed the girl, reluctantly as she'd come to the conclusion that she was taking the inebriated kinfolk back to her place. Which perhaps resulted in a long query of exactly what boking was.

This was likely a semi interesting car drive, done at ex.act.ly the speed limit. The sloshed minor in the passenger seat tempering her usual speed.

The black sleek mercedes purrs to a stop in her parking spot between Decker's tacoma and Rune's beemer. A dry sideways glance toward the younger kinfolk (tinted with amusement flickering behind dark blue eyes), waiting to see if she can handle the seatbelt herself. After a moment, a helpful press of the button for Nina, and Imogen is sliding out of the car, a hand dragging through her firey hair.

(rune)
"Yeah?" The word becomes a question, as Rune's voice rises on the tail end of the single syllable, drawing it out to make too, as if she'd been spending too much time around Decker, and the rest of the Get. Smoke spills from her mouth and nostrils, rises into the night, dissipating quietly.

She snorts, briefly amused by Decker's comment, then glances away. Cigarette in one hand, joint in the other when it comes to her, she watches the horizon briefly, listens to the low roar of traffic on the parkway, shifts against the brick wall of the condo. "Good visit?" A brief pause, a flicker of a glance back at James. "You missed the fucking excitement this weekend."

Then she leans around and peers inside, watching Livingston as he stalks toward the kitchen. Goddamn, she just bought groceries. Fucking fridge'll be cleaned out in no time. Lifting her voice, "There's fucking take out on the counter."

(decker)
One hand behind him levers him up onto the balcony in a smooth strong assymmetric slide. It's cold, but not that cold (not after the fuckin fifteen degrees he lived through while Livingston smoked his joints, anyway) and frankly, rage kept him warm. His contribution to the balcony quotient destabilizes all equations; hunkered on the balustrade next to Dire, his rage is thick enough to breathe.

Angry greys settle on Livingston. Heels caught between mass-sculpted sandstone posts, knees bent and thighs at a parallel to the floor, he's got elbows propped and one roughknuckled hand holding the joint to his face.

Ember flames.
Ember fades.

Ashing the joint, he shifts his weight to the side and pulls a mashed-up Snickers outta his back pocket, tosses it silently at Livingston. Another stifled cough before some innate sense tugs at the base of his spine, and he turns.

Firey hair. Fuckin nice car. Mmhmm. Turn back. A tug of a smirk at the side of his mouth disappears quick as it came. He passes the joint back to Livingston. Dire resembles some bird of prey, lean and hawkish, perched; Decker resembles some anaconda, muscular and lazier, coiled, full of a hidden violence bleeding through the edges.

(bernadette matthews)
Pale skin.

Stretched along the rounded featered of her fac like the pour of liquid ivory, moreso because of the reddish hue of cheeks and her nose.

"Man, Doc, y'live in a parking lot?" Apprently its some odd form of joke as the girl falls out of her side of the car. Grey-bright eyes shining as she leans on the beamer.

(james)
make that.... three Ahroun on the balcony
all converging beneath the shining light of the full moon
how anyone can come close is up to chance and guess
how anyone can survive that isn't blood is sheer luck
or has a great deal to do with the joint being passed around
at least the summation of the rage works like a fuckin' space heater

"Not particularly." bit of a shrug rolls muscular shoulders beneath that trench "What happened?"

that's right Jamey-boy, change that subject like a pro

(livingston)
"Take out here, and take out there" he mimics Rune's voice like a 12 year old kid in grumbling grunts of words.

BONK

The mashed up Snickerbar launched at Livingston lands right on the head. Too stoned to even bother, or to recognize Decker's gift that hits the floor in a sudden thump, he swings the door to the fridge open and just smiles with joy. "Oh yeah...."

(dire)
His brows raise. He doesn't turn. He does sniff. Then turns. Looks down at the parkling lot and damn if he doesnt look like some merlin pervhed up there. Mayby an oversized goshawk. He peers down at the kinfolks with those glacers heart ice eyes. Observes and then turns back to listen to pack.

In his mind he picks up the ol Totem phone. Pushes the mental button For deckers extention. Waits for the call to connect though the haze of tree bark pot and then speaks.

~~ Mate..... and a drunk chick. I didn't do it.~~

(lucca)
Lucca wore simple clothes. jeans. A t-shirt. A Length of red silk acting as a belt. A couple of patches of blues and greens. Seemingly nothing seeming things. But sometimes such things were decieving. Specially to those of his family line. A Car zipped around a corner past him. Quick thinking and with reflexes like lightning what was stepping off the curb was suddenly turned into taking a step back for the nearly 6 foot tall figure as the car practically bounced off where he'd been standing to just continue on it's path and away. He scowled and watched it from the corner for a good 30 seconds before finally stepping off the curb as he had intended. And it's all just punctuated as a person that had been coming up to make sure he was ok suddenly changed their mind and made as if they were simply in a hurry as they crossed the street away from the direction he was heading.

(decker)
A snort that might've, might've been amusement as the snickers BONKs Livingston. Then the call with Dire connects. Rage backwashes through like a high tide bursting a dam.

'F I was you, I ain't gonna complain none. Lazy drawl, not a chance of expression. Maybe she's takeout fer you.

She's not, but hopefully Dire won't take him personally.

(imogen)
"Yes, Nina," she answers as she rounds the car, her hand trailing lightly around the hood of the car, coming to help, one hand support against the hood of the car, and grabbing the girl by the arm, and tugging her up right, "I live in a parking lot."

Once the girl's upright, the smaller redhead keeps a hand lightly on her elbow for a moment, making sure the girl has her balance before adding drily, "Sometimes if I'm good I get to use one o' th'condos, though." Anglo accent, slip-sliding thicker, a burr, consonants rounded out, even out until they're hardly louder than the vowels. Her accent might be damned near impossible, if it hadn't been faded half the time.

(dire)
"Really?" Dire perks up. Having spoken outloud he turns and peers down again with a rather disconcerning grin. He's not a Full moon but he is a get and possesses a touch of rage more than your adverage pansy gaian or somthing. He watches most intently now.
The ball cap pulled low leaves most of his face in shadow but that grin shines out like a great white.

(rune)
"Take out everywhere." The Beta smirks, red mouth finding its natural, non-chalant curve. "Fuck you, Bramble."

Three Ahroun on the balcony, and a crazy Get Skald. One stoned Theurge in the kitchen, finding Nirvana as the fridge light turns on. One joint, smoked down to the nibs. Another light, easy as anything, and passed along.

It's gotta be the pot that makes all this palatable. Everyone else in the near vicinity has wisely fled, the rage on the balcony is near to overwhelming. "Fucking Theurge camping out in our territory, out in Newark. Said it wasn't our fucking territory. Decker fucked 'im up, then some fucking No-Moon came outta nowhere, acting like he owned the fucking place." Rune pauses, passes on the joint, takes another drag off our cigarette. "You know, excitement, the usual."

(dire)
His voice absently rolls out in his melodic norm. QUiet as his keen eyes investigate the present Decker just gave him

"Gonna fuck him up later...."

(livingston)
"Nope. Not that one, tried it 3 times last night. Nope, not that one either." Talking to himself as those glazy eyes navigate and sweep through the continets of the fridge. "Oh? Fuck me? We'll see about that my precious Beta..." whispered so low and slurry it's impossible to hear. A gloating smirk flares up on Livingston's face as he pulls out a thejar with piccles (damn right, that jar is gonna go back with the lid screwed on and only water insde.)

(bernadette)
She can't stop giggling.

A strange sound, almost infectious like rushing streams--fed on the currents of some joke or the other. Woobily she she's walking, a smile tugging at her lips even as she's directed toward the staircase, "..Funny. But ah'thought we're goin' to'th'condo?" And the brief expression of befuddlement is priceless before she starts giggling again.

Long strands of brightly colored layers of blonde hair swing and catch [..sunlight under glass..] against her unstable gait of her steps -- and the blowing of the wind. YOUr guess which is more pronounced. Fingers GRIP the railing and she pulls herself up as if she were mountain climbing--most of her weight concentrated in her arms...

"..does yer house look'ah'll brit-sy?"

(james)
excitement, the usual
the story doesn't particularly surprise him
nice to know they're dealing with territorial disputes rather than what's been "the usual" lately
so he doesn't exactly complain
rather he's stretching out beneath that layer of palatable rage
soaking up the invisable heat that washes off of it
fuckin' thing's gotta be good for something
the joint's down to a roach, now
and he doesn't need that much anyway
so he's lighting up a Camel instead
black Zippo's trademark CLACK! snapping closed

"What? You mean the no-moon's still walkin?"

smirked as a brow lifts
looking back to his packmates
seems the Gnawer's in a ripe mood tonight
or so fucking stoned out of his mind he isn't editing the comments as per usual

(imogen)
"I 'aven't got a clue what defines a 'brit'sy' 'ouse," she answers, words half paused as she pauses as Nina bumps against her shoulder, a hand reaching out to steady the kinfolk, "I guess you'll have to decide fer yerself."

A narrowed eyed glance, (amusement laughs, where her lips don't even twitch) as she half pauses to tilt her chin up to survey the younger girl. "I," she declares, "am never takin' you out drinkin' again."

By now, Nina must be feeling the shudder of the Garou's rage (everyone else near the vicinity has wisely fled). Imogen surely has, her attention finally flickering from the seriously sloshed blonde, to the collection of Garou (rage burns) on the neighbouring porch. It's hard to say if Bernadette's alcohol level makes the rage more bearable, or just that much worse.

(lucca)
He crossed the street. In plain sight and easily seen. He crosses the street and stops. setting his pack down a moment and opening it. shifting some things around and then gathers the bag up again. Slinging it over his purebred shoulder and started walking again. glad that so far he hadn't been a beacon for much of anything.

(decker)
You'd think he couldn't hear the street from here but - boy's got sensitive ears. Another glance over his shoulder, over Imogen and Nina's heads, all the way out to where Lucca is.

"Company," a muttered word directed at Rune. Her choice who she decides to send out for the official greeting. Not him, though. Soon as that's said the Modi slides down off the balustrade, the sweatshirt riding up his back to catch on the waistband of his lowslung jeans before he flips it down and, thug-swaying, follows Livingston into the condo.

Where's that fuckin takeout?

(dire)
Dire's still watching like some perched angel of death onm a churire or something. Then the Eyes flicker up to Lucca

(rune)
Rune snorts under her breath and shoots Dire a brief, sharp glare, some of the lovely full-moon angst finding its way through the pleasantly expanding bubble of almost-goodfeeling filtering through the rage. She shifts her cigarette from one hand to the other, takes a last drag, and flings the butt into the sand-filled coffee can by the door.

Lights another, and sinks another half-inch down the wall in her easy slouch.

"Fucking hell." It's the clink of glass against the metal shelves of the fridge that draws the comment, or maybe just the full moon above. "Yeah," muttered beneath her breath. "Still fucking walking. Dire - " lifting her voice, lifting her chin in the metis' direction, she continues, "you wanna fuck him up, challenge a no-moon for talking smack, you challenge him and do it fucking right. You don't like that order, Erik might overrule me. You got the fingers you wanted. Otherwise, it's fucking done."

(bernadette)
Blink.

When she finally feels the rage, and her pace quickens fractionally "Lars's up there." The Georgian drawls with a faint grin, the radiant tension just reminiscent of her association with the lummock [who was certinly NOT there.] her hair is annoyedly, pushed after her shoulders with a sweeop [..daytime.. it reminds you of early morning sky--too bright.] Hard to feel much of anything but the inner procession of her thoughts..

"Ah'didn't know ya'hung out w'Lars."

More giggling.

(rune)
Company Decker says, and Rune lifts her gaze, following the trail of his eyes out to Lucca. The Glass Walker snorts beneath her breath and glances around the pack.

Whom to send?

Livingston's stoned, Dire's crazy, Decker's raging, and James - the easy-going member of the pack - is just as bad. So: it's her. That's the choice, and not necessarily a good one with the moon full in the sky, but the best there is, today.

Taking a drag from her cigarette, she pushes off the brick wall ambles down the long staircase. Yeah, it's a beeline for Lucca alright.

They're coming outta the woodwork tonight.

(dire)
Dire is still watching like some perched angel of death on a church spire or something. Then eyes flicker up to Lucca.
His voice comes out quiet

"He disrespected me 13 times and waned to stare me down. HE started it, I'll just finish it. He stays clear of me, he's fine. If not.. well that's fine too. Can't back down from a challenge. WOuldn't be prudent."

(lucca)
He didn't notice the approach of Rune right away. Because he simply wasn't looking for it. But he did notice as she got closer and it was noticable she was heading straight for him. The backpack shifts. Hand on the latch. Stopping dead in his tracks to see what was bout to go down. Purebreeding of his tribe Bleeding off his lean form as he watched her.

(imogen)
"Uhm." A quiet sound, in the back of her throat, as her eyes flicker up toward the balcony once more, Rune stepping off, and heading toward .... great. New comer. James. Livingston.

"Lars isn' there, Nina," a flicker of a frown across her face, though she makes no move to yet stop the other girl from heading that way, should she really be all that inclined.

(bernadette)
Delayed.
[.................................reaction.]

She's still moving up the stairs, one shaky step after another. And its not QUITE as if he's a mess, but certainly intoxicated, the colored of thin winges against the rail bleeds white with the pressure of her grip. Her gaze follows the woman jumpinng off of the balcony and then--

she blinks back to Doc. "Oh."

(rune)
The Glass Walker has no pure breed of which to speak. None at all, in fact, mongrel like all her damn tribe. What she has, though, is confidence, in spades. It pours from her lean form, shapes the long, easy strides of long, leather clad legs into something more than a mere walk - something closer to the slow, swaying gait of a predator, and an urban one to boot.

And what she has - under the full moon, now - is rage kept under the most narrow of reins. At some of the other buildings a quarter mile away, people were milling on their porches, soaking in the breath of spring that comes with a fine, cool night. Here, the balconies and porches are empty, except for one pair, separated by a short jump over a balustrade.

"You're on Eagle turf," the tall woman says, lifting her pink cigarette to her painted red mouth. "Coming to make a full introduction?"

Newcomer. Lots of those, lately.

(james)
Company
Decker follows Livingston to the mecca that is FrigidAire
Dire perches like a bugnut gargoyle
Imogen drags a plastered kin up the stairway
(nod up)
Rune jaunts off to meet'n'greet
James? He lets the front legs of the chair smack down the tile
shifting to join Dire on the balcony railing, or at least where railing meets stairs
(that angle of support far more sitting space than the single bar)
stoned as fuck, and that's probably why he takes the balancing chance
one leg thrown over so he can go the rest of the way with much more speed than style
not that the Walker can't hold her own
he's just not one to pay half-assed attention should something happen

(livingston)
While the packmembers are outside, or inside, doing their thing Livingston is cooking up food in the kitchen. Plates, pots, forks, kitchen-knives you name fly about as he's getting his groove on. Whatever he's making the ooze and the sizzling sound coming out from the kitchen only concludes one thing. Yeah, that's right, Livingston is doing it again. He's playing the "restaurant owner"... Better that than the night before, though, when he was playing Police officer. I mean, standing outside in the traffic and flashing a fake badge, and tell people to pull over because he considered having a bad haircut was a crime wasn't exactly a smart thing to do. Nevermind, when shit really hit the fan Livingston was bad ass Cresent moon. The type of Cresent Moon that you don't wanna fuck with or only Gaia knows what sick painspirits he would bind in your butt-cheeks. That's why he's part of the Eagle pack. He's the spiritual arbitrator believe it or not. The very key for perpetuating this pack.

Right now? He's apparently stoned a little too much. Just leave him be.... for now.

"I'M GONNA BE IRON, LIKE A LION...IN ZION..." And the singing continues.

(dire)
He winces as Liv sings and looks to James with a "Do you hear that SHIT sort of look. Chuckels. Checks out the drunk girl again and dismisses her. Danni'd kick his ass and looks out watching Rune too. He twitches and points "Goblin." Off to the right of rune and Lucca. As if telling James so they could both keep an eye on it.

(lucca)
"Eagle turf? Sounds like a gang. Why would that concern a wanderer like me that's just been passing through?" his eyes narrow slightly and his muscles tense.

(dire)
Seeing Lucca tense, oh yes. Dire sees it. Those frosty blues see it Righously. He turns on the rail too. Limbs seemingly with extra joints or something coil. His legs coming up. The heels of his boots catching the rail and rasiing him off his ass. Botrh arms inbetween his legs gripping the rail too. NOW he looks more like a bug nut gargyole. All knees and long limbs.

(imogen)
A flicker of attention toward James as she catches his nod, a dark blue-eyed glance, before she glances toward Bernadette, an eyebrow arching slightly toward the girl.

A shrug of her shoulders, suede jacket shifting with the movement, "Sorry," she comments inanely, a hand reaching up to tug through vibrant strands of hair, loose fallen over her shoulders to spill across her face with any which breeze that may catch them. Even a cant of her head sends it back into her dark eyes.

Like the Eagle pack can perhaps feel Lucca's breeding, so too, can he perhap catch the redhead's leaning in that direction. Pure blood. Good breeding. All coveted things in this world, and the small slender woman, seems to have her own share.

"Want a coffee'r something?" she inquires, tilting her head toward the blonde kinfolk, attention flickering toward the neighbouring condo from time to time.

(decker)
Inside, the Modi sheds his sweatshirt. Wifebeater and jeans now, he drags up a stool and hoists himself up at the breakfast bar like he was expecting Livingston to serve him. But pickles ain't his taste, so he leans a forearm on the smooth slick top of the breakfast bar instead, reaching out to riffle through the boxes crowded on the counter.

Chicken...chicken...chicken...beef. Smells different, looks different. Texture's darker, richer. Cold by now, but just as good. The carton jumps at a twitch of his fingers, spiraling out across the bartop to be stopped neatly by the fingertips of his other hand. Chopsticks. Chopsticks? Nope, all gone. Anyway Decker just uses 'em to stab the meat like an unwieldy fork.

Fingers, baby. While he's grabbing food into his mouth like he ain't never been edumacated for manners, his eyes don't even look down at what he's doing. Splatter? You bet. He care? Hell no. That's what the maid is for.

Livingston's cooking. That ain't good. Decker keeps a wary eye on the Theurge, making sure he don't light nothing on fire. Himself included.

Carrots and pickles are dumped in together, followed by half a frozen pizza and three hot dog links. Decker don't care; he ain't eating that shit anyways. "Better not put that pickle jar back inna the fridge empty," he comments after a while. Sucking sauce off his finger, he continues, "Last time Rune had a fuckin' fit 'n a half."

(james)
goblin, one o'clock, roger that
chin covered in eleven o'clock shadow drops in nod
there's a bit of an amused acknowledgement
he hears that shit allright
he's also heard Livingston when not quite up to singing par
but it's the newcomer he's concerned about
on his own journey that's got him trekking through the mountains far far far from sobriety
he doesn't quite see what the Skald does
but he reacts to that preperatory reaction
sliiiiiiiiding off that railing
boots finding their wait halfway down the steps
one guttered Camel flicked to a remnant puddle off in the grass
he's lighting up another
carefully watching the Walker and the stranger

(rune)
"Gee." The single word, flatly spoken, is accompanied by the edge of a caustic crimson smirk. The Glass Walker crosses her arms, careful to keep the smoldering tip of her cigarette away from the fine suede of her expensive blazer, "I don't know. Good breeding doesn't fucking exempt you from the usual courtesies, does it?"

She pauses, and jerks her head back toward the balconies, where Imogen - and all her good breeding - stands, and Dire and James loom like a pair of gargoyles. "Not the sort of thing to be done in the middle of the street. We can do it in there, though."

Then she turns and saunters back toward her porch, clearly expecting him to follow.

(lucca)
"good breeding doesn't make me stupid either." He watches her for a bit then moves after her. Bag still in front of him. Hand still on clasp. Muscles keyed for what may be thrown at him.

(livingston)
Livingston's dreadlocks rapidly spray to the right as he turns to answer Decker "Look, lissen, I know that you know that I know that I dind't to that on purpose." Another smirk flares up on his face "How do ya want it. Medium, rare or shit-brown? Hehehe. I'm just fuckin' with ya." He trows the carrot back into the pot and turns around to keep doing what he's doing - cooking up the whole goddamn kitchen.

(bernadette)
Purebreed.
[..its not just for garou anymore.]

But how anyone call tell this smallish [particularly inebriated] form is nOT garou is anyone's guess. The curving round of her cheekbones or the hollow of her throat [ Now, thrown back as an idea takes possesion of her intoxicated mind.] all denote the sort of breeding that made one remember..

..courtly things...
[the royal tinkerer at'cher serve m'liege.]

"Y'cuz ah'been wanting to tell you about mah' new 'speriment."

(decker)
Decker, he keeps to his cold mongolian beef. Fuck that shit Livingston was making. He wasn't no Fianna, didn't have that handy dandy resist toxin gift. Him, he'd probably take one bite and die in agonized throes.

Fingers are fishing through cold syrupy sauce to dig out the last slices of beef. The broccoli he leaves in there for the next unfortunate soul. Maybe Imogen or Nina were vegetarians. Cleaning his fingers off on his pants, he clips the box shut and slides it away.

Both forearms crossed on the breakfast bar now, the Modi leans his weight up to peer over the Theurge's shoulder at the pot. "Gonna actually eat that?"

(livingston)
"What are you smokin', man?" Funny how the Theurge, who probably came out from the womb of a weed plant, can say something like that "This is the finest LOTUS-stew you'll EVER find on the market." Glaring down the pot, then back towards Decker he whispers "the secret is in the spices I use. After tasting one of my stews you'll slide across the linoleum floor for weeks. Without stopping!"

(rune)
Maybe the savage woman heard Lucca's retort. Maybe she didn't. She doesn't give any overt sign, as she continues walking. Over the curb, across the bit of sere winter grass for a shortcut that saves her all of .0005 seconds, then onto the walk and up the first set of stairs. She passes James, passes Dire, offering both her packmates a quick nod of acknowledgment for keeping an eye on her as she greeted the newcomer, then settles back against the wall, tossing the mostly finished cigarette into the sand-filled Maxwell House can by the door. Leaning back against the rought brick wall, she fishes another smoke from her pocket and at last glances up at Lucca, presuming he has followed her up the stairs.

Her voice drops a notch or two, keeping the conversation private, as dark, khol-ringed eyes flicker over the Strider.

"Well, like I said," she announces, on a cloud of exhaled smoke. "This is Eagle territory. So, introduce yourself."

(decker)
"Ain't smokin' nothin'," a frisson of irritation, which comes so easily under his moon. In a single gesture the Modi pushes back from the breakfast and is on his feet. "Gonna fix that right now."

As for sliding on linoleum, Decker had some guesses as to why. He'd rather not stop to consider them, though. Heading into the living room, he sits his ass down on Rune's couch, dirty feet planted like roots, and pulls Rune's tray of goodies over. His own cigarette paper, Rune's weed sprinkled in. None of that bong shit. Rune puts her mouth on that, and god knows where her mouth has been.

Quick 'n easy, he rolls himself a fatty and tucks back on the couch to light up, one foot on the edge of the coffee table, other ankle across the knee. The match is pulled to life across the wall behind his head, brow wrinkling up to watch its passage. He lights up and shakes the match out, tossing it right into the bong's mouth like Mike J scoring a three-pointer in his prime. Bullseye.

"Rune's finest," drawled at Livingston. Which is to say: better than your shit. "Want one?"

(james)
unlike the Modi inside
the scents coming out from the Theurge's concoction
at least what are bold enough to drift outside through the partially closed sliding door
are down. right. tempting.
(booyah, baby)
he's eaten things that haven't smelled half as recognizable
if it weren't for the fuzzy concern about the newcomer
he wouldn't be standing outside anymore
but... duty calls before stomach, apparently

so he's making space for the two to go up the stairs and onto the balcony
watching Lucca instead of the gourmet meal that must be inside

(dire)
He absently rubs his nose. Super sniffer is finding that reek foul. His eyes water d he turns as they come up on the deck too. Resetteling and extending those long legs back to the floor. He watches.
Reachng up he peels off ap to run a hand though his hair, blond. Over his left eyebrow there is the tribal tattoo of the Get.
Hat is replaced backwards and those frosty eyes behold the strider.

(bernadete)
Sobering.

Its slow but a impending headache. [..damn that metabolism..] and Nina quietly finisheds her climb on the stairway and promptly crashed into a chair limbs flopping iddly even as she slouches into it, knees curling against her chest even as frightningly alert grey-cast eyes flicker to the scene going on abouts her...

Whats goin on?

(lucca)
He does indeed follow. But he doesn't leave it so people are behind him just yet. He stops before passing the first of her packmates. Looking them ove quietly. "I was born with the name Lucca. To the Garou I have taken then name of Saif. Many Spirits of the blade. Ahroun Cliath of the Silent Striders." his voice low but clear. What more could be expected of a Silent Strider.

(betnadette)
"Man."

Is all she says looking to the first familiar face, which WOULD be james. Did James know this dude was a garou--is this how garou operte they just walk up and say ... howdy? Damn she thought it was alot more furtive than that.

"Where's th'secret handshake?"

(rune)
"Caidanieve." Easy, quiet, her introduction, the single word (that is not a single word) spills from her mouth. "Fostern Glass Walker Ahroun, Beta of the Eagle pack. This is Blood-Eagle's territory. I'll let the Alpha know you did your introduction nice and proper."

Some strange intervention of a smirk, the expression that lifts the corners of her mouth in ironic imitation of a smile, but with a distinct edge. "You can call me Rune."

The Beta gestures toward James and Dire. "My packmates will introduce themselves."

(imogen)
Instant coffee is all one needs when one is sobering up. No need for gourmet coffee here. Nina is still wondering about the secret handshake when she steps back outside, pulling the door shut behind her. Two steps to the chair, where sprawls the kin. Two coffee cups in hand, she offers one to the other blonde girl, while taking a deep swallow of the bitter liquid, controlling her wince. (one might think she hates coffee, but that she drinks it almost as much as she drinks beer)

"Experiment?" she prods as she leans up against the wall, sliding one hand into her jean pockets, taking another swallow of the coffee.

(james)
there's a glance back
(hey! i know you!)
flashing a bit of a grin at Nina
followed by a bit of a chuckle at her mumbled query
(fukkifyno)
but his attention wanders back towards Lucca
Strider, huh?
peeeeachy

"James, Jukebox, Drums-on-Skulls, Claith, Full Moon, BeeGee, how do?"

if he was wearing a hat, he'd tip it
but rather his chin jerks up in the pack version of hello
toasting a bit with the half-smoked Camel

(bernadette)
She takes the coffe and 'Shhhes' Doc' motioning to Lucca and the rest of them idling about befotre them--as if it were some kind of play she didn't want to interrrupt --

too interesting.

The pale headed female's voice is low-toned as she leans toward Doc'. The impression is certainly of two people at the threatre, grey eyes flashing over the tiniest details [..impossible to forget--ever.] with a mixture of wonder and good part of curiousity.

"See, ah'been s'perimentin with the frequeny n'intensity of leat beams for--" pause. "--a buyer and ah' came up with the most handy-dandy side invention."

(dire)
He nods and after james speaks his own voice issues out. seemingly in cadence.
The melody of his own a bit intresting he has a Garou high tongue accent.

"Dire Warning. Cliath Get of Fenris Skald."
He reaches up and scraches his cheek. Still keeping an eye on Lucca

(lucca)
He nods to each of them quietly. His attention going for the most part back to Rune. Seems like she would be the one it'd come from if trouble came.

(imogen)
Amusement (shhh, Doc!) arches her eyebrow as she glances at Bernadette, remaining half reclined against the wall, a hand running through her hair. Both are pale woman, with pale skin, porcelain hued flesh. Bernadette's hair is white, sunlight caught in the strands, even with the sun long set. Imogen's hair is flame-kissed, burning red, all the colours of fire and sunset, sharp against her light skin.

Her dark eyes flicker across the group once more, before looking away, out across the parking lot, lamplight lit, cars filling nearly every space.

Bernadette speaks, low toned, and her attention returns to the younger girl, tucking several strands of hair behind her ears as she regards her, a faint sound of acknowledgement, a lift of her chin as she waits for the girl to continue.

(rune)
Lucca nods to them and says nothing more. Rune snorts beneath the cusp of her breath and shakes her head, fine, inky strands spilling dark around her face. "There's some other folks down in the Barrens. Take State Route 53 off the Garden State Parkway and find the trees and shit. Can't miss 'em."

The Glass Walker smirks, and lifts a hand to run it through the fine strands of her hair, sifting it away from her sharp-featured face. "You can hang out for a while if you want. Keep your fucking nose clean when you're up here, alright?"

...and that's pretty much it. "I'm gonna go see what the fuck Livingston is doing to my kitchen," off-handed, to her packmates, before she turns and retreats inside.

(dire)
He rubs his nose again "It fuckin' reeks...."

(lucca)
"i'll keep that in mind. Thanks." he repeats the directions in his head memorizing them. Seeming to relax a bit when Rune seems satisfied enough. and only then...

(james)
introductions are done
responsibility is done
Dire can handle Lucca
and the Gnawer looks aghast

"That does NOT reek!"

snorting as if to simply disregard that thought
clear it from his mind
the sheer audacity to say such gourmet cookin..... reeks
the nerve
he's on his way back inside the condo
not to defend the sanctity of Rune's kitchen
but to see if there's enough to grab a bowlfull

(livingston)
All this cooking makes Livingston wanna light up a phat one, again. And that's exactly what he's gonna do. Now, when you've been smoking pot for 2 consecutive days your cordination and your sharp senses ain't what they should be. Livingston knows that he always keeps at least 1 rolled up joint in his backpocket for times like this when he's either too stoned or too lazy to go and find his secret place where he staches all the weed. He pulls out a nice looking cigarr. But this one is not a cigarr like you've seen before. It's thick, long, and it's beautifully decorated with glyphs and other supersticious symbols ala Haitian-style. Totally forgetting that he had swaped the joint last night he flicks his Zippo lighter open with a click and....LIGHTS UP HIS FETISH!

(Livingston's Fetish is a special cigarr that was given to him as a gift by a Voodoo-priest when he went "hiking" in Haiti together with a Bone Gnawer friend. It's a Level: 2 Fetish that, when activated, allows Livingston to have direct contact with his familar spirit: a smoke elemental which he calles the "bluntling". On rare occasions, though, said smoke elemental seeks contact with the physical world out of curiousity and thus it, well,... goes on exploration tours from time to time.)

KHAA-BOOM! BAAM! SCHWOOSSHH!

Lights go out in the kitchen, and the stew inside the pot starts to bubble like vulcanic lava as the spirits just swirles out from the glowing top of the cigarr and materializes infront of the Theurge.

"OH FUCK ME!!" booms Livingston "He's on the loose. Pack! Help me! The bluntling is on the loose!"

(ooc: alright. gotta go. if ya'll wanna go ahead and play out the scene Livingston so nicely started :-P)

(bernadette)
Watchers.
[....put me in coach! I wanna play!]

The pair hung about in a corner of balcony talking in hushed voices behind thier steaming mugs of coffee. The smell of alcohol permeatibng from even as the analytical [...what DO kin think--DO they?] gaze of 2 pairs of eyes folllow the nuances of conversation.

"ah.. came up with a lil' do-hicky taht causes tempa-rary blind-ness when'ya use it to anything nearby--ah' thought t'might be better than mace'r'somethin. Revolutionize th'market.."

Her gtaze shifts briefy to Doc' for approval--did she think it'd be marketable?

(dire)
He grunts and nods "Dude my 4 year old cooks shit that smells better than that shit... that's foul."

(lucca)
Introductions he holds his nose. "i don't know who your cook is. But I'd cut off his hands if I were you. smells like he's trying to poison you guys."

(dire)
"SEE! The strider agrees and he just fookin got here!" Dire nods to the strider like the guy is some food critic or something.

(imogen)
For the most part, oddly enough, the kinfolk is ignoring the conversation next door, her dark eyes more interested in the somewhat sobered kinfolk sitting nearby, and the outside parking lot. Her attention drifts downward with a coppery sweep of eyelashes, her hand reaching out to brush pale fingers at a slight discolouration on the thigh of her jeans.

A sideways glance, consideration, as she tilts her head in a slight nod, burnished strands of hair falling before her eyes, glancing at the blonde woman through a weave of hair.

"S'probably be huge for the security industry. An' those big on self defense. Dependin' on the permanent effects on 'em are."

(decker)
The bluntling.
Is on.
The loose.

Yeah, okay: last time this happened? Livingston vanished off into the umbra for about a week and came back beat up, dragged down, and stoned off his ass. Decker saw. Decker knows what the bluntling's capable of. Decker ain't gettin' near it.

A grunt of annoyance as the Modi heaves himself out of the comfy couch, makes his way on over to the door. The bluntling comes zinging at him from behind and he ducks his head casual-like and takes a drag off his own joint. The bluntling whizzes overhead like a F-22 fighter jet, slams into the door, dissolves through the door, and leaves behind a small green smear of marijuana paste.

The front door opens, then. Decker steps out trailing a static haze of rage, dragging the door shut behind him, pulling the joint out of his mouth as he nods up at James (who doubtlessly saw the greyishblue blur streak past).

Two words:
"Bluntlin's loose."

Joint goes back between his teeth, waggling up and down once as he vaults one-handed up on the balustrade. "Have fun." And he? "Goin' next door."

(rune)
The Glass Walker is not so much concerned about the reek as about the possibility of fire damage, or something similarly completely fucking messed up. She stalks through the door, unconciously holding it open for James, behind her, then continues through down the hall, into the living room, where she pauses long enough to shoot a glare at Decker. "You let him fucking cook?" ...followed by harsh, swallowed sound. "Jesus Christ. He's only allowed to use the fucking microwave. Fucking hell, Livingston - "

One look at the kitchen and Rune throws up her hands. Someone else can deal with the goddamned bluntling. She marches into the kitchen and hip-checks Livingston aside long enough to turn off the damn stove, then turns right back around again. Pausing long enough to grab a container of General Tso's Chicken and a six-pack, she turns around and marches herself upstairs, muttering under her breath.

"Jesus, fuckin', Christ. What a pack."

(bernadette)
"Not sure I haven't tested em much--ah blinded my'self accidentally for a few hours tho--"

Caused a fire.
[..no biggie.]

She yawns idly sleepy eyes lifting briefly enough to drain the coffee cup. No help there-- and a yawn soon follows.

"Thought maybe ah'd let the local PD test it out--y'think they'd be interested?"

(james)
Bluntling is on the loose
Rune grabs some chicken and a six-pack and goes upstairs
Livingston is hip checked and crawls off back to the belly of the gangabeast
Decker is heading off next door to.... well... he'll refrain from comment
James? is outright staring at the greybluegreen streak, the resin paste on the door, the jet-trail of inscent smoke, and then the Modi
(you. bastard.)
he's only.... heard.... of the bluntling
(wooaaaaah)

about face, he's back on the balcony
kiping the smouldering cigar from the Theurge on crawl-by
shrugging a bit at Dire and Lucca
and then Ahroun, just for shits and giggles, is off across the lawn
following by scent if nothign else the errant wandering spirit
continuing this journey off into the greyblue yonder

(dire)
He grunts and chuckels Hopping off the Rail. "Gotta get home to the pup.... afore she kills her baby sitter."

(bernadette)
She nods and follows Imogen in.

Crashing for the night.

(decker)
Whump. Across the balustrades and down on Imogen's balcony. The kinfolk's leading the other kinfolk into the house. Lars' mate, was it? Something like that. Decker, he loiters on Imogen's balcony, tapping ash off his joint while grey eyes follow the progression of James and the Great Blunting Race. Over hill and under dale...

Joint caught between teeth, he rotates his wrists, interlaces his fingers and pops the knuckles. Then he pulls another hit or three or seven off, gets good n stoned n shit to counter some of that full moon effect. Taps the joint off the side of the balcony and, for the second time that night, levers himself up in a one-armed arc to sit coiled on the balustrade.

Not quite ready to head on in yet, and anyway he figured he oughta wait for permission and such. James and the greybluegreen streak is far away now. Try trickin' it. Tell'it you got somethin' to show'it.

Briefly, Decker's eyes light on Dire and his new buddy, but slide right off. He'd heard the introduction filtered through the totemlink, and that's about all the socializing he cared to do.

The joint's down to the last quarter by the time Imogen re-emerges, Nina presumably sleeping like a baby. His eyes pass over her wordlessly; similarly wordlessly, he takes the joint out of his mouth and extends it to her.

(imogen)
She does step out again, her hand dragging through the vibrant strands of red hair, splayed fingers sliding through the thick cacophany of strands. The motion arrests as he offers her the toke, reaching out to take the joint from his offered fingers. Silent as he is, she holds the hand wrapped roll between her fingers, setting it between her lips, inhaling slowly. Dark eyes, half obscured by a strand or two of already free fallen hair cross over him once more, wordlessly, as she takes the joint from her mouth and offers it back to him.

A beat or two after he takes it back, she exhales the fragrant smoke slowly, grey hued, and spilling from her lips.

She hadn't been much inclined to pay attention to Lucca to begin with, and now the opinion still has not changed. After all, she heard his introduction, if only briefly.

(james)
now the Bone Gnawer
he's an Ahroun
he's a fighter
he deals with flesh and bone and blood and guts and things you can put your hands on
(or.... in)
this spirit familiar thing is a completely foreign dignitary that has been dropped into his lap
why was he volunteered to play spirit wrangler?
short term memory does not prevail
suddenly Rune was disappearing and FWOOOOSSSSHH the F-22 reeferspirit was doing a formation bombing overhead
and now he's finding himself chasing Slimer of the Great Green Resin through the Rolling Meadows condominium complex

Trickin it..... riiiiiight

quite the delayed reaction that filters back on the totem phone
that's right, send the Gnawer that's been smokin' since noon after the bluntling!
least they'll have something in common....
both with more smoke than brains...

(bluntling)
FFFFFWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!!
free at last, free at last thank god al...eh? what was that? eeeeeeeerk! switch directions and zoooooooom, its crawling under the pretty purple thing (preeeeeeeetty car!!) and back up the otherside and around and HEY! someone's Chasing! bout time we had some fun hm? The grand poombah of weedheadedness backtracks, whips around James to tangle those floping dreads into dissarray and whoooooosh! he's off again in a streak of greeeeeeeeeeeennnn.... (can't catch me!)

(dire)
He heads down the stairs and twords the Jetta. In. Firing up the green neon ground effects. No doupt hindeirng james more than aiding.

(james)
fuck
dreads flop and the Gnawer ducks
yeh, the goal of the game is to trap the bluntling!
but not from inadvertant smack and impale skull
boots skid on the wet asphalt
and it is by sheer luck and toked prowess that he avoids slamming into the Beemer
(hit that, and just keep on runnin', boy)
bolting in the new direction and following that greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen
at least it's a way to run off the Rage

(decker)
It's the old stoners' ritual, passing the weed. To her and back, taking up the joint and examining the burning tip like the secrets of the universe were writ bright upon the irregular ring of fire at its tip. One last breath drawn off the joint after a while, next door to religiously.

She exhales: smoke.
He twists to crush the joint out against the balustrade. A flick of the wrist dusts it off and the roach tumbles off into the planter below.

Dire's gone. James is gone. The bluntling is most definitely gone. His rage is still there, thickening the air. Breathing gasoline. Still, it's a sight better than it was an hour or so ago, with half the pack camped out on one porch.

He exhales: smoke.

Coiled on her balustrade, hands between knees, fingertips interlacing, he studies her. "Y'alright?" Strange, he hasn't even spoken to her since he shoved her rather rudely out of the way some days ago. Maybe even before that.

(bluntling)
Laughter! can you hear the laughter (dats some goooooooooood sheeeeeeeeet mang!)
and the spirit dashes hither and yon (and skids to a stop at the flashing greeeen neon ground effects.....cooooool!) and then again! zipzingrun... gonna catch me ya gotta do better then that, gnawerboy! Maybe this will help....
sneakyrustle of leaves that herald where he is in the bushes by that building there.. rustlerustlerustlerustle and then... whe james is thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis close the bluntling bursts out and that inhale as James fixes to mutter? ulls greeeeeen in deep, floats around and coats lungs then explodes from nostrils with a streek and fffhhwwwwwwoooooooosh! he's off again! (can't catch me!)

(james)
skid, stop, peeeek in the bushes
he's this close
thiiiiiiiis close
(the fuck he gonna do this close)
THIS! CLOSE!

......

TOO!

CLOSE!

the green spirit cloud bursts out and goddam if he wasn't inhaling
he can feel it.... feel it! coating his lungs
he can feel.... feel! the pinprickles of the hit taking hold
(and goddam if the bluntling! didn't make him hold for the appropriate 33.2 seconds)
ffffffwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssshhh
the bluntling! is off again
the Gnawer is.... still sitting where that hit put him on his ass
blinking a bit as eyes cross
(ho. lee. chit.)
dreads grab hold of trench to find some sort of purchase as head shakes
one hand clutches the sidewalk to steady it before it rolls on away
(eaaaasy there, cowboy)
then the lamppost molested as the Ahroun physically pulls himself upright
(damn the weather's right nice up here)
he's following.... not.... quite as fast

(imogen)
The smell of smoke still hangs in the air, as the blue-greyness begins to disperse, scattered by the faintest movements, the briefest stirring of air. He can smell, too, the latent breath of alcohol, the rich smell of coffee. Everything must seem that much more potent when the moon is full.

One shoulder rests against the outer condo wall, space between them as the full moon crackles through the air, and his rage prickles across her skin. It's a sight better than it was barely fifteen minutes before. Garou in compact spaces with Luna pregnant in the sky, had made her wish she'd drunk more, and that her alcohol level wasn't nearly so low. That her tolerence was lower.

The question results in a faint frown, a furrowing of her brow as she considers him. She can't directly recall the last time they'd spoken, it was probably some small meaningless thing.

The heel of one hand rubs lightly against her jean clad thigh before sliding into her pocket, movement slightly halted by the pager she wears clipped to her jeans, "Yeah. I'm fine."

Consideration visible through the narrowing of her eyes, a slow pass of her attention over his coiled form. "How've y'been?"

(the bluntling)
The molested lampost knocks. the bluntling. on. its. proverbial. ass.
Laughter is highpitched and outright hysterical (hol.ee.chit.) as dreds grab hold and the lampost is molested and the bluntling manages to get itself to proverbial feet and this time remains tantalizingly just that. much. out. of. reach.. whatcha gonna do NOW gnawerboy!
Oh! Look! Who's that over there? Old missus magillicutty..... that laughter turns evilly amused as the Bluntling is heading THAT way... betcha the ole'bag will never know what hit her uptight churchgoing god seeking praying ass (she will SEEEeeeeeEEEEEEEEE the light!)

(decker)
A quiet whuff of air out. He flicks a glance down at the knife-edged square of moonlight slanting in under the edge of the roof. It's a little past midnight, the full moon barely past its apex, but southerly because of the tilt of the earth.

"Ain't bad, considerin'."

Considering the moon was round as a demon's eye. Considering its cold silver light lit in him a fire that no amount of smokehaze could choke. Considering underneath that chronic-induced high, that looseness of joint and that ... d e t a c h e d n e s s ... of nerves he feels like he could slaughter an army and still be hungry for more.

All things considered, that he could sit here, sit still, watching her watching him with that slowmoving attention to detail--
Yeah, he ain't bad.

Tonguing that notch behind his upper left canine, he notes that he'd left his sweatshirt behind. Summer clothing on a very wintry night: white wifebeater, thin enough to show the tattoo's trailing tendrils across shoulder in diluted black, and dark bluejeans intentionally two sizes too big, sagged. It's either a cold wind or the intensity of her concentrated gaze that raises a ripple of gooseflesh across his arms, pale blond hairs standing up.

"Hell you lookin' at," he wants to know, and, arms flexing just a notch as elbows press into knees and lever his torso a little more upright, giving him that angle to look comfortably down at her, "fuck didja let Lars' chick sleep on yer fuckin' couch fer?"

(james)
bloodshot deep umber eyes narrow at the laughter
(this means war)
then blink two or three times realizing just how dry they are
damn he could use a drink, too
the very thought stops him in his tracks
lips actually smacking at the sudden realization of cotton mouth
(oh my god)
Missuz Magillicutty is on her own
she could use a good shakedown
she'll probably run naked through the sprinklers
(she's SEEN thuh LIIII'T!)
and he doesn't damn well care

short term wha...?

there's a shortcut taken
one Gnawer half clambering half falling over the safety railing around the comlpex's pool
(OOF!)
gathering his legs back beneath him before they wander away on their own
oh no... arm... you come back, too
and don't you leave those fingers behind
hand flexes to make sure all is attached
(toes too, good)
and he's slooooooooowly pulling himself back upright
making a.... relatively straight line towards the coke machine
oh for Gaia's sake now he has to count change

(bluntling)
oooooooooooh Ms magillicutty is on her own.....
and then not... (hold. hold. hold. hol. hold. hol....exhaaaaaaaaaaaaale!) and the Bluntling is cackling madly while dashing away and the old biddy is sitting there S.T.U.N.N.E.D. (stooooooooooned) and the green streak is belining it back toward the stumbling discombobulated Gnawer and the poor, poor coke machine... change? we don't need no steeeeeeenkin change! ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiip and damned if that coke machine doesn't fall right the hell open spilling soda cans to the ground in multicolored rainbow of caffinated goodness with the spirited laughter accompaningy the giggling hissyfit of the Missuz deciding she's gonna go for a skinnydip in the pool.... (damn kids, don't watch - scar ya for life seein that many wrinkles floatin....)

(imogen)
Ain't bad, Considerin'.

Much can be told by how someone answers a question like that. There are those who answer it with complaints, digression. Or worse, a negative answer without elabouration, waiting for the other to ask what they meant. Those that answer that they are fine, no matter what the situation, no matter how bad it could be. Those who aren't bad, because well, bad is much worse than this is. And because it can always be worse.

Psychologists could have a field day with such a simple thing as the answer to "how are you?" and the answers of some, and the reasons behind it.

She nods, slightly, hair falling forward with the movement at his answer, before her attention snaps back toward him, an eyebrow arching. After a moment, she answers the second question, "Because, I didn't trust 'er t'be able to gi' me directions back 'er place, reliably, an' I wasn't about t'leave her wanderin' her sloshed ass blindly around." Her hand runs through her hair once more, pushing back the strands that never quite seem to tame, that seem to fall forward with the faintest breeze, the slightest tilt of her head.

(decker)
Faintest breeze. Slightest tilt of her head.

Or this, the slow thorough plow of his hand into her hair. Watch this motion, this hand, because it's the same one that ripped someone's guts out. A dozen someones. A half-hundred, more. Black axe-tattoo magnetic-hypnotic on his arm, laid over hard ridged edges of triceps on the outside, the horseshoe; the bulge of veined bicep on the inside.

Suddenly conscious of his place again, there's a glance flung over an almost-bare shoulder as if to ascertain Rune or Livingston or someone wasn't gawping from the other balcony. Not that they would be. Not that they cared. He's the only one who cares about public displays of affection(?), or the lack and consequences thereof.

He extricates his hand from her hair and if there's a curve of his fingers over her slender shoulder and a slight pull forward, it's not a trick of her mind. Then his hands fold one into the other, the one that had touched her curved into the palm of the other between his knees. "Since when were you a good fuckin' Samaritan?"

(james)
holy shit it is a SEA of cola
and the Gnawer just stares
jaw even hanging somewhat agape

fuck the change
Gaia has smiled upon him
the heavenly chorus chimes in the sound of aluminum cans rolling on cement
the bright lights of revelation shine uponeth us from the pool
(Haaaaa lelooyah)
gather 'round children
we have been saved
the smile of the lord shineth down
blessed by thine Gnawers

body folds and hand sweeps! a root beer as it ambles past
carbonation hissing crunch to pop the top open
head tips back and he SLUGS it down
the can would be finished, but balance wanes, and he nearly goes into the pool
that, he leaves for Missuz Migillicutty
pointedly turning away from the stripping crone

he finds a bench and settles down
watching the sprinklers come on for the lawn over yonder
seems he's forgotten totally about the bluntling!
lighting up a joint of his own
seems he's more interested in that then the bluntling!
cause it's his stash from a pal up in NYC
(gooooood chit)

(bluntling)
Blessed be thie Gnawers!
Hallowed be thy name!
thy kingdom come...
Thy will be done...
in hybernia as it is in heaven...
the Crone is swimming and James is ignoring and striking up some substandarad sheeeeet from NYC way and the bluntling cannot be forgotten (what were we doin again?) and dreds are tugged and pulled (hey! remember ME?) and there's the sprinklers....
oooooooooooooooooooh SPRINKLERS....
(rattarattarattarattaratta feel the rhythm of the muuuuuzak....) and with a ffffffffwwwwwooooooooosH! the Bluntling is OFF again and that sprinkler....
looks mysteriously like its getting closer.
closer.
Closer.
Splatsplatsplatsplat of drops on patchwork trench soaking dreds and the cackling begins anew as the Bluntling then runs off to see if we can wash Rune's beeeeeeeeemer! That purple would be muuuuuuch prettier with a sprinkler on top, huh?

(james)
the Gnawer looks up at the bluntling!
a dark brow lifts
and he holds up the (substandard) joint in question

"Think ya betta'n this?"

ooooh.
smoke-out challenge.

(imogen)
Perhaps sometimes when she looked at him, she can see the aftershadow of his grey massive war form. When she looks at his hand, as it reaches up to go toward her hair, she might see claws, sometimes, instead of thick calloused hands. Or worse, the wounds, that she sees and can recognize, because she may know the path of carnage that a Garou can leave even better than he. Because she studies it, where he just leaves it in his wake.

But she does not move away, and rarely flinches from his touch, even those ungentle ones that leave bruises. It must be a certain mindset. Or certain carelessness.

She steps forward as his hand tugs, lessening the distance and the space between the crackling air becomes just that much less. A smirk traces her lips, something on the edge of amusement; it would be more, if his rage was not so poignant. If walls were not so thick. "I've let Garou stay on my couch," him, once. maybe twice. James, who knows how many times, and even Erik, once. "Why not smashed kinfolk." It's not a question, just a flat statement, as she regards him, one hand swinging free at her hip, the fingers curling inward toward her palm. She doesn't even bother looking at her watch, she knows what time it is, and her lips thin slightly as her chin lifts to look up at him, "I've got t'go." said simply, before adding, "I've work, in th'mornin'."

She steps away from him and toward the do

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 11, 2003

.03.11.03. - no contest [rune]

[noje]

(james)
the condo's been quiet for most of the day
pack's been here, pack's been there
both the Beemer and the Toyota are out of their spaces
the trusty steeds which take their Urban knights to the latest battle
be it the mall, the grocery, the