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 spa, or this evening's version of the Wyrm
so it left the Gnawer pretty much to himself
nothing but the comfort of the condo he now calls home
the steady pitterpatter of the rain beating down on the sidewalk outside
soaking the grass in preparation of oncoming Spring
washing the parking lots their oily grime
forcibly melting the remnant snow after several clear days
there's the occasional whir of the central air kicking on
keeping the rooms at a pleasently So-Cal 75 degrees even when it's nearing freezing outside
there's also the sound of the electronic engine speeding down the track
the asymmetric clicking of buttons to keep the car on the road
the bone-chilling screech of tires across asphalt
and the occasional string of swearing as the car. doesn't. cooperate.

he's been here for a few hours now
playing with the newest addition to the pack's toys which he picked up earlier in the afternoon
camoflage woven into a neat crossing of legs on the plush leather couch
wifebeater keeping him comfortable in that unnaturally warm climate
dreads hanging in tangled disarray from the continual running of fingers through them to pull the thick vines out of deep umber gaze

though, within the frame of expression created by those heavy ropes of hair
something of a smug grin has formed
before there's a victory slug from the latest (sixth?) bottle of beer
because our Ahroun?
fierce Bone Gnawer of Gaia's Chosen Warriors?
he has won the Mini Cooper 1.3i - in blue
because he finished the Lightweight K Cup, Beginner's League, on Grand Turismo 3

(rune)
The Toyota is still gone, but the Beemer is back, metallic finish slick with beading droplets of the remnant shower still spitting cold rain over the township. For some reason that the Glass Walker cannot quite fathom, cold rain makes the air feel colder than the frozen stuff that would fall if the temperature were a few degrees cooler. The engine rumbles and idles, and she peers out the windshield hoping that the rain will stop sometime soon, soaking up the heat from the vents for several minutes before at last giving in to a natural impatience and turning the engine off for good. It purrs to a halt, only a few clicks made by the cooling engine, none of that clanky rumble that comes from failing to change the oil, or get tune-ups every X thousand miles. The Beemer is as pampered as its owner.

With a supressed sigh, said owner climbs from the car and dares to race up the steps leading to the condo, even in her high heels. They throw one's center of balance forward, and make such movement more difficult, but these are difficulties she worked out years ago, and moving like this (swift and sure and fucking deadly) is second nature, even in heels. Five minutes after the Beemer turned into the drive, the door to the condo swings open. Enter Rune. She sheds her damp coat much more easily than a snake sheds its skin, and the wet heeled boots follow a moment later, in a series of muted thumps as she peels them from the curve of leatherclad calves and tosses them negligently into the coat closet in the front hall.

Still shaking the rain from her hair, she turns into the living room and tosses several cartons of cigarettes onto the breakfast bar before sidling up behind the couch.

"Boo."

The single syllable is low and muted, murmured into the Gnawer's ear. Behind him, the faint pressure of her hands curled over the back of the couch, depressing the cushions, long nails scraping against leather. Her breath is warm, and some of it, doubtless, curls through the curtain of dreadlocks to tickle his skin. He won't be surprised, for he can feel her approach as well as she can feel his presence, the sixth sense of those united by a totem, of the animals beneath their human skins: pack.

(james)
pack
he felt her pull up
even as the little Mini Cooper was pulling out of the starting line on the practice track
(gotta learn how to handle the new car before racing it, after all)
he felt her racing towards the stairs
just as he was barreling around the first oval track corner
he could hear the door open, and the swish of coat, the thump of boots
even above the sound of the little revving engine
he could hear her footsteps across the plush carpet
then he could feel her

it was more than pack
he could feel her presence warming up behind him
just as surely as the leather felt the bite of sharp nails
the way she, even without touching, could
crawl. beneath. his. flesh.
those little ripples of salutory pleasure

(boo)

so soft and warm
tickling through the curtain of dreads
tickling against the sensitive flesh about his ear
tickling it's way right into his mind
lower lip caught in concentrative nibble pulls into a smile
but he doesn't turn around yet
not until the blue speed demon crosses the finish line

(congratulations, says the theme song, you've won $1000)

that is when he turns
big ol' victory grin spreading from that smile
while the next level loads
one hand pulls from the controller to loop up around her neck
pulling her into a very pleasent 'welcome home' kiss

he won the track
he should get his prize, hm?
and that smile remains through murmured words

"Welcome home." his mood as warm as the condo "Wanna play?"

he pulls back just a little
shining eyes looking into the dark mohagany kohl lined depths
brows lifting in question
very. loaded. question.

(rune)
Her eyes flicker to the screen, watching the progress of the little Mini Cooper around the track through the changeable tangle of his rough dreadlocks. Her body sketches a long, curving line, paraspinals stretched long to accommodated the lean into his ear, knees ever so slightly bent. As the Cooper speeds around the track, her hands crawl down the leather cushions on either side, and end up in a loose circle of almost embrace around his torso, beneath his arms to leave them free for the game. By the time he pulls her into the kiss, she has settled into an easy half-crouch behind the sofa, leather stretched by the flex of the long, lean muscles of her thighs.

Wanna play?

Some slow, lazy smile spreads across her red mouth. Between the painted lips, the flash of white teeth as the lazy smile becomes a wicked, edged little grin. Fine hands curl upward from their clasp around his abdomen to wrest the controller from his grasp. "You won't be needing this, but -

"Think you could handle it?" Her mouth lingers on his flesh, the satin brush of lipstick and warm curl of her breath tickles along the edge of his jaw, soon caught between the dull edge of teeth promised by the ripe little grin. "I still haven't gotten you back for the other night."

(james)
you're right.
I won't be needing this

it's as much wresting as willingly freeing his hands
hers are occupied by the controller
and his are finding their way up her arms
over shoulders until occupying themselves with fingertips tracing scapula
outlining the definition of muscle and tendon beneath porceline skin beneath the silky ivory mock-turtle
wandering around to find the little knobs of vertebrae
his chin lifting with a grin when her teeth find flesh along his jaw
the rugged stretch of bone covered by 11 o'clock shadow
(the only defense for the supersensitive skin covering pulse)

"I think so."

is that a challenge?
oh ho ho sayeth the growling chuckle
fingers curl in their crawl
untucking the hem of shirt from waist of leather
weight of skull shifts
affectionately leaning his head against hers
(the promise of teeth, the satiny smooth lips.....er... lipstick)

"Though I think that'd need something more than kicking my ass in a game I've only played for a few hours. I'm on a roll, though, Tristan wants to get me back for laughing at him, too." at least he's laughing again.... "So you'll have to try extra-special hard."

(rune)
"The hell is this?" she murmurs, her voice falling to its lower register. The sound finds purchase in her throat, and the words are infected with the low vibrato of challenge returned. It's an animal sound, more than human, close to gutteral, and inflected with less amusement than he might expect, because some things are deadly serious. "Some fucking kin wants to get back at you, and I have to try extra-special hard?"

She casts aside the controller (it swings through the air, trailing a loop of twisting cord, and clatters hard upon the coffee table, skittering across the slick surface to fall on the plush carpet beyond) and rises. His hands are twisted around the hem of her mock-turtleneck, and as she rises it comes peeling up to reveal the curve of her hips and the flat plane of her abdomen. Her embrace loosens and falls away as she stands, and at last she swats his hands away from her body, then finishes the task he started, pulling the turtleneck over up and over her head (the crackle of static electricity sizzles in the air, dry from the heat despite the humidifiers scattered throughout the rooms) and several of the fine strands linger up and out, at strange angles, like a tattered black hair.

The Glass Walker doesn't bother to tame them. Likely, she doesn't even notice the disarray, for her hands have found purchase on his body again: his shoulders. Red nails dig through the weave of the cotton wifebeater and press into skin and muscle beneath as she bends to press a series of slow, savage little bites along the hard line of his collar bone, underneath his jaw, taunting but never quite touching his lips. "No fucking contest." Abruptly, her grip changes. She rises again, and crooks one finger underneath the band of fabric over his muscled shoulder, which remains as she turns and sidles away. The fabric pulls and stretches, distends sharply, bites into the flesh of her finger, but she doesn't let go -

- not until it rips and rebounds back to him -

- and only then does she stop, turning to send a brief, singeing glance over the curve of her bare shoulder, full of wanton menace. "So, c'mon if you're coming. I've got fucking plans for you."

(james)
he can't help it
when her voice drops in that register
seething comfortable and low in that deadly seriousness
he's..... not sure whether to cringe or shiver in delicious anticipation
(almost makes you think he chose those words on purpose.... just to spark her temper)

he's turning to watch her pull away
brow lifting as his hands are smacked from her perfect curves
there'd be a mock pout in his expression
some hurt that she'd neglect him that physical nourishment
but something else entirely leaks into his features
watching her deftly finishing the job he started
lips peeling back into a very. dark. smile.
devouring the portrait she presents
smooth curves, perfect swells, scandalous lace, hair electrified by the storms crackling within them

(the moon swells slowly in the sky, and the animal within him answers that call - her call - creeping and rumbling it's meandering journey back to the surface, feeding off the steadily growing Rage that burns and boils in the pit of his belly like some torturously delayed IV drip directly into his adrenal glands)

her nails dig into skin
her teeth leave their impressioned mark
his skin blushing from the insult red as lipstick smears tell-tale stain
and perhaps the flush is from something else
something instigated by the tease of almost touching lips

(she knows the animal she taunts and teases through the bars of his human cage)

"No contest. Never a contest."

whispered, sighed, growled
there's suddenly an inhuman light blossoming in deep umber
looking up from where the thin cotton lays ripped and defeated across his shoulder
front of the strap dangling against his chest through inanimate caress
the back of it tickling in tease across the ashed, brutal scars raking down his spine
(some whip to drive him to brutal Frenzy)
she moves away, and stops, just out of reach
wanton menace met with a rolling wave of invisable aggression
he's twisting on the couch
feet sinking into the overstuffed pillow
hands closing over the top edge, crushing stuffing where her nails only dug

"Wonder if they coincide with my plans.... for you...."

the words are still so soft, edging gutteral towards the end
muscle exposed across pectoral plane flutters and thumps with heightening pulse
(can she hear his heart hammering strong against thickening ribs)
then it stretches and smooths as his body casually swells
Glabro smile the vicious (hungry) animal only kept at bay by expensive furniture
crouched and ready to pounce the moment his prey gives signal
a look, a gesture, even the barest twist of her lips into trademark smirk
dark eyes lock, and his weight shifts, muscle bunching for the explosive spring
lunging over the back of the couch to claim this precious, seditious prize

(Told you I wanted to play)

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 10, 2003

.03.10.03. - leather conditioner [tristan-diego]

[noje]

(tristan)
The message on the machine had said it was fairly important, but then there was the shopping trip (and a fondness for the dressing rooms in Bloomingdales, you yeah baby) and meeting Momma and then the drive home. All in all a good - if very long, day. Capped off by trying on the clothes bought for him again, and removing them almost as fast. All of this?
Means he’s still in Diego’s apartment, and dressed in what he happens to have with him. That being (cannot believe it either) black leather pants, and nice button down shirt, unbuttoned and untucked right now.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. But Diego picked them out, bought them and even the pretty boy himself has to admit that he looks damn good in them, even if he’s still trying to get used to them. And as promised? He hasn’t left the apartment in them at all, until now.
Diego’s involved in his work, and he’s got to get something more suited to work out in if he’s gonna make use of the new home gym, so after calling out to Diego that he’ll return shortly, his whistle leads him down the stairs, bare feet near silent as he moves down one flight, two, the ground floor, and on toward his own apartment door.

(james)
a brow..... lifts

one message beget another, which beget a response, and then a time agreed to meet upon
so that culminated into one Gnawer letting himself into the complex
ambling down the hall to knock on the door - but it appears he's early
so he'd conceded to leaning a shoulder against the frame to wait
and two minutes later he heard steps coming down the hall
so cast a half-interested glance to just see whom it was
and... that... brow... lifts...

and the Ahroun isn't laughing
he's wolf-whistling
(okay, he's chuckling, too)

"Looks like NYC didn't treat you all that badly....."

(tristan)
And the pretty boy? The oh so unrepentantly evil kin who is rarely phased by anything?
blushes
And head ducks to hide behind those curls as much as he can and he’s just.. laughing, shy and sheepishly.. even as he swipes at the Ahroun, lightly and shakes his head. “Not badly at all - was gonna change before you got here though. Running late as usual. Common in.” And yeah, he’s laughing too as he unlocks the door and leads James inside, heading toward the fridge for a couple of beers (he’s already seen, may as well brazen it out) and explains, even if it doesn’t have to be. “Diego picked them out, of course. Took him to meet Momma - I think maybe this is payback - its harder then hell to get into, and outa these things…” oh but his grin is still there - he doesn’t really mind, does he? Nope. Not at all.

(james)
okay, it's not chuckling
it is cackling
where is a polaroid when he needs it?!
feigning flinch to the swipe
he knows he deserves it
(he has yet to pay for howling at Rune, too, this ain't nothin')
still just too amused when he follows inside
flopping onto the couch in a wave of coattails
taking the offered bottle
brow lifting as he uses it to gesture back at the Kin

"You, young man, are definitely doing something wrong then."

he knows damn well how easy it is to get someone out of leather pants

(tristan)
He just laughs and shakes his head, falling to fold lean 6’2” frame onto beat up couch as he arches a brow.. “ok - It’s more an art then difficult, something I’ve not quite learned yet, always easier with help. Although..” oh and here that grin slides wicked again.. “I don’t think Diego was complaining about my doing anything wrong in the dressing room of bloomingdales...”
And then he just runs his hands over leather covered thigh and shakes his head.. “of course…” and dark gaze slides sideways to look up and down the Gnawer with a playful leer.. “if you give lessons in the removal of leather too - tell me where to sign up..” Brows wiggle and beer bottle is tipped back, healthy swallow or two taken before it rests again on thigh.

(james)
oh, here comes another laugh
they're becoming more and more familiar as the days go by
even if they're not as often a sight as per normal

"Must be something about Gnawers and Walkers and dressing rooms....."

half-mused before chugging down a few swallows of the beer
and his brow lifts, feeling the leering gaze upon him
slooooooowly glancing over
then reaaaaching over
hand hooking in the exposed beltline of those leather pants
all too easily pulling the Kin from his comfortable recline
right into his lap, lips pulled back in growling grin
all. too. close.

"Talcum powder."

(tristan)
“Was it Rune’s idea? I didn’t think shy little Diego had it in him to suggest it, let alone go through with it. Planning a trip to Macy’s next.” They may not have known each other long, but the sound of relaxed laughter, coming more and more often, is enough to make the Kin smile. There was a while he wasn’t sure he’d hear it again, and it’s music to his ears the more on even keel the Gnawer feels again, the more he relaxes and lets go.
and grabs on.
There’s a startled blink as beltline is grabbed, and there’s a further startled sound as he’s physically pulled right. Into. the Gnawers. Lap. And growled at..
growled at…
Arm hooks over his shoulders and he arches closer to that growl and moans softly right across those grinning lips… “Oh.. talcum power…” memories of single kiss shared dance behind that dark gaze as he wriggles those hips a little before chuckling and pulling away to sit next to the gnawer. “fuckin tease.” But it’s said with amused affection… and yes - he pulled away first. What has that South of the border boi done to him?

(james)
"You're wearing leather pants and call me a tease?"

playful and easy, half purred against that moan
yeh, he's teasing - and really has no idea why
(James? Behave yourself.)
leather pants must be a weakness of the Ahroun's... or something
but he's chuckling again
comfortably leaning back against the battered couch
sprawling out to even rest a boot on the also-battered coffee table
head shaking after another slug from the beer

"Mine..... I think" something he would not put past his Walker, anyway "Let me recommend Neiman Marcus on your tour." another glance, another lifting of his brow "And I'd be a tease if I were offering to help you break them in properly.... which will make them easier to get in and out of, in the long run."

(tristan)
He just grins, and there’s a turn of lean frame on that beat up (well loved and much abused) couch until reclined against the pillow resting against the arm opposite James and those long leather covered legs? Stretch out over that easy sprawl, ankles crossing and he settles comfortably. Those leather pants may be a weakness, and he’s not above exploiting that… especially after that purr… An arm stretches before tucking hand behind his head, abdominal muscles (6.pack.baby) crunching to lift shoulders a little, several swallows of beer later, and a long slow look down long frame to dance over that now ‘trapped’ underneath his legs. “Neiman Marcus, gotcha…” And there’s laughter afterwards and a nod.. “that would certainly be a tease… completely and 100% unfair even.” And brow lifts slowly toward them corkscrew curls and smile dances playful over lips… “Be careful what you offer, boyo… never know what I might take you up on…”
There’s a wink, and he relaxes again, and tips his head slightly. “Momma says hello, by the way, and says of all the boys she’s taken in, I couldn’t have picked a better one to settle down with.” He chuckles, as that didn’t quite sound the way it was intended, but what the hell.

(diego)
within minutes of tristan leaving the flat he had given up on his work. he was frsutrated and tired. he had spent a lot of the last few days scouring the city for the right spirits and then convincing them to do what he wished. the music box was complete the knives had been brought the computer disks where working as they should. the teaser had its batteries and he was just waiting for a call from the post office to tell him the tequilla (well a package ) had arived.... restless he moves itno the newly converted gym. unlike the kin he is wearing just tracksuit pants and a wife beater his usual around the home clothes. taping both hands and feet. he begins to spar with the bag.

(james)
he's a pack animal beneath the human thesad
personal space isn't as much of an issue
sometimes it may be with strangers
but body contact is an important tool of communication in canid society
the easy touch, a brush of shoulders, a flank rub, the cross of legs over lap
it's a silent conversation that's held
a quiet reassurance that all is allright
and so the Aroun doesn't pull away from the kin
simply completing the circuit in resting his beer against Tristan's knee
(cupped, of course, to keep the bottle's sweat from touching brand new leather)
chuckling softly, he leans towards the kin a bit, and inhaaaaaaales

"Surprised you haven't had Diego help you with it already."

smirked
.... okay... grinned
but at the mention of Momma, the grin waxes to a warm smile

"How's she been?"

(tristan)
James is a pack animal under human skin, and Tristan? Is a boy who revels in touch. From the slightest run of fingers through hair, to the touch of hand, the nudge of shoulder, the setting of beer against knee, it all speaks of affection, of friendship, of family and contentment. Reassurance that everything is, or will be, ok.
He doesn’t pull away (he knew he wouldn’t) and even leans closer, and the kin has the grace to blush - again - and shake his head.. “we… uh… forgot about the leather once there was just skin available. But it’s on tonight’s menu..” Which would explain why he hasn’t been in too allfire a hurry to change out of them, hm?
Then it’s his turn to smile fondly as he nods. “She’s doing really well. Scared the hell outa Diego, honestly, but then embarrassed him by proclaiming her approval. She adopted a young girl, Andrea, bout a year ago - don’t know if you were there before or after? First time I’ve met her, and it was brief as she had other things to do. She’s 10 now. Parents were killed in a car crash, Don’t know if she’s shifter yet, but it’s all the same to Momma. Momma’s been good for her.” Hell, Momma Grace is good for everyone. Even when wielding the switch… “had a houseful, of course, but is making plans to come this way at the end of the month. I promised you’d come see her then.” An easy promise to make, as he knows James would have anyway.

(james)
the Kin has the grace to blush again
the Garou has the sheer audacity to press the issue

"Just make sure to rub it in evenly."

said so nonchalantly one would think it's not a tease
then his brows lift, trying to place the name to a face
there were always so many people at Momma's house that, well, sometimes they ran together
deep umber eyes narrow in face-off to the beer's label when bottle twists in fingers

"Must've been before.... I remember Andrea, we met once, but she was still with her parents.... pity."

his voice drifts off in empathy
but the grin rakes free again

"I'd be willing to go pick her up, and you know that."

(tristan)
And he just grins and shakes his head, that color heightening in his cheeks once more as he nods. “Evenly. Gotcha.” Said with a slight clearing of his throat, before nodding. “Yeah, she’s a sweet kid.. been talking to her on the phone every week when I check in, sent her things from wherever I was in the past year. She was shy - but I got a hug before she took off with her friends.” He laughs and nods then. “I know - and we may have to kidnap her in order to convince her that the NYC Gnawers can do without her for a few days.”
That smile is fond, amused, and then he looks up at James… “Of course, I neglected to tell her about the attack… and want to keep it that way… Specially with the message Billy dropped off for ya’ll…”

(james)
there was comfort in the easy touch
the silent reassurance that everything will be allright
or at least it is for now, because you never know how long it will last
and he can't help the slight grin against the mouth of the bottle
body arching to drain the last from it
tapping the empty glass against Tristan's thigh

"Was waiting for you to get to that.... and I wouldn't have mentioned it either, she wouldn't have let you come back."

sounds like he's talking from experience there
just... how long has it been since he's seen his mom?
though that shadow is pushed away, looking over curiously

"Billy?"

(diego)
dark dangerous deadly the blows are enough to send the bag swinging wildly to damage skin and bone in the walkers hands and feet to bruise until there is nothing but the burning red pain. nothing but sweet pain. they will not break me they will not take me i will not go back...

a feral growl. panting for breath he comes to rest upon the bag holding it leaning against it his weight supported by it. glad Tristan is not here to see him like this.where is tristan? he should be here? what did he say when he left?

a quick circut of flat is enough to reveal that he is still in leather pants. a grin twisting that not quite human face. he cannot of gone far. flexing fingers fine bones cracked under strain moonshapped cresents where nails dug into palms bruising on knees legs and feet fading already they are superficial hurts his body able to deal with them easily. staring at the mirror on the inside of bedroom door he slips/slides to the other place. the spirit world. the floor is dangerously thin here. the building not old enough to have a strong spirit. one gets the strange sensation that they are sinking that the floor will give way beneath them if they stand still to long. it does not take much or long to move from one flat to the other. to be standing where the couch would be. it does not take much to twist sight from one side to the other. just find out if hes here. he might of gone to get food. although leather pants makes him think no.

(tristan)
“Hey - we haven’t had the chance to swap teases for a while, I thought I’d enjoy it before getting to the serious shit.” A better host would instantly get up to replace that empty beer - but he’s comfortable here, and he takes the time to finish his own first, before he nods. “Billy Bedlam? I think name is.. not sure on the last name, but met him at the condo’s while I was hanging with Imogen, Decker and Dire one night.”
Finally, lean frame curls up to sit again, taking that empty bottle with a caress over James’ knuckles and a wink, before he’s sliding his legs off James’ lap and standing heading to get two more beers. And reclaiming his spot on the couch (and over lounging Gnawer) as he hands that 2nd bottle over. “There’s been two more attacks that he knows of - both on Zoe. She’s the one that went to Kentucky with you right? Though he called her Fianna kin, not Gazer. She’s ok, but the attacker carved her up like a turkey twice, and took all Billy knew, and some dude named Corran? To patch her back up again.”
There’s a pause and a shake of his head. “And here’s the kicker. They say the attacker was a Demon. Straight out of biblical lore…”

(james)
"I'm not complaining!"

said with a grin
(his hand turns into the caress before he can even think about it)
he's comfortable here
and when Tris moves, he slouches further down into the couch
... no.... shrugs out of his trench, then gets right comfy
brow lifting as the story continues

"Perfect.... Elohim, Rabishu, and now the army of the Morning Star himself are knockin' on our door. When they called it the Apocalypse I didn't think they'd be that literal." sighed "I'll make sure the others get the message."

he.... doesn't seem too pleased
actually leaning in closer to he Kin
all the way until he's all but sideways, too
going so far as to take one of the battered back pillows
and pull. it. over. his. head.
shoulders shaking with a bit of a chuckle
for Gaia's sake it's only MONDAY

(diego)
he grins slightly. moving with ease this place as much his home as the real world. to stand where the bathroom is the door open here closed there. his body moves between the two like swimming in molasses but he grins. that feral almost amused grin once more. the door is slid ever so slowly open only enough that he can see and finally slip through on hands and knees. pressed low to the ground and ever so quiet.

(tristan)
“Good!” And the grin is easy, before yeah. He doesn’t seem too happy about it either. It’s one thing to think what came after him was some new wyrm and defeat-able by Gaia’s chosen, an entire other thing to hear it’s a demon and the old ‘get thee behind me Satan’ most likely won’t work.
James slides closer and arm lifts to give him more room, till dreds tickle and there’s not much more till he’d be all but resting on lean belly, unable to help the soft chuckle (Monday!) as if he can read that thought while fingers play with the ends of dreds tickling over abdomen. And the mighty Ahroun hiding behind a pillow is damn cute - where is that Polaroid? “I told him I’d pass the message on. He said he wasn’t expecting involvement, but one was in the hospital, the other is hiding in forests around Zoe’s cabin - attacks whenever she’s alone. He mentioned the Elohim name, too. He wanted to pass his respect on, and be sure ya’ll knew, not wanting Eagles to fall under a threat they could have been warned about.”

(james)
great Gnawer Ahroun
mighty warrior of Gaia
slayer of Wyrmy thangs
hiding. beneath. a. pillow.

"Hmph." a rather muffled, Modi-esque grunt "Yeh, respect appreciated, message'll get to 'em"

or... something close to that
because he hasn't moved from beneath the pillow
it's only.... freakin.... MONDAY
and why does he have this feeling of deja vu
wasn't he feeling this way last week?
for crying. out. loud.
he'd take a vacation to the Bahamas or something
but there's a guarantee.... ga. ron. tee..... that meltdown will happen the minute he sets foot on the island
so forget it
might as well stay here
at least he doesn't have to fly or boat or anything like that
here? it seems he can just wait until the Apocalypse knocks on his damned front door
pea. chee. keen.
at this point? all he can do is laugh
(warm breath spilling against sculpted abs)
pretty sure the Kin could hear that mental rant

a sigh heaves
and he finally comes out of hiding
slowly straightening up
(dread tips crawling across flesh)
a breath huffs out, before drawn in to say something intelligent
and he catches the new scent in the apartment's recirculated air
(well, not new, but stronger)
but he doesn't give it away quite yet

(diego)
he was hoping he would stay beneath thee pillow that he would not move. that he would not hear him smell him taste him in the air. and with his head in the pillow he might not have. now however it is more likely. just more reason to move. .. he srpings into action one moment crouching as he crawled ever closer the next momentum carying him over the arm rest of the couch and pouncing directly ontop of the 2 of them in thier oh so comfy embrace. "manhandling my man are we?" his voice is deeper gravely has a hint of the growl to it which one is he talking to when he says that.

he wants to pout there both still taller than him its just not fair. extra long more k-9 tongue lashes out and liiiiiix james face. (look its how hes going to greet you from now on) "thats for moving to soon and ruining all the fun."

(tristan)
He can’t help echoing the laughter. Sometimes? That’s all you can do, after all, is laugh and shake you head and occasionally wonder just why you were chosen, why you fight the fight (or in his case, why you stay home and wait for those who fight) when it seems it will never end, and when you need the vacation the most, that’s when it knocks on your damn door.
Breath spills warm over skin of his belly and his own is caught and held as he enjoys the warmth, the closeness the comfort of having him near, of being able too (thought for a while he mighta scared him off the comfort of easy affection) just be close… and he pulls away, dreds running through fingertips and he lifts a brow as he starts to talk and then.. then!
They are pounced and his arms are involved in fending off pulling closer, adding to comfortable cuddle the little Walker with a burst of startled laughter that greets him (which one, indeed!) which falls into full on howl of amusement to see the that licking of James’ cheek… laughing so hard there’s no way he could say a word…

(james)
there's a blink
seems he wouldn't have had time to give him away anyway
because here comes Diego
flyyyying through the air
veritably landing on top of the (startled) Ahroun (and Kin)
instinct has him turning towards the alleged attack
to put his back to safety and turn eyes towards whatever it is

that then brings one "OOOF!" as the slight Latino lands from pounce
strong arm wrapping around slender body and tightening it close
momentum taking them right back down to the couch
(cause if he braced, the smaller boy would probably hit him and break, plus he's in that easy, comfortable mood)
sprawling back against the Kin
whatever he was going to answer to the first question is lost in the laughter
that lick still surprises him
(eeewww...... dog slobber!)
even if he sees the symbolism behind it
puppies seeking acceptance (and handouts) from elder, dominant animals
acceptance found in the physical contact between the three
the warmth of bodies and the medicine of laughter

and obviously... it seems to greatly amuse Tristan, too

finally, he's able to recover enough
grinning oh. so. deliberately. at the Kin and Walker both
repenting has nothing to do with it

"Here to help break in the leather, are you?"

(diego)
"you hmmmmfff oooh grrrrrrr do it again" wriggling moving and even a little shoving until is comfortable in that pile with the other 2 form shrinking (not a pleasent sound and a really strange site) so he fits better. licks tristans stomach (just because its there in front of him as he wriggles his way upwards. "cant let you do it alone. plus i made him wear them is me who should teach him how to do so"

(tristan)
James gathers Diego close and both fall back against him and all the equals? One happy Kin. Fingers ruffle through spiky hair as Diego shrinks to fit more comfortably in the happy tangle, even if there’s a startled “hey! That tickles!” under the slide of tongue over abs, and a shake of his head and blushing laughter greets evil grin from both his favorite men - but all that’s said? “works for me!” because yes indeedy they’ve tangled up like this before, and this time? There’s something infinitely more relaxed about it now that there are understandings and everything is in play, and all out fun. A hand finds a way to tug teasingly on dreds before just sprawling there comfortable with his men and nods. “I guess that means I’m at your mercy, hm?” and there ain’t nothing repentant about that grin either…

(james)
there was a time he would not be comfortable here
a time which he would back away
shoving away what he didn't understand
burying what he didn't want to
but now? it's an easy sprawl
the Kin is family - and that makes his mate family, too
that bond created that's nursed in the close contact
all in play, all in that canid reassurance
brow lifting as his head tilts up
quipping back somethign the kin had said earlier

"Careful what you offer, boyo...."

(diego)
oooh that was definatly not the right words to say hey that tickles and at your mercy? not to mention fact hes stuck on the bottom of the pile. face turns to bury self once more in abs rasp of tongue over flesh as fingres begin to search for those ever so ticklish spots he knows and loves

(tristan)
He just laughs at that easy sprawl of family and his brow lifted mimics that of the lean gnawer’s and his grin? still completely unrepentant and wickedly sly.. “I know exactly what I’m offering. Do you?” Even as he’s pulling Diego close only to YELP as there the sudden attack against ticklish abs with tongue and fingers and he’s trapped under them and there’s nothing he can do but be reduced to squirming laughter “that’s not FAIR!”

[fade as two of three players had to go]

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 07, 2003

.03.07.03. - if you're going out... [rune-imogen-luc]

[noje]

(imogen)
The weather's warmer now, a whole forty degrees farenheit, which is nothing to scoff at, when yesterday it was nineteen degrees. American weather is chaotic, warm and then cold, warm and then cold with highs and lows across the board, winters and summers that vary greatly from each other. It's a far cry from the more stable english weather.

Rain, however. Rain she knows. Rain she's familar with as she steps out side, one hand rustling the plastic bag, she carries loosely slung over two fingers. Her rainslicker allows much of the chill to seep toward her flesh as she walks out onto the balcony, her head half turning to look across at the porch of the neighbouring condo for a moment, glancing around the lifted half of the bridge that Decker and Dire decided would be 'useful'.

A smirk touches her mouth, half caustic, half exasperated, as she instead, tugs up the hood of her jacket, walking down the steps of the condo, her free hand lightly trailing across the cold slick railing. She walks from one pathway to the other, crossing piles of melting snow and damp dead grass, turning and backtracking, now up toward the mirror of her own condo, to Rune's own. As she steps up underneath the protective eave of the overhang, her hand pushes back the black cowl of her hood, throwing it back from curled and kinked hair as she takes the next few steps toward the door, and raises one hand to rap succinctly. Three times, precise, as many things about her are. A step or two back, her hand, instead of dropping to her side lifts to drag through her hair, pulling it out from beneath the collar of her jacket, eyes turned toward the doorway.

Beyond her, water drips from the porch roof, pattering softly against the railing, stairs and path far away. Clouds obscure the stars, turning the moon into nothing more than a pale diffused glow.

(rune)
Three precise knocks, no more and no less, and no sense of pack below. It's either the chairwoman of the tenant's organization coming to tell them to clean up their act or get the hell out (and it's not, and she wouldn't. She'd find someone else to do it, someone stronger, someone more official. The police, for example, or at least a security guard. Someone armed, preferably, to deal with what must be the drug dealers living next to poor Dr. Slaughter. How she stands it, the rest of the residents will never know.) or Imogen. They don't get many extraneous visitors.

Rune stretches lazily and rises from the floor, clicking the computer to sleep. The email to her parents can wait until tomorrow (strange that such creatures still have parents, adults who raised them from infancy to young adulthood, only to give them up to the war. And what strange relationships develop, later, if they survive long enough to emerge from early adolescence, if they become adults, warriors, in the eyes of their nation.) since it's already waited this long.

Rising, she pads through the living room on bare feet, squinting at the rampant gloom outside the windows distastefully before opening the door.

"Imogen." The nod up, familiar from them all, the pack's greeting unconsciously adopted from the Modi. "Use the bridge?" The Glass Walker smirks and swings the door open. "C'mon in."

(james)
the living room wasn't completely dark or completely silent
the Gnawer had been amusing himself with some I Love Lucy rerun
..... mostly amusing, anyway
at some point during the first of each evening's double dose of reruns
he had drifted off into a half-sleep
deliciously relaxed beneath the sliver moon high above
only noticing a little bit of the black and white mayhem
only hearing a little bit of Rune's relentless typing
she was typing an email to her parents
his mother wouldn't even know how to turn on a computer
so the Ahroun had busied himself elsewise

dreads tangle to form some sort of pillow
deep umber eyes slowly drag open
glancing first at the screen
then the slender form of the Walker passing infront of it
(Imogen)
that would explain the knocking
but he does little more than remove that arm that had been over his eyes
using it to dig into the couch pillows and lift himself into almost sit
nodding up in that almost sideways sort of way once the Kin gets inside

(imogen)
A brief sound that is somewhere caught between denial and a scoff, trapping in her throat even as she utters it. "No." Decker suspects that she'll never use it. Decker may very well be right. Pride and independence are a powerful cocktail and she has both in spades.

A half nod, a tilt of her chin acknowledges the offer to enter, "Thanks," as she steps inside. Her eyes flicker beyond the lithe Glass Walker to the sprawl of the Gnawer on the couch, before back again as one hand reaches up to pull down the tab of her zipper, the other reaching out to offer the bag in Rune's direction. "Your clothes." Washed no doubt, or dry cleaned, if they called for it. Common courtesies tossed out carelessly.

In the rainfilled air, the edge of her hair had dampened, having sneaked out from under the protection of her hood during her brief foray into the outdoors. Water has beaded on the black rainslicker, condensed, but the rain is not so hard as to have soaked her, through and through. It is, all in all, a perfect day to curl up inside with a good book. Or I Love Lucy Re-runs. Or an e-mail to the parents.

(rune)
"Maybe Dire'll paint it pink and line it with fake flowers in an effort to entice you across." Rune echoes the scoffing note in Imogen's brief negation, though in her throat, the sound is given full voice. "I'm throwing the fucking thing away before he gets that idea. And thanks."

Her hand uncurls to accept the bag, and she gestures toward the kitchen. "Grab yourself a beer, I'm going to go put these away." It's an easy pivot, turning around, and the Walker heads up the stairs at the end of the short hallway, feet whispering a quiet symphony on the plush carpeting.

(james)
slowly but surely
the propped up sprawl ebbs into a proper sit
weight swiveling on the plush leather
feet dropping to th.... no.... more comfortable to tuck them crosslegged
and he's still wiggling backwards to find once more that comfort zone in the overstuffed pillows
attention flickers past the two women and to the outside world
(yep, still rainin')
perfect day to stay inside where it's warm and comfortable
even if just during the last rainstorm... the last sleetstorm... he was out walking the blocks

Rune tosses out the offer to help herself to the beer
so... he... uhm..... locates the controller and turns down the volume to be polite
not that it was incredibly loud anyway
but now the hilarity and track laughter has been reduced to a low hum
free hand runs through dreads and the smile lifts sleepily
head tilting to follow Imogen's path through the condo

"How ya been?"

(imogen)
"No worries," automatically answered as she slides out of her jacket. It's put away, hung up where it won't drip, and she easily slides out of her boots, having not bothered to lace them up for that small trip across to next door. "And... I'll help."

Throw the fucking thing away, perhaps. Rune turns to walk upstairs, and Imogen steps out into the living room, heading toward the kitchen. She rarely refuses beer. Her head turns as James speaks, her hand lifting simaltaneously to brush back errant strands from her face and over her shoulder, an absent movement. Her eyes flicker to him a moment of attention before she turns away, continuing the few steps into the kitchen, the fridge hissing open as she pulls at the handle. "I've been fine," she answers over her shoulder, reaching into the fridge, bottles clinking against each other as she reaches for one. "And yourself?---" half interrupting herself to gesture at the Gnawer with a bottle, "D'you want one?"

(rune)
"Yeah? Never took you for a fake flower woman, myself." Tossed over her shoulder with half-a-smirk as she reaches the top of the stairs and disappears around the corner.

The trip upstairs is a short one, and the development is new enough that they cannot really hear her moving around upstairs until she's coming back down the steps. Then, it's only the creak of her weight on the landing, and on the third step from the bottom, the gradual crescendo of a quiet thump-thump-thump as she descends.

To the half-offer sure to come as Imogen stands at the fridge, Rune shakes her head. Instead, she crosses the living room and grabs her own beer, recently opened, abandoned beside the computer. Lifting it, she takes a long drink while padding back into the living room. The Glass Walker finds a convenient wall against which to lean, and crooks one knee, drawing up her foot to brace it against the wall.

(james)
"Please."

first a nod
then muscular shoulders roll in a shrug beneath the tangled dreads
pushing scapula further into the plush couch
a part of him wants to overthink her question
and answer in the agonizing poetry of truth from the depths of worried mind
but he lets it pass - settling for a single word even if the shadows behind his eyes speak differently

"Allright."

Rune knows better
she's well aware of the tiny little questions prickling at the back of his mind
(like tiny rat's teeth)

(imogen)
Fake flower woman. The comment tossed over Rune's shoulder results in a brief exhalation of half humour as she reaches back into the fridge for another beer.

As expected, she had turned her head to glance at Rune an eyebrow arching in question, the butts of both bottles resting against the edge of the open fridge door. The eyebrow resettles as Rune's head shakes, and she steps away from the cool wash of the fridge, a light tap of one of the beers against the door, pushing it closed. Bottle opener found, she cracks both open, a faint hiss of trapped carbonation escaping.

A flicker of her attention toward James, a moment's consideration. "Yeah?" she echoes. His eyes speak differently, and perhaps she who notices those details recognizes that, though unlike Rune, she may not know better. She didn't see bloodstained sheets, torn out throat. "Good to hear." Feet soft against a plush carpet as she approaches, coming up to the back of the couch, and offering him the open bottle, taking a long pull from her own.

(lucian)
...and its always there.

Despite the soundproofing measures, the constant vibration of Luc's "music" usually something -german- and loud. [Does Luc EVEN understand to German?] He tramps down the stairs causing the banister to vibrate with the heavy TROMP! of booted steps from the bean-pole teen.

He's been REALLY into German death-metal lately.
(..and it hasn't done much good for the galliard's disposition.)

"Ruuuuuuune!"

Ahem, would he EVER stop shouting?
(Maybe he should turn of the discman?)

(rune)
Rune's own beer is resting against the curve of her hip, cradled in the light grasp of three fingers and a thumb on the long neck. Her mouth remains in its usual little smirk, the corners of her red lips quirked upward, ever-half-amused.

It's not until Luc comes tromping down the stairs and yells for her that the expression changes, a flicker of exasperation finds expression in her brow as her gaze flickers up to the teenaged Get. With her free hand, she mimes an impression of earmuffs, or muff, as the case may be, and she doesn't reply until he has removed the headphones.

"What, Luc?"

(james)
one hand lifts, wrist to shoulder
relieving her the meager weight of the bottle
chin lifts up a bit with a "Thanks" worked into the easy smile

then here comes the cavalry
or at least the horses from the sound of the stampede on the stairs

brow lifting as he looks over his shoulder
past the pack of the couch and past the Kinfolk
yeh, he's not allright, but get him to admit it without direct questioning
(and was that a direct avoidance of the confirming 'yeah?')

(luc)
The oily mass of blond hair is pushed back onto his head with a woolen cap, a collar of small studs adorning his (albeit veiny) neck...

He's going through his "black phase" and while generally laid back, more than a few have found out that that quiet demeanor hid a louder (...he's just a kid after all) Not that the guys he's been spending time with are exactly specimens of ape society..

Its good he has friends.

The headphones are pulled off and the growly low voice rumbles seconds before he speaks [..yuo think it takes a while for the vocal noises of someone THAT tall to carry.] low shrug of greeting to James and--

Her.
[Decker's bitch.]

"Can I borrow some cash?"

LOVE teenagers.

(imogen)
"You're welcome," off handed as Luc exercises good fine galliard lungs, bellowing Rune's name. Her eyebrow lifts slightly, following James's gaze to the stairs, the young boy.

She steps away from the couch, as Rune reclines and James lounges, it's out of place to be standing. Leather hisses as she slides into one of the chairs, sinking backward, one foot tucking beneath her other leg. Her right hand (unbandaged, and she's still not used to the ease of movement) tugs lightly at the cuff of the three quarter-length sleeve of her left arm, straightening the curve of the blouse, before another swallow of beer, deep appreciation of the cold liquid.

(rune)
Luc speaks, and Rune's attention flashes to again, from where it had lingered between Imogen and James. The furrow of brief concern - the question, the evasions of answers, all that - is smoothed away as her eyes settle on the teenager.

"What do you need it for?" It's an exercise in futility, questioning him like that, but she'll play her role as Beta (make that, den mother) and go through the motions. Red nails tap lightly on the curving neck of her beer bottle, tracing the outline of the label on the sweating glass, slick in her hand. When she lifts it from her hip, it leaves a smear of condensation glistening on the leather, one that she wipes away unconsciously. In the winter, it's seventy-two degrees in here. In the summer, considerably cooler, cool enough that a sheet and perhaps even a blanket at night feels comfortable, cool enough that one can burrow beneath the covers without waking up bathed in sweat, and all because she likes her creature comforts.

Mouth sliding wider, the suggestion of her familiar smirk finding expression in her lips, in the half-staff lowering of lashes, in the sly glint of dark eyes. "Got a date?"

(james)
there's a nod up in response to the shrug
even as tall as the young Skald is
he wouldn't see a return shrug
with the back of the couch in the way and all

strangely, he's gotten quite used to the constant growl of Luc's music
most of the time he can tune it out
(or at least compromise and use it as cover noise)
but when it's blaring out of the headphones
that sure disrupts the quiet harmony the condo had enjoyed so far

he just, uh, concentrates on his beer
levels of introspection rising lately - and it seems he's comfortable with that
or at least had adapted to it rather quickly
though the last comment gets a half-snort of amusement before slugging from the bottle once more

(luc)
Sullen.

Not quite but he certainly was aware of how much he stood out. A hand reaches back to scratch against the back of his neck unconsciously moving to stand closer to James. His T-shirt only half covered by the zipped up sweatshirt taht hangs from his lanky frame.

who understood chicks?

Her question bring a lift of brows before he look to James for help (--Imo? NO, don't look that way Luc.) with the pained sigh of one having to explain something to the terminally retarded (or un-cool, same thing really.) tongue sliping over faintly cracked lips.

"Nah, the girls pay for me." Grin slow and Wiiide. And then he sobers straightening against the wall. "Band playin."

(imogen)
It's something both James and Imogen share at hte moment, the introspection. It may be really that neither he, nor she, or being hit up for money, after all. Nor do they have any requirement to play den mother or beta when the teenager comes down, all gawky limbed and music blaring, asking for some dough.

James certainly has a lot to think about, if he wants. And Imogen, true to form, rarely finds comfort in being around those with whom she is not familiar.

Her attention the conversation is sidelong, absent as she takes another swallow of her beer, her other hand raising to run through thick lengths of hair, the bright flame coloured strands pushed away from her face, away from her eyes and over her shoulders, the dampened darkness of some strands mixing and joining with the drier, freer (chaotic) strands that had managed to not be touched by rain.

(rune)
"I'm sure they do." Surprisingly enough, it's not spoken with any sort of caustic flavor to it, there's no particular edge to her words, and they just hang there, leaving the truth to question. "There's cash in the envelope in the fish bowl," she continues with a nod, rising from the couch. Dark eyes narrow faintly, long lashes skimming half closed as she confirms that the envelope is, indeed, present. "Unless you already took it. You can have forty."

Usually there's a hundred dollars there, enough for emergencies, should anyone have any, enough for cab fare, if someone comes stumbling home from a fight or a bar, enough for groceries, if Livingston has decimated the fridge, and perhaps enough to satisfy a burglar that there wasn't anymore cash around, just those fine electronics to be hawked.

"What band?" The rest of the group has fallen silent, and as she rises, the Glass Walker's attention flickers toward them, weavingly. She's used (she was used to) some sort of rampant chaos, ever-present chatter, when around pack and kin, but such things have changed, like everything else.

(james)
Nah, the girls pay for me
gets -quite- a different reaction
breaking into one of those low and easy laughs
(which seem such a rarity around most of the others these days)
his head shaking slightly
(atta' boy, Luc)

even with the moon dangling slender in the sky
when normally his mood is bookie worthy predictable
except for the shopping trip
except for the sparring session with Diego
he's been so. damned. quiet.
too easily did he absorb himself in the television rather than the idle meaningless conversation they carry when she's on the computer
too easily did he fall into the Kinfolk's expected, comfortable silence
other than the random sounds of amusement
it's just so strange
(happens when you kill yourself)

weight shifts two pillows down
and it doesn't disrupt the one he's sitting on
dark eyes flicker to follow the Walker (Beta.... lover)
then swing back over to the Fenrir
must be curiosity about the band... or something...

(luc)
He finally heads towards the fridge rubbing at his eye as he goes. Something about the way he moves reminds one of Darwin; faintly resembles pictures of oversized blonde hairless ape-men wandering through civilization pillaging unsuspecting refridgerators. There is the musical tint of glass being pushed against glass and he calls out..

"Anybody hungry?" Though to be honest he doesn't quite wait for a response pulling out a package of deli-sliced ham and picking at it as he moves back to were the group sat a beer tucked under his arm.

the headphones for thier part are still BLARING from around his neck, and even he notes the quiet.

"GreenHaus." Chug beer, burp. "--Shit Rune, you know its empty.". He took $50 last week. And what -exactly- he does when he's out..?

Well he's a shapeshifting warmachine--he can handle himself.

(rune)
"That's for fucking emergencies, Luc. You need cash for something else, you lemme know. If someone needs that - " and christ does she sound like a mother, watching him balefully as he forages through the refridgerator, dark eyes narrowing as he grabs ham ...and nothing else. "That'd be more filling if you made a fucking sand - "

- aaaaaand, cut. Because someone just heard herself, she bites her tongue and settles for a good old-fashioned eyeroll instead, self-mocking and faint with remnant amusement. "Christ, Luc. They sound like crap, and they can't play their instruments, and I thinks that's Lithuanian, they're singing, not fucking German, and they don't even do that well. "You got a timeline on when the German deathmetal phase is gonna be over?"

She waits until Luc leaves the kitchen, and then retraces the path into the kitchen, pausing to toss her empty bottle into the recycling bin before resting her hand on the handle of the fridge. "So, is anyone hungry?" Her eyes flicker across the breakfast bar into the kitchen, resting on the Gnawer and the kinfolk. She receives a faint shake of negation from Imogen and shifts her attention to James. "I think there's some leftover Italian if you don't want processed deli meats straight from the bag."

(james)
Luc sits back down with the deli-sliced ham
when the Gnawer reaches over to steal a slice
a brow lifts a little
(what, no cheese?)
but he makes due

it's around a half-chewed piece of ham that he looks up and grins
swallow first, then speak

"Yeh, pull that out, plus the sandwhich stuff." he's already getting up off the couch, half manhandling the Skald up with a hand in his collar for all of a two-second suggestion "C'mon.... if you're going out, you're going out on a full stomach."

she may not like sounding like a mother
but the Gnawer doesn't particularly care if he's called that to his face
he's not above dragging Luc to the kitchen to teach him how to make a proper sandwhich
.... and manners

(luc)
To which she gets a glare.

"..you comin--" And ---yank! He is dragged after James towards the kitchen a piece of ham hanging half-chewed from his lips. His nose wrinkles briefly until he shakes the Ahoun off of him straighing to his full height.

Not taht James COULDN'T wipe the floor with him--freakin ALL Ahroun pack.

"They're gonna bitch at me for being late.."

(rune)
"Let 'em fucking bitch, Luc." Rune calls out as she rummages through the fridge. From the meat drawer: salami, ham, american cheese, provolone, swiss, turkey, olive loaf - bloody well everything - picked up and tossed on the counter into a pile of crinkling little deli-bags. She crouches to grab a head of lettuce, discarding the first as brown and icky, before grabbing the second and tossing it onto the counter, where it rolls an uncertain path until it runs into the assembled deli meats. "The hell do you care, hmmm?"

The Glass Walker flashes the pair of her packmates a glance over her lowering shoulder as she straightens, dark hair sliding across the sharp line of her cheek. Her mouth is painted - always - fuck me red - perfect match to the wicked nails tipping her capable hands, one of which finds purchase on her hip as she turns back to study the fridge. Anything else?

Mustard and mayo are plucked from the door then shoved onto the counter. She hipchecks the door to nudge it just wider, then begins foraging leftovers. There's a quarter pizza and several white boxes of Chinese, both likely left from some massive midnight feast, or early morning romp. Strange - with this group - that they ever have leftovers, but not so much when one considers just how much food they order. Rune grabs a beer at last, then shuts the shut and leans back to rest against the surface, eyes finding their way to the teenager once more. "Where's the show?"

(james)
beer bottle hits the edge of the breakfast counter
the Ahroun looks back at the Skald and a brow.... lifts

"Tell 'em your mom was being mothery."

it was said in that don't argue sort of way
threat unspoken that he WILL wipe the floor with him for any lip
daaaaamn the Gnawer is good at this

"Sit."

nodding towards the stool on the other side of the breakfast bar
quick enough he's got a plate on the counter
relieving Rune of her fixin's and Luc of his deli-meats
ah, yes, the poor man's gourmet with his buffet of ingredients on the counter
quickly snagging the lettuce before it rolls too far
six slices of bread, mayo, mustard, salami, provolone, swiss, turkey, american, ham, lettuce, tomatooooo......er..... (he leans over and around the Walker to snag the tomato from the drawer as she forages for the rest of the leftovers).... there we go, tomato!
strategically smeared, stacked, or sliced
two sandwiches wrapped in a paper towel (or three) in five minutes or less or your sandwiches are free
held out in offering to the Fenrir

"There will be a test on this tomorrow."

grin raking over his features
won't make him late - sure they'll be wolfed down even before the kid's out the door

(luc)
He grumbles. "...out." Hell, were they gonna tape a LoJack to his ass too? Though once the sandwich stuff is out, his stomach starts to grumble and he parks his ass in a seat. Long legs stretching out adjacent to the table...

Its strange when he first joined the pack ALL he wanted to do was BE like decker, but its James he always bragged to. [...you 'member that fine pale chick in the woods?] And James who he tended to spend time with when in a talkative [..talkitive from the skald was more bitchin' than anything else.] mood.

Its like he hasn't eaten in years, [Ooooh mustard.] and the top slice is slathered with all kinds of condoments in messy procession between swillings of beer. "...why donchya tell me what y'all've up to?" Already One sandwich vanished in the unknown depths of Luc's stomach--I mean WHERE does the food go...?

besides up?

(rune)
"Well, hell," the Ahroun smirks, feeling oddly like a very strange version of Ozzy and Harriet - does this make her Harriet? - as James grabs the parental role and sends Luc to the table. Dark eyes sidetrack to her packmate (...lover) flickering over the minute movements as he goes through the business of fixing sandwichs. It's a brief glance, really, a small measure of attention, because pack's home and company's over, and soon her gaze slides back to Luc. "...I'm glad they're not setting up in my fucking living room."

Yeah, okay. Ozzy and Harriet in Seinfeld's Bizarro World.

"What we've been up to?" The beer hisses as it releases it carbonation, bubbles dancing up through the neck almost to the rim, before falling to an acceptable level. As the foam fizzes itself out, Rune slides the bottle down to rest her thigh. "I suspect your life is much more exciting, Luc. You wouldn't really wanna know waht we've been up to."

(luc)
"Yeah... maybe."

He flicks The disman off taking a last glance at the door before settling back to the sandwiches like flame to paper. (that is: eviseration.) And leans back chasing it with a mouthful of beer.

"Been thinking about pack alot--" well alot MEANT at all. "..and tribes n' stuff."

(james)
yeh, he knows how the Skald admires the Modi
half those talk/bitch sessions have been centered around the other Get
(and that fine pale chick in the woods)
but he realizes it must mean something when the Skald always comes to him for something
which is why he made the sandwiches
which is why he's done a bunch of other stuff with only that raking smile
chuckling at Rune's next comment

"Oh yeh, us old folks?" gesturing absently with a fork, he's already set out sorting through the other leftovers, figuring what he and Rune are going to find in them worth a meal "Fight the Wyrm, fight the Wyrm, day in, day out." he goes so far as to heave a dramatic sigh "So unexciting."

he'll, uh, leave the exciting things to imaginations
some strange version of Ozzie and Harriet
she's all sleek and leaning against the fridge with a beer hissing at her thigh
he's all raggedy and dreadlocked puttering around fixing food for everybody
(.....he'd've made a really good dad.....)
there's a breif glance back out to the Kinfolk
knowing she must be amused by this
though as one hip leans against the counter, waiting the microwave out
a brow lifts, attention returning to his packmate and the beer

"S'on your mind, Luc?"

(rune)
He'd've made a really good dad. Even the Glass Walker is likely thinking that as she lounges and watches the Gnawer putter around, fixing food, sorting through the leftovers and ordered-in-cases, the i-might-be-hungry-laters and the someone-else'll-probably-be-back-before-longs to make a meal of them. Doubtless he'll be able to make more than one, more than two or even three, capable of stretching the food to fill everyone's belly before wolfing it down like someone's going to take it away from him.

Rune is no longer astonished by the rate at which food disappears into Luc. She is likely not surprised by the rate at which money disappears around him, either. It's all part of the package, even if there's a rising brow for just how fast it goes down, not surprise so much as... some strange sort of awe. At least he's seated, so she doesn't have to look up, exactly, though he is perched on the low stool by the breakfast bar, so she can't quite look down on him either, tall as he is.

"What about tribes?" Unconsciously echoing James as she shifts her attention back to the young Skald.

(luc)
"Cuz I'm Anglo-Saxon n'all.."

Okay now he feels uncomfortable, it was one thing to talk to James, but to talk with Rune there [sex-sex-sex-sex.] is might distracting. He straightens a bit still picking at the leftover deli meat after the sandwiches are gone--eyes not meeting any of them, really.

"But..y'know I damned good with the fuckin computer."

(james)
the microwave dings
two plates pulled out
(how the.....? oh, must've stacked 'em with the little non-splatter cover thingie)
one of leftover Italian handed to Rune (with fork)
and he nods towards the counter for her to sit
knowing that it's easier to talk to him
but since she's Beta, the kid's gotta get used to it
one of leftover Chinese handed to the bottomless pit... er... Skald (with fork)
which puts the Gnawer closer to his line of sight
just to make it a little easier

he'll fix his own food later
pack always comes first
a brow lifting through reach back to reclaim his beer

"Ya mean Skalds can't be good on the computer?"

just because Germans aren't reputed for being much more than blistering assault war-ma-cheens
doesn't mean it's not possible

(rune)
In lieu of staring down Luc, or something, Rune's going to let the Gnawer handle it. Her head tucks down toward the plate of baked ziti, fork twirling through the cheeeeese that makes the dish so good, pulling it hither and yon so it stretches and distends until the long thread breaks and she can slurp it down.

Well, not slurp. She actually twists the long thread of melted cheese around her fork by twirling it around and around and around until there's a mouthful (and no more) easily eaten.

(luc)
"Yeah but I ain't seen Erik or Deck EVER go near the damn thing.."

He's been a bit annoyed, it was a sort of love/hate relationship to be sure. Where he wanted to ignore it and look at the girlie mags, and then remembered -- all the chicks he had met online. Well shit..

"You don't think its -fuckin- weird?"

(imogen)
She's not hungry. It's rare that she is, it seems. She doesn't particularly seem inclined for such things as food, though James (and Decker) can attest to the fact that she does eat. From time to time.

"...don't forget the fingers..." uttered somewhere as the Bone Gnawer putters around, making food for the Skald. The conversation turns toward Luc's view on tribes, and the kinwoman's attention flickers off again, dividing it from the conversation. Her beer is nearly finished, only a scant inch resting at the bottom of the bottle, splashing along the sides as she dangles it between her thumb and forefinger. On the television, Lucy re-runs have become some random television show she doesn't recognize, some comedy of some sort. Rune likely has more channels than the kinfolk, and anyhow, when is she ever home.

Her leg untucks from beneath her and she straightens, lifting to her feet, taking the last swallow of beer, tipping the bottle back.

(james)
there's a moment of even consideration
then his head slowly shakes

"Not at all, Luc. Not all Walkers are hackers. Not all Gnawers are street trash. Not all Fenrir avoid computers like the plague. Don't let yourself get drug into Tribe stereotypes. If you're good on the computer, we'll make sure you'll get better."

the fridge sucks open behind him
he hadn't even looked away from the Skald
but he's holding out another beer for Imogen

(luc)
He settles back and drains the last of the beer (that better but a nice stunt in the growing thing..) and with a small prep-aim he tosses the bottle (..light touch for such HUGE mitts..) in the recycle bin. Luc' ain't much for introspection. And his nostrils flare briefly and he nods.

"Works. Awright I'm out--" halt. "Rune?" heh, dah money.

(rune)
"You can change tribes, Luc." Some portion of then ziti devoured, Rune rests her fork against the curved edge of her plate and allows her attention to fall fully on the young Skald again. "...but you have to start over from scratch, and I don't think you want to do that. Tribe isn't just what you do, it's attitude and philosophy and everything else. James is right, there are a helluva lotta Walkers who can't hack, and who don't bother to get online, but..."

Okay: end speechifying. Rune's nostrils flare in a half-amused snort as she crosses to the counter and puts her plate aside, then digs into her pocket for the cash. Forty bucks she hands over, without a thought.

"Have fun, Luc."

(imogen)
Her attention flickers toward Rune as she speaks, leaning across the breakfast bar, a flicker of a smirk touching her mouth as she reaches out to take the beer. The subject of tribes might be an interesting one for the kinfolk. It's different for her. According to Garou society, she's already changed tribes. It took all of five minutes, and one claim.

Luc? Would have to start all over.

On the other hand, tribe may be just that much more important to the young Garou than it is to the educated kinwoman.

Fingers close around the bottle's neck, her other hand reaches out, snatching up the bottle opener, cracking the cap off with a twist of her wrist.

(james)
a grin for Imogen
then he just nods this time around
finally getting to gleaning the leftovers for his own plate
bit of a smile tossed at the Skald
something for him to think about
(should he ever stop thinking about girls long enough)

"Take it easy, bro."

not kid, not son, not anything else like that... just bro

(luc)
And he's up in a half-second.

Dropping a kiss on Rune's cheek even as the money is pocketed, "Thanks Maw--." A wink dropped to James and those long legs are already carrying him out the door, his cellphone beeping to life even as he tries to catch up with Dan.

"I'm on my way--fuck you I had shit to do.."

-slam-

(rune)
Luc manages to get out the door without an elbow in the gut or a knee in the groin. The fact that the sleek Glass Walker is still standing there, hand open (money vanished) brows lifted in the most rich look of startled surprise that has ever graced her face. Even her mouth, usually curved into an ironic half-smirk, is in on the act: a circle of astonishment, jaw still hanging open.

"Tell me he did not just do that." Some drowning glance, tossed to Imogen, tossed to James, as she manages to get all parts working again. "Tell me he did not just fucking do that."

When Skald's start kissing your cheek and calling you maw, it may just be time to throw in the towel. Or, at the least, it may be time to go out and fucking kill something, reassert your man-, uh, warriorhood again.

Since nothing in the immediate vicinity requires quick evisceration, she lifts her free hand to her cheek and scrubs vigorously for a moment or three. "Jesus fucking Christ."

(imogen)
Both eyebrows sweep upward, an arch of surprise, muted as she takes another sharp swig of her beer, watching as the Skald leaves, slamming the door behind him, so hard the frame shakes, and they can hear the condo vibrate.

A sweep of her attention back toward Rune, catching the tail end of the look, one shoulder lifting in a slight shrug, probably an action not even caught.

"Just... keep telling yourself that..." she says finally, her right hand resting flat on the breakfast bar, fingers splayed.

(james)
he.... blinks
he.... is also speechless
but not at what the Skald did
but more that it left his lover completely. richly. absolutely. fucking. speechlessly. stunned.
that expression is priceless

the Gnawer
just
laughs

it's draped against the counter has to hold himself up because if he doesn't he'll tumble onto the floor Gaia look out for the beer cause he's totally forgotten about it in stitches that's the funniest fucking thing he's ever seen howling on his way to sheer stitches he's SO gonna pay for this LAUGHING

(rune)
"I'll do that, and put in a reservation on that personal fucking time machine someone's gotta be developing." The rounded O of her red mouth slides into a sour smirk. The dark, dark gaze flickers sidelong to James (you're lucky company's here. you're going to pay for that.) before returning to Imogen. "Wanna go halves? We can stop the bridge in progress, too."

Rune snorts beneath her breath, the only suggestion that she, too, might have found the situation amusing (if it had happened to someone else, goddamnit) as she turns to retrieve her meal. Plate balanced in one hand, beer bottle in the other, she slides into a stool at the breakfast bar. Before she digs in again, she lifts her head in invitation to Imogen. "Sure you don't want something?"

(cellphone)
::...just then Imogen's Cellphone rings.::

(imogen)
A half smirk curls her lips as she steps back from James (disassociating herself from the damned), carrying the beer between her thumb and forefinger, dangling by her side, "She is going to kill you..." she informs the Gnawer matter-of-factly. Drily.

Her head turns, to look at Rune, a lift of her chin a half nod, "Yeah. We can go around righting wrongs. Or at least stopping carpentry projects and ..." a flicker of her attention toward the shut door, "...wayward teenagers."

She begins to shake her head, an inhalation to answer, perhaps to simply say no, or explain that she'd already eaten. That she doesn't want to be a bother. But the shrill sound of a cell phone distractions her attention, her head turning toward the closet. Instinctively, her hand touches her hip where her pager rests, habit. She frowns faintly, a glance over her shoulder at Rune (If you're here... and Decker doesn't call... who the...), walking toward the closet, a half muttered word under her breath (...probably a wrong...)

She digs into her pocket, thumbing the send button, silencing the cell phone midring. "Hello?"

And as the cell phone clicks in, the caller only catches a brief "'lo", catching the end of Imogen's word.

(james)
eventually.... eventually the laughter ebbs to chuckling ebbs to little bursts of amusement
(that look did NOT help)
finally physically wiping the smile away
and retrieving his own plate from the microwave
sitting down on the stool on his side of the counter
looking at his food and beer and eating like a good boy

how long has it been since he's laughed that genuinely?

"Imogen. I have no doubts."

he is so going to pay and knows it
even in their company
he inhales his food like it's going to be stolen at any second
some habits he just can't shake

(cell)
The voice is faint and scattershot. A reflection of an echo, and the smailiar sound of Shock. The voice -however- is somewhat Familiar to Dr. Slaughter, if only for its distinctive southern drawl.

And breaks in mid sentence, "--even if ya' don't remember me you gotta c-cuz.." teeth chattering. "Ah' can't call anyone else and its YER job ain't it when pe- pe- " A ragged sigh.

Does she remember the southerner from WAY back?

(rune)
"We'd need costumes, though - " offered between bites. " - and secret identities. Librarian by day, crime fighter by night. That sort of thing." Rune read her fair share of comic books. She knows how the whole superhero-thing works, and with the comment, her smirk finds its usual level even if it is interspersed by dark and sidelong looks at the Bone Gnawer.

Imogen is distracted by her cellular phone (at the glance, half a shrug. Dunno.) and James is concentrating on inhaling his food. It's a good thing she had a head start on her own plate, or she'd end the only one eating, awkward as that can be. Rune shifts her attention from Imogen to James - giving the kin privacy while she answers the call - suspecting it must be work-related. Instead, she watches the Bone Gnawer with a quiet, avid sort of attention, mentally ticking off the signs of worry that that bout of laughter wiped from his face.

(imogen)
The voice is familar, but shocked as it is, and sounding distanced, and without a face to match to the voice, she does not recognize it, or place it right away, a half frown crossing her features as she half turns toward the door, a shoulder leaning against the hallway wall. Her voice is low to begin with, soft and velvety, and she pitches it lower now, clearly heard through the cellphone. The digital age, and Imogen Slaughter gets nothing but the best.

"Who's this?" The second question had been 'how on earth did you get this number?', but at this point, she'll get one answer at a time. Chattering teeth, and certain words (remember me...its yer job...) have caught her attention, and her free hand drags through her hair, lifting strands away from her face and pushing them back as she shifts the phone against her ear.

(cell)
Teeth aare still chattering and blood had made her think of it, the immenient Dr. Slaughter. "Ah looked it up on th'internet--" So quiet that voice might be childlike, the caller sniffles briefly. "..its its.. Nina er.. Bernadette."

(james)
he doesn't even look up as the cell rings
he doesn't look up while the Kin takes the call, either
but, feeling the eyes on him?
after that last bite is swallowed
(plate clean)
the Gnawer quietly looks up
catching the dark, avid gaze
a little grin works its way onto his lips
(you don't know how much I needed that)

soon enough, long body unfolds to stand
empty plates grabbed
sponge retrieved from it's little dish
and the plates are washed as quickly as they were plucked from the cabinet to be prepared
he's turning back, hands dried on the towel hanging just to the right of the sink
the Kin's attention is turned away
so as he's passing by
fingers trail over the Walker's arm
he leans in to let his voice carry low to her ear
presumably, it's just so he doesn't interrupt the business (?) call
not just so he can find a way to touch her with warmth
just a tickle that stirs fine inky strands of hair
since, with a guest, he cannot (should. not.) do more

"Gonna see if I can get a hold of Tristan, see what that message is."

now it's his turn to meander up the stairs
heading up to call from the privacy of the line in her room

(imogen)
Long pause, long enough that perhaps Nina thought that the doctor had hung up, only the faintest sounds of life on the other end of the crystal clear cell phone proving otherwise. "....th'woman with the scrap book?"

Assumedly the question is rhetorical, because the woman's memory is good, and she trusts it, more or less. Another question follows on the heels of the first, more important as the southerner on the other end sniffles, her teeth chattering. "Why are you calling?"

(cellphone)
"Cuz--" Oh oxygen so precious and so fleeting. "A m- man just killed himself in St mary's witha scalpel an.."

Last time something like that happened, you were there.

(imogeN)
A twist of her wrist, a glance at the watch on her wrist, eyes flickering toward the ceiling. "Alright. Where are you?" She's taking a step toward the closet again, now, diggint into her jacket pocket, searching for something. "Why didn't you just call the police?" Finding her number could not have been easy. Even with the kinfolk belief that all things human can harm, it seems drastic.

(rune)
While James washes the dishes, Rune slips off the stool and tosses her beer bottle into recycling, then retrieves yet another. Three, maybe four, tonight, despite the hour. She doesn't drink the way she used to drink, though she can still drink most everyone under the table, with possibly two exceptions: Erik and Imogen.

Instead of walking into the living room and sitting down on the couch, she remains in the kitchen to allow the call to continue uninterrupted. Snippets of the conversation drift through her mind. With Luc gone and the television turned down low, the usual wall of noise is lacking.

James walks past, drifting his fingers across her arm, leans in to murmur to her, his breath hot across her ear. The short strands of her fine, inky hair scatter and dance in the minor whirlwind created by his breath. Her hand curls upward to catch his trailing fingers, drag them beneath the level of the bar and thus out of eyesite for a brief squeeze, before letting them go again.

"Gotcha." She nods, faintly, as he draws away and watches him circle through the living room and head up the stairs.

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 06, 2003

.03.06.03. - skill, not strength [diego-tristan]

[noje]

(james)
lo and behold it's actually a clear night
such a thing stunned him into actually making a point to take a walk
not just doing that needing to get out cabin fever thang
so he had wandered beneath the sodium floods and the far-off moon
finally finding his way to Grant's Gym

been awhile since he's been here

the old codger is still at the front desk
watching the fight reruns from a glory day on the little thirteen inch screen
all black and white and crackly
few packs of Camels and a large hot tea buys his way in for the night
he doesn't have a membership, so doesn't have those dues
but he still takes care of the codger and pays his way in
rather than using Rage to intimidate complacency

it also buys him a quick phone call
he leaves a message at Diego's, thinking that's probably where they'll be first anyway
(if they ever left)
giving the time, and then directions where he'd be for the next few hours
and after that, he makes his way into the slum Gym
past the ramshackle weight sets
past the taped bags
past the make-shift benches which surround the decades old ring

tattered trench tossed onto a bench infront of a rusty set of lockers
the combination half spun half forced onto the old lock
layers stripped down to wifebeater and BDUs
then the long strips of cloth are pulled out to wrap his hands
if they show, they'll show
he offered to teach but he won't force them to learn

(diego)
lets just say there was a lot of eating soap since last saw him. and they where still at diegos so they got the message.

one taxi ride later and hes turning up at the gym. light weight hell there are probably12 year olds training at this gym that are bigger than diego. yet still he enters. he pays his way in (its quick and easy). making his way slowly into the gym. half timid half excited. this latest accident with tristan has shown him that he needs to learn if for nothing else so he can break the creature who did this to the pretty boi kins neck...

gone are the expensive clothes and the layers and layers of insulation instead he is wearing a pair of loose jeans and a hodded jumper. smilling up from in the shadows is diego looking at the old (ancient ring) and the one inside it "so ready to kick my ass?"

(james)
the old codger had been expecting him
Camel dangling from between half-smiling lips, he waves Diego on in
muttering something that sounds like "ya paid foah" as eyes don't even leave the screen

by the time the small Garou gets to the back of the empty gym
the Gnawer had been boxing shadows for some time
wifebeater long stripped away in the warm warehouse turned haven
hanging over one of the sideline ropes
light sheen of sweat gleams around the savage ashed scars clawing down shoulders and back

"Depends....."

he turns around to face the younger male
chin lifting in trademark greeting - and also gesturing at the bench
there's two sets of boxing gloves laid out beside folded trench
and he's heading to climb out

"Gonna see how much you know, first... grab a seat, I'll wrap your hands."

(diego)
gods hes so small, shirt comes off along with shoes leaving only those low riding jeans held so tightly with a belt. the long scar across his back and dissapearing into his pant line stands out so clearly silver against the caramel of his skin

cloth strip is gathered and he quickly begins to wrap his left hand "my brothers pack where enforcers, i know a little bit they spent a lot of time at the gym" doesnt sound too happy about it. doesnt sound anything about it actually just flat.

(james)
motion towards the bench stops when Diego jumps right in
elbows slung across the top rope, wrists dangling freely

"Good, then you already have something to build on."

just because you're backed into a corner, doesn't mean you haven't learned anything
and the Gnawer is pretty apt at picking out the best of a bad situation
when the Walker is done and set, he holds the ropes open to allow him climbing in
slowly ambling back towards the center
hands clasped infront of him to stretch out the muscles beneath shoulder blades

"What do you know so far?"

(diego)
diego learnt long ago if you move fast enough hit hard enough and run quick enough you can often get away before the thrashing. he also learnt when he had to take it. yet all those beatings all those sessions with his brother and the rest of the pack did teach him one thing. you will get up again and you will heal. its just going to hurt like hell till you do. it is a sort of mantra a steal determination as he climbs into the ring. a vague far away smile upon his lips. the masks we wear. he stretches limbers up a few shadow punches. followed by a roundhouse kick. before finally comming to rest in front of james standing there passive waiting

"i done some kickboxing as well as ya usual tavern type brawl but i aint exactly got the upper body strength to throw a good punch." its true his body is smooth lean evern has the edge of definition but in homid he is still only 5 foot 5 and a bit and his body matches his height light weight.

(james)
a brow lifts at the roundhouse
(not bad)
but the explanation gets a soft chuckle

"Strength doesn't matter... it's aim. Your fists are small enough to hit pressure points good enough to take most guys down bigger than you."

both of his hands raise
fingers waggling in invitation
then he drops into a balanced stance
the muscular Gnawer is a good seven inches taller than the Walker
and probably outweighs him by a good fifty pounds

"Rely on skill, not strength. Bring it."

(deigo)
hes not used to having to press the attack so there is james first advantage yet he falls easily into a balanced stance hands raised enough to block to protect face. on balls of feet. he is however fast. the first few jabs are just fun. a simple test quick successions left and right like one would a bag this is followed however by a front kick that is almost as high as the small walkers body.

(james)
the first few jabs are in fun
easily met with a soft block of hands that skim the punches away
but the kid is fast
faster than the Kin
soon enough the Gnawer has to think to keep up
and that front kick nearly catches him off guard
but after the roundhouse, he was fairly prepared for it
strong hands wrapping around Diego's ankle (firm, not brutal)
holding it at the extension of the kick
brow lifting a bit
Now whatcha gonna do?

(diego)
hes too light to force the kick and to small to try and twist out of it without snapping his ankle. he grins however hes having fun at the moment its just fun.

his other leg comes up even as he throws his minimul weight backwards downwards one leg held by you being pulled downwards by gravity the other quickly rising towards your groin. his back hits the mat his arm slapping down to absorb impact.

(james)
there's a breif look of surprise
(oh.... chit...)
that.... is whatcha gonna do

...... ow.

even for a Garou, that's painful
luckily his weight was shifting forward to follow the pull of held leg
and so it doesn't land as solidly (or centrally) as it could

"Good."

wheeezed
but the Gnawer bucks it up
following through with knees hitting the mat
straddling Diego when his fist slams into the mat next to the Latino's head
grin rakes over his features
(balls wanting to slink and whimper away)

"Now what?"

(diego)
that grin is enough to do tristan prowd as he leans up and licks your face. "thats what now get off me before i follow through with my knee" doesnt want to ruin you rune might kill him. and from that position another attack on the groin is about the only one that would work at least for someone his size.

(james)
he can't help but laugh at the lick
(okay.... THAT startled him)
shifting up to stand and holding a hand out to help the Walker up

"You could throw me off, too. But please don't.... I'm already gonna need ice. C'mon.... I'll show you how to aim a punch."

(diego)
he takes the hand up gratfully smiling all the while, its feral almost dangerous smile. hand raises just to make sure jaw is in place. "i swear i am going to land a few blows this time"

he had hit the mat a number of times now. the old man was laughing from where he watched the other side of the old gym.if he only knew. they had played around they had measured each other off. and had a begining idea of where each others skill level was at. now diego was determined to at least once land a few good blows. "i feel like i should bow and talk out of sink.... oh wise sensei where did i go wrong that time"

(james)
"You let me mount you."quipped with a wry (he... licked.... me...) grin, cuase he knows there's a pun in that phrase "If your legs had been around my waist you'd have been in control. But I can show you how to get someone off you that's straddling like that to beat your face in."

but the rounds continued
the two continued to box away
commentary constantly running
little tips here and there
pointing out the openings to look for
pointing out the pressure points to aim for with gentle taps each time the Walker leaves an opening
showing how he was using Diego's own movements against him
because each time he was able to direct the swings past him

"You've got a short reach.... use it.... try to get inside my strike distance."

(diego)
his biggest problem is stepping into someones gaurd. it is both his advantage and a disadvantage for him. from the close range he can take the advantage of his shorter reach while others cannot swing properly but looses the strength in his kick. and he will do it again it is most distracting. "if i end up in that situation again you will have to show me"

the blows come fast repetative a pattern forming as fists fly just when you have it memorised block it with ease ;dont fall into a pattern they will take advantage of it' he spins the round house is slower but lot more power. you have time to block you can see its aimed high exept that he drops the other leg the last second leg sweeps .

(james)
close range loses the power of the kick
but you can also take someone to the ground with a shortrange sweep
what he's beginning to teach the little Walker is to be versatile
to think on his feet while he's at the advantage
so it will then come naturally when he's at disadvantage

that last roundhouse comes high
he's already moving to block that, too, then the pattern changes
it's not a clean sweep
he almost reacts in time to get out of it
(he street brawls, the martial arts aspect is new)
weight crashes to the mat anyway
but he's not alone
hooking fingers in Deigo's belt and hauling him off balance, too

(diego)
he rides him easily to the ground (hey all that time spent with tristan has payed off) and they find themselves in a reverse of thier original situation... diego on top. and once more he licks you. grinning "ok now show me"
straddling you fists eitherside of your face. he grins. even as he steels himself for what will probably hurt.

(james)
he's got that playful eeeewww, dog slobber! type of look
and for a moment, all action is paused because the Gnawer's just laughing

"You can do this even if someone outweighs you by a hundred pounds."

right fist wraps itself in the baggy denim by Diego's left knee
left hand settles itself on the Latino's shoulder, before it slopes into neck
his own feet plant on the mat, then hips shove up
Walker's weight thrown up above their heads
right hand dragging knee beneath and behind as the Gnawer uses his hips' momentum to roll right
effectively switching their positions on the mat
because now Diego's on his back with the Gnawer leaning over him

"But, if you know what you're doing, you can still keep the advantage."

fist unwraps from denim
patting Diego's thigh
cause lookie there.....legs are around James' waist
and therein the little Garou can remain in control
See?

"Cause if I move forward and try to belt you?" weight rocks forward just a little "Press you shoulders into the mat and arch - your legs keep me from getting any closer."

(diego)
his grin is delicious "belive me James i know exactly what can be done from this position" before his own laughter floods through his smaller frame "now get off me or i will slobber you again"

(james)
there's a wink

"Diego.... I had no doubts."

of the knowledge.... or the impending lick
when legs untangle
he's pulling backwards to stand
holding a hand out to help the Walker up again

(diego)
this is getting a bit repetative. yet once more he takes the offered hand up. pulling self to feet before falling back into a fighting stance. "lets rock" next time he brings his cd player and some music. the attack is vicious it is quick and it is filled with short alternating punches. he steps in making sure to stay inside his gaurd (he did suggest it afterall) the punches are alternated with the occasional knee trying to drive up into ribcage. the close range afterall does work for him.

(james)
they're getting better, faster
aim is honing in to where it's directed
and there's a pleased grin to see the Walker moving within the guardrange
because soon enough he's getting past to connect with skin as much as James is able to block
he's taking it easy on the kid, yes
but that doesn't mean he'll always just let him win
there's a definite improvement here
and the telltale oof of knee connecting with rib
it's the actual connection of knuckles to face that get's the bigger Garou to step back

"Good!"

(tristan)
It was a clear night, and though being Mate to a Walker has its advantages - the Gnawer way is to pay ones own way -no matter how meager the offerings may be. That’s part of the reason that he chose to meet Diego and James later - the other part? Knowing James and Diego need this time to bond, just as much as he did/does. Stepping into the ring with the FullMoon is daunting at best, and doing it in front of one’s mate would probably be worse - even if he is just Kin.
So! It’s just now the kin is making it to the Gym, a hot tea left for the old codger who mans the front. He knows James would have paid the same as before - but by now the tea is long gone and cold, so he offers a refill. A boyish grin as he steps back into the depths of the slum gym watching the two sparring in the ring. He doesn’t say anything until James steps back, not wanting to distract the smaller Walker who is damn fast (lookit them moooooves) and only when James says ‘good’ does he set his violin case on the bench and applaud, fingerless gloves somewhat muting the sound. “damn boy - doing better then I did the first time around…” offered in way of greeting.

(diego)
stepping back as james does pausing to catch his breath "pffft thats the first blow i actually managed to get past his gaurd, and hes holding back" cause diego is a delicate little thing that might just break. grining as moves over to side of ring looking down at Tristan "glad to see your here"

(james)
there's a soft laugh
his head shaking as Diego turns away
gesturing in exaggerated sign language to Tristan that the Walker is doing better than that
(even if he's holding back)
then joins them leaning on the ropes
easy grin on his face
sheen of sweat on his skin

"S'up Tris?"

[enter comp crash and some npc exit of james]

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 05, 2003

.03.05.03. - mr. soap [tristan-diego]

[noje]

(james)
he's feeling a bit like the fucking mailman
come rain or snow or shine or sleet
SLEET
and he's just ambling through it the several miles towards the apartment complex
other than the driving biting piece of ice
it's not that bad of a walk, really
head bowed, shoulders hunched up
doing the best he can to somewhat protect himself from the weather
he would have taken a cab
but the last of his cash was spent last night
and he wouldn't dare drive himself in this weather
not that there are many people on the road
so that cuts out hitchiking, too

soon enough, he's spending a little spirit candy and getting himself past the front gate
shaking like a damned dog to get the ice out of his dreads
it.... mostly works
when there's no answer at Tristan's
the Gnawer heads upstairs
following the latent scents of the other Garou and the Kin
cause he's not exactly sure what the apartment number was
though..... (sniffsniff).... he'll take a wild guess at the door from behind which the smell of pancakes comes
just... because.

so knuckles rap lightly
then he steps back to lean shoulders against the opposite wall
keeping himself in clear view of the peephole
just in case he's wrong
and also cause he's never been officially invited up here by Diego
he doesn't want to invade
but should someone take a peek out the door?
he's looking damn worried

(tristan)
Amazingly, they want the same things - its learning to mesh them and get things to work together so they’re both happy is the challenge, and an enjoyable one at that. He laughs and lean shoulders roll in a lazy shrug. “A little bit, yeah. I’ll just have to play for you later so that I don’t loose that magic touch you love so much..”
A playful wink is offered, and that’s about when there’s a knock on the door and brows lift slightly… It’s not his place, so he doesn’t head straight for the door… but waits a moment… and then softly. “I’ll see who it is…” Gaia bless peepholes.
So it’s then that he moves to the door, kissing Diego on the way by in promise not to open it - even if he recognizes who’s out there. A look out the peephole and he’s turning to Diego.. “It’s James….” It’s not -his- place to invite him in… so there’s a soft.. “Just a sec, bro” through the door. Diego will open it - or he’ll step outside… it’s his lover’s choice.

(diego)
the knock is strange, takes him by surprise has him reaching for extreemly large carving knife in the block beside him. and then tristans words filter through its james. an almost audable sigh of releif. hands that itched for the carving knide now relax placing fryingpan on stove (not on burner dont want to burn breakfast) and he pads quickly on bare feet too the front door sliding deadbolt out of the way and opening it with a smile "ola" sliding out of the way (more to get out of the breeze he is in only boxers and war paint(flour) aferall) "would you like to come in?"

(james)
being greeted with a smile goes a long way
(remember what he thought you would do....)
though a brow lifts at the warpaint
nodding a bit as he pulls off the wall
stepping in now that he's been invited

"Yeh.... came to see how Tristan was...."

(tristan)
“Hungry..” He looks somewhat sheepish as James walks in, and finds him standing there all patched up… and hands slide through his hair.. “Tried to call - no one was home… figured Dire and Decker had letcha know what happened.” He waits till james is in, and fingers caress over Diego’s finger as he pulls the door from his hand and shuts it, sliding the deadbolt back into place. “Diego called Harbin, he came last night and patched me up - still a little freaked, but physically sound.”

(diego)
the warpaint? he's making pancakes. dont ask how this evolved into smudges of white through his raven black spikes or a handprint on his right pect but it does. he nods towards the larger kin as he closes the door behind james.

moving back to the kitchen still dancing to the music that croons softly through the flat. more batter added more pancakes needed. has too gnawrers now to feed instead of just one. "you want pancakes?" as if thre will be a no,

(james)
he looks a little surprised to see the Kin all patched up
but by the end it all makes sense
he's nodding slowly while soaking it in

"Dire told me about it earlier this evening..... sorta been out of the loop since the weekend."

any explanation is distracted by the offer of pancakes
going so far as to get his head to turn and follow the small Garou
(scooby snacks?!)

"Please." as if there would be a no.... blinking to get back on track and attention back on the kin "Glad you're allright... if freaked."

(tristan)
Of course, the whole asking Harbin to come was a little tense and all, but he nods, offering a bit of a smile. “Dire saved the day. Never seen anyone pull a vertical leap like that. I made sure to pass the description of the guy to Harbin to help others be on the lookout if somehow he survived the fambe. I smashed his knee - I heard that fucker splinter… I don’t know anyone who could have pulled it off on two good legs - and he did it on one…”
and he moves around the kitchen, adding another plate and silverware to the pile - pretending to be useful, but really watching those swaying hips under the boxers as well as talking to his - their - friend.
A friend who gets a closer look, questioning, as there are shadows in his eyes that weren’t as deep before, there’s something there suggesting he’s not the only one who got beat up in the past few days.. he doesn’t question out loud, however, and only his dark eyes pose the question and offer the listening ear.

(james)
there's an affirming nod
sums right up to what Dire told him

"Speaking of being on the lookout...."

that's when he pauses
damn uncomfortable, the mellow Ahroun
even if he seems to relax finding a counter to lean against
then thinks better of it and moves to gather the condiments everyone wants
just.... something to do other than stand there

"Some of Mother's children have been infected.... got bit by one the other day, outside the condo, lost control, ripped out my own throat and Livingston's been putting my back together since."

short and sweet
no uneccesary details there
we'll allow that to explain the shadows, hm?
though he's pausing again
how the fuck do you say something like this to another Gnawer?

"So just, uh.... be careful of the rats, Tris. You, too, Diego... little fuckers went after us all."

(tristan)
lost control. Ripped out my own throat mother’s children
Well then.
He let’s james gather the condiments and watches him as he speaks, while grabbing his plate and making use of them as they arrive, butter slathered generously between every cake, followed by maple syrup, fork grabbed and he’s leaning against the counter next to Diego and staring at his bite..
How the fuck indeed…
He shakes his head slightly, and studies James - and something totally inane come to mind (oh, Livingston IS the healer…) and flits quickly away. We’ll allow that to explain the shadows for now (there is only one reason he’d tear out his throat.. went after us all) and he nods.. “Damn.. that’s..” He has nothing to say to that except nod that he will be careful.. tacking on at the end before finally taking that bite. (rats attacking is indeed something to forestall first bites) “Everyone? They allright?” A vision of Imogen’s bandage and Decker’s taping him up instead is remembered… now that makes sense.

(diego)
doesnt like rats. frowns slightly though at the news. at the implications at the result. glad though that he seems to be ok and ripped his own throat out and not someone elses. livingston was one of the pack right. know the name was on the list along with a very breif description something about bob marley. 3 plates 3 piles of pancakes the gnawrers much larger than his own. handed over to each of them as he begins to spread the first well second actually he ate one just before) with sugar and lemon juice. them all is an abstract concept to him someone the other 2 mention in reference exept imogen hes met her.

(james)
Tristan and Diego take it all in
he's busily slathering the stack with.... a little bit of everything, really
quiet through the first few bites
which sort've work through and clear nearly 1/3 of the stack
(damn the boy eats fast)
probably the best reason he could come up with to look down
nodding at bit at the end

"Yeh.... think so." does he really? "Ran some cleansing rituals and Livingston said we were good."

(tristan)
Once that first bite is taken, he quickly falls into rhythm and gives James a run for his money on the fastest Gnawer to clean his plate deal, nodding at the end, though there’s a look (…no he doesn’t think so…) but he doesn’t question it.. “Good. Explains why Decker was so protective over Imogen the other night when they patched me up enough to get home.” He pauses to chuckle and rubs a spot where that last bitta tape stuck… his grin amused.. “He taped my ribs so damn tight I couldn’t breath - and outright threatened to go tighter if I didn’t quit smiling at Imogen..” and that amused grin slides into a playful chuckle. Because he? Just smiled at Imogen again mere seconds after the warning, didn’t he.

(diego)
hes lucky to be about a 1/4 of the way through while the other 2 are cleaning thier plate and licking fingers. watching those two eat is just scary. sitting cross legged on the bench top plate in one hand fork in the other he just watches making his way slowly through his food.

(james)
plate all but licked clean
simply because that would be rude
so he's mopped up whatever saucey stuff is left with the last bit of pancake
you should see him eat when he's starving

"Yeh..... must've happened right after. I was out for a good twenty-four hours."

the shrug noncommital
pulling off from where he's been leaning to rinse the plate and leave it in the sink
reaching a hand out for Tristan's, too

"How'd it happen, anyway? Dire said he whomped on you just for fun."

(tristan)
He hands his plate over, nodding slightly his thanks, leaning against the counter next to Diego, his hand draping over diego’s knee, the move so simple, so smooth, so… comfortable… he doesn’t realize he did it right off, and then there’s a soft caress of his thumb across skin when he does. “Went out to get some dinner for Diego - the boy never eats, obviously” teasing grin, before it fades slightly.. “Was coming out of Nikki’s and this guy just barreled right into me. I had the nerve to apologize, and he started in - said I was in his way, and just stepped into my space, yannow? I was walking back - wouldn’t turn my back, because this dude was SERIOUSLY creepy, I mean my skin was trying to crawl away without me kinda creepy - and he just kept going.. I said ‘fuckin’ or something and then he was all over me about being impertinant and using filthy language and not answering his questions. He slapped me then - and I shoved him back, whaled the case into his ribs and he barely grunted, bout then he got me in the groin and jaw, I smashed his knee, Dire showed up - and the dude did that vertical leap. Dire set his ass on fire, he disappeared and Dire stood guard and called Decker and Imogen before he’d let me move…”

(diego)
there is a very low very dangerous growl that comes from the small garou. sitting on the kitchen bench.

seems strange comming from such a timid broken creature. yet there are some things that are not allowed and hurting Tristan is one of them. is glad dire was there. (who would of thought he would be glad dire and decker where anywhere but far far away)

(james)
he's not too happy about it either
they can tell by that tight hold on his temper
he's got reasons to be sad, angry, hurt, worried... even more
but it all seems to boil into frustration
thank Gaia it's a slender moon above (all. that. sleet.)
hanging out by the sink as he listens
reaching for Diego's plate, too, when he's done
the growl doesn't throw him
in fact? he's happy to hear it

"Next time? Watch your mouth.... keep Diego and I from having coronaries, hm?"

course, if Tris had gotten wind of what happened to him
he's sure he'd be burying the Kin right about now
that's when he finally looks up
a bit of that ol' familiar grin peeking through
he's damn sure Tris didn't say fuckin' only once

(tristan)
The growl gets a soft caress, and then he nods with something of a sheepish grin. “I censored twice.. the last one just kinda slipped. “ And yeah - if he had heard, if he knew more then he knows now in this aftermath and everyone’s patched up (except for those shadows. There was something more, and he knows it.) He’d have been the first to James’ side - after Rune, of course, and there would be hell to pay somewhere.
His grin answers that familiar one, and he nods.. “Yessir - I’ll be washing m’mouth out with…” Sly glance at the Latino Walker “….soap… and behave m’self.” And it was only like.. 3 times. Or so. And a few censored ones. And then afterwards with the tight wrapping job done by Decker… and. Well. Yeah. “You live and learn…” or don’t and die.

(diego)
he has to laugh at the look he cant help it. i am not soap. "where is the fun in behaving" an answering grin for his own. although he is very worried about the kin he doesnt want to have to be a hero and if Tristan goes running off to the rescue (like the knight in shinning armour he is) then Diego will follow. your going to drag us all down to hell you are.

(james)
soap.
riiiiiight.
the Ahroun sure believes that one
must be those new ergonomic bars, or something

"Well. I'm glad you're allright, now... and glad as hell Dire showed up."

who'da thunk he'd ever be grateful to the Skald?
and there's a look, there
that admonishing one that says what he won't infront of Diego
that whole 'you better watch your fuckin' mouth next time cause I'm not get my ass into trouble just to save yours cause you were cocky, you're a Gnawer, use your bigger head when it's appropriate' lecture cast into a simple, breif look
just cause it's one of those looks that just has to be...er.... said
by then he's already starting towards the door

"Gotta get back before the weather gets too bad, just wanted to check on you since I wasn't around before. Thanks for dinner Di....uh.... Mr. Soap." smirked, winked, seems there is a sense of humor beneath all those shadows "Night you two."

(tristan)
He knows, he knows. It might have been avoided, partially - but then again? James didn’t see the guys eyes. He didn’t feel the guy either, and some things really can’t be avoided and this, he thinks, was one of them. But he doesn’t say that, not even with that patented look thing the two of them have going on. There’s just a nod (I know. I will. And I got your back too, you cocky somebitch so be careful lest we both freak out Diego..) and slight grin. (Aw shucks dad..)
All without a word.
He nods, and that grin continues to play around his lips, before breaking into outright laughter at James’ parting shot… “Night James, you be careful out there, huh?” In the sleet, in the rain, in general, watch the rats, etc, etc.

(diego)
he had gottenup to start washing dishes. as once more looks are exchanged. he likes missing looks. but the conversation is not missed. Mr soap one very wet soapy spnonge hits the door just as he leaves, was obviously meant to hit him.

(james)
there's a nod mixed in with a smile, just before the door closes
(yea, yea, yea, mother.... I'll be careful.... )
he heard the water begin to run as he was heading out
then heard the tell-tale SPLAT! of something hitting the door

all they can hear is that sudden burst of laughter before bootsteps echo down the hall

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

.03.05.03. - building, rather than burning bridges [dire]

[noje]

(dire)
Dire is back. out on the deck of the condos. Sanding the edges of the bridge that decker and he built the night before. Yeah he's hanging half off the side, oneleg hooked the other dangeling as he gets the edges.

(james)
the glass door slides open with a well-oiled sigh
out steps one Gnawer onto the front deck
dreads sliding over shoulders a bit as head tilts
studying what the Skald is doing
though not precisely concerned about that precarious position
seems he totally missed the installation of their new... uh... bridge?

"Looks pretty cool."

(dire)
"Thank you.... It stressed me to see a 1 and a half meter woman jumping 2 meters, 5 meters off the ground. If she fell Decker would kill us all.

How's your kin?"

(james)
(oops *L*)

"Not exactly the brilliant glorious end I had in mind, either. Tris was fine last time I checked.... "

that would be a brow furrowing of confusion there
last time he checked was before the little rat issue
and he's been healing and pretty much MIA since
so you can bet concern's already rising

"Why?"

(dire)
He grunts and sands some more "Last time I checked he was getting the peerliving shit kicked out of him on the side of the street by some..." he waves a hand " Froggy motherfucker. So I set the sonofabitch on fire."

(james)
confusion slides rather quickly to stunned
then pissed

"What?"

better be glad that's a slender moon in the sky, Jamey-boy
hackles that flew into bristle are all but physically smoothed down
eeeaaaase up there, kid

"Thanks for setting the fucker on fire.... what happened?"

(dire)
He srugs gently and looks up from where he dangles "I figured he'd tell you.. I was out for a walk. Down by the fluff and fold and I round the corner. Se some guy bitch slap him. Then beat him down. As I was moving in the fucker jumped like 3 stories up onto a building. So I lit him up. He seems to have popped or something. Sure didn't go umbral that quick.
Tristan was pretty banged up so I got Imogen out there to fix him up. Humans don't heal like us. I'm no theurge."
"I know he's your kin and all but I just don't take kindaly to somone stomping another of the blood into the ground. Dude was kicking Tristan with those funky little leather slippers.. um... lovvvers? loffers?" He srugs "WOuld have splattered him better but even as acrobatic as I am. I can't pull off 60 foot vertical leaps."

(james)
"Been unconscious or healing since...."

a general wave back towards the front lawn
indicating the all too recent memory of the sea of rats that was there
still have to figure that one out
muscular shoulders sag a bit, when he sighs
first he couldn't protect his own packmates
and now this
just.... peachy

"Loafers." gently offered in clarification "Think the fucker's dead or....?"

(dire)
He shakes his head. "Don't know.. fire hurts and stuff but There was no body or anything. He just seemed to dissapear

(james)
he's a mind for several reactions right now
storming off to go check on his kin
storming off to rally the troops
storming off to go hide in a corner and wait for this week to freakin' end already
but since the storm is within the weeping clouds in the sky
he settles for picking out a piece of sandpaper from the pack on the table
hip finding a comfortable residence against the railing
(not quite as adept at acrobatics as the Skald)
and locates a spot where the wood's still rough
just because he knows the Get isn't too fond of smoking
and dammit he needs -something- to do with his hands right now
and rushing into things never did anyone any good

"Reminds me of the thing on the video.... some school of vertical aptitude open and we not get the flyer?"

sanding at least gives him something to focus on, even if it's already mostly done

"The fuck you think it was?"

not strong enough to obliterate a mere Kin
strong enough to leap tall buildings in a single bound
the.... hell?

(dire)
He nods. "Decker and I both saw the parelle. I got good eyes. I sware trist took out one of the bastards knees. before the jump.. he did it one legged."

(james)
he just.... nods
things just keep getting better and better
for Gaia's sake this is only Wednesday
by this weekend he'll be back in Wonderland, frolicking with the gnomes in HappyDale
place your bets, folks

"Tell Erik yet?"

(dire)
He shakes his head "Ain't seen him. Don't have much to tell really. Decker knows. He's got Rank. If he thinks it's enough to tell Erik I assume he will.
Mighty peculiar though. The guy seemed to be doing it just for the fun of doing it."

(james)
there's another nod
he understands the intricacies of Rank just as well as the Skald
if the Modi speaks up, the Modi speaks up

but that last part just gets to him
the little fluttering ripple of Rage that's clamped down tight
jaw grits, but he keeps the pressure of the sandpaper smooth and even
he knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of 'for the fun of it'
so he's quiet for a spell
Dire doesn't deserve to be the target of vented frustration

"Thanks." a brief glance up "For helping him out."

(dire)
He nods "You'd have done the same. It wasn't right. Smakin' a guy, Kickin him in the jummy... in the face. Then busting his ribs. Now if the guy did something yeah, but just for the fun of inflicting pain? That ain't right. You'd have helped too"

(james)
there's another glance up, slower this time
gee.... thanks for the details, mate
thaaaaat makes it better
but it gets replaced with a light chuckle

"Yeh.... bullying and tyranny don't sit too well with my Family."

not to mention his Camp
but you don't mention those sorts of things

"I'd've jumped in, too."

(dire)
He nods "If you want to go, go man. I'll get this." A soft look. Not a smile but an understanding "Tell um he still owes me a roll of duct tape"

(james)
"I will. Thanks Dire."

he was wearing one of those 'had to get my head straight, first' sorta looks
but along with that understanding, it was something that didn't have to be said
he finishes smoothing out the one spot he was working on
then just quietly heads back into the condo
guess he's taking a walk....

(dire)
He nods and swings back up to sit on the bridge. He reaches into the bag he brough and pulls out the grippies. You know. THe little things people put on the bottoms of their bathtubs? Those things. He opens the pack and starts afixing them very studiously to the top of the expanse

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 04, 2003

.03.04.03. - place your bets [rune]

[noje]

(rune)
It's not the only Beemer in the SuperTarget(! Leaps tall buildings in a single bound, has strange gourmet frozen foods from the world over, or at least the hoity-toty section of Swanson's and innumerable niche producers, along with everything else you might possibly want, if you're young and somewhat upwardly mobile, if you watch too much television and are mesmerized by the ads) parking lot, though perhaps it is the prettiest. The others tend to belong to harried professionals with families at home: wealthy enough to afford a Beemer, not quite wealthy enough for that personal shopper. Not yet. Not yet, and perhaps not ever, considering the state of the stock market these days.

Business is beginning to die down, though, and the store is less crowded than it usually is in the rush right before and after the dinner hour, so the parking lot is far from full. Rune still parks out in the hinterlands, in a great expanse of the furthest section of the lot, surrounded by empty space. She'll walk an extra hundred yards to keep to keep from denting her baby.

Long legs swing in easy rhythm, the urban predator's low-slung, hip-swaying gait. The sky above is yellow-orange, the familiar urban holocaust tableau glowing malevolent orange, all the light pollution reflected back by the menacing clouds. It's still drizzling - the parking lot is dotted with puddles, and the great mounds of dirty snow plowed from the asphalt have been melting sullenly all day, though still a few loom shoulder-height or above, even in relation to the tall Glass Walker.

Fucking cold as it still is when compared to SoCal, the night is warm compared to the deep freeze through which Jersey suffered for most of the winter. In celebration of the break in the season - the rain, the snowmelt, the first breath of fucking spring - the Glass Walker is wearing a black leather blazer over a creamy turtleneck instead of one of her (many) winter coats. Her booted feet ring against the pavement as they navigate the parking lot, heading toward the store entrance.

"I think Decker bought groceries yesterday - " offered, offhand, as they duck beneath the protective awning and the automatic doors yawn open for them. " - is there anything else we need?"

The moon is awakening, but slow and lazy. Somewhere above them, behind the blanket of clouds, a bare crescent curve crawls across the vault of the sky. Though some people still glance up at the pair, back off, change paths, move away, most are comfortable enough with their presence. It's so ordinary. It's almost fucking domestic.

(james)
Luna high above is slowly, sleepily, lazily awakening from her black nap
sorta like he woke up earlier - healing sure takes a lot out of you
even when a Theurge is doing most of the work
(but it's not the physical we're worried about, is it, Jamey-boy)
and perhaps a little of it lingers in his gate
long tails from the haphazard coat dance around his ankles with each step
she's got a low-slung, hip-swaying swagger
a predator's satiated and confident gate
he's got..... something far less overtly intimidating
shoulders have been returned to their upright and relaxed position
set even and firm beneath the cascade of brown dreads
each step swings slow and long, that trademark, effortless, ground-devouring stride
her boots ring against the pavement
his boots plish! in subdued play through the puddles

seems the great scab warrior Ahroun is still a kid at heart
a kid that will be more careful on the walk back to the Beemer, of course

she walks to avoid a soaking by the light drizzle
and even though he keeps pace, seems he's just strolling along
right on up into the yawning automatic doors
dark eyes squinting at the whoosh! of circulated air meant to keep the insects out during the summer
by now, he doesn't do a double-take at her question
asking him if they need anything else
he's gotten used to the simple equality of opinion
regardless of what he is or what he believes
though he can't help the slight expression of being overwhelmed and sensibly assaulted by the SuperTarget (!)
just because he's survived a trip to Neiman Marcus doesn't mean the sheer enourmity of the store doesn't get to him

"Hm-mm." accompanied by a slow shake of his head "Other than the ruined sheets and mattress, I think we're set."

always, of course, leaving the realm of possibility influenced by her whims open
another thing he's learned on such expeditions with the sleek Walker: impulse buy
he's just far more naturally practical
soak someone else's sheets and mattress all the way through with your blood? you replace the ruined objects
even better she took the wrinkled bills which formed his meager contribution without argument
not that he really expected one anyway

(rune)
She didn't make a fuss, and she didn't bat an eye, not when he made his meager contribution to the shopping expedition. She wouldn't, ever. She knows him well enough by now. She knows him very well.

And indeed, it is a faint, knowing glance she casts towards him as she turns around in the vestibule - just in front of the bank of little machines filled with gumballs and cheap toys - a brief, arch look that glances across his features and slides away as easily as it came. "Dire took some of his clothes. Considering he wears the same ones all the time, I suspect that's half his wardrobe right there, so I figured we could pick up a few pairs of jeans and a couple of t-shirts for him." Some faint smirk graces her features as she pivots smoothly and saunters toward the store map, prominently placed among the rows of shopping cars. "Can't have him walking around naked, can we?"

Her fingers glide over the store map, nails clicking against the hard plastic covering. She taps once against housewares, and then traces a path from there to menswear, and then back to furniture, waaaaaaaay in the back. In the middle, she lingers over the fitting rooms and casts him another amused little glance. "Looks like we have a battle plan. You want the cart, or do I get the honor?"

(james)
nope, no fuss at all
not even that bat of an eye or a raise of a brow
never, would she say to him 'that's... all?'
because she knows him well indeed
he'll pull his own weight, even if it's all the cash he has on hand (and it was) given up without even a second thought
which probably would only buy a pair of those jeans
but with the icelock Jersey's been in
street gunning just isn't what it used to be
it's the tap of her nail against the plastic that grabs his attention away from the cheap toys
(Stuff!)
brow lifting a little as he realizes just what a trek this will be
(one.... store is this big? It's SuperTarget, James)

"Nooooo. Though..... we would find out if Imogen gets jealous."

chuckled, playful grin slashing features in two and one-third
oh, the horrah of such a visual
easily pushed away by his distraction by where that finger lingers
(oh. baby.)
and the devious outright treasonous thoughts it inspires
because if you think about it
these fitting rooms won't be as private or soundproof
so what a fine challenge that would be.....

pay attention, James.

"You get the honors, I'll get the cart."

.... mostly.... paying attention
another wink solidifies that.... mostly....
and he's navigating around a young couple seeming equally lost as they are
(whups, sorry)
trying to decide if they should bow down and get directions from the map (therefore, approaching the strangely dangerous yet seeming so benign woman in the leather blazer) or tough it out in style
one hand wraps around the thick red plastic of the cart's basket
succeeding in cutting it from the rest of the herd
(so this is what they're like, new)
pushing it towards her with that still oh so playful little grin

"Lead on, Dr. Jones."

(rune)
"Dr. Jones?" she echoes, one fine dark brow lifting to emphasize the question. There's no question that he's more culturally literate than she. She never opens a book if she can help it (well, not for the last year, plus), and never researches anything that cannot be found online. It's not much of a problem, in most circumstances, since pretty much everything can be found online, but it's not quite the same, is it? "Where'd that come from?"

The question falls away as she curves her hand over the side of the shopping cart, helpfully guiding it around the nice young couple edging away from her, trying to rationalize their fear (maybe she's a model. then what's she doing with him? maybe he's a rock star. you know how they are.) as the pair of Garou come too close for comfort, swing around them, and head into the heart of the store.

Oh, yeah. Her gait changes here: long, deliberate, fucking stalking steps. She's an urban wolf, and shopping is her nirvana. Schooled as she is in the corrupting aspects of consumer culture (we should be citizens, not mere consumers. Our lives should be defined by more than what we have or own. Consumer culture is symptom or perhaps cause of the suburban culture, destroying the cloth of city neighborhoods where something real can rise. We never expected the country folk to understand it, but we should have taken a more active hand in - ), it's not something she thinks about now. Not much, anyway. No: she's simply fucking happy to be in her environment with her lover and a whole store full of Stuff! she might fucking need.

They make it past the jewelry counter without much trouble. She doesn't wear much. She's only wearing one piece, in fact, a plain circle of gold around her thumb. And they continue, easily enough, right on past the handbags and off-priced clearance winter gear, so very last season. It looks like they just might make it to housewares without a sidetrip when - "Is that a Dolce & Gabana tee?" - she's distracted, and releases her grip on the front of side of the cart and swerves off to one side, flipping through the rack of clothes, scattering the other brand-conscious shoppers in her wake unconsciously.

Sometimes rage is good for something. You should see her at the Macy's after-Thanksgiving sale.

"Whatcha think?" The slip of white cotton lifted, along with another and another that look just like it, from the rack. Each held up against her torso, as she strikes a pose. "Which one?"

Is there any difference between them, really?

(james)
his brow lifts, the grin is chiding

"As in Indiana?"

he simply inhaled all the cultural history he could get his hands on in the various after-hours libraries the Frankenwielers oft visited, knowing that perhaps if he couldn't afford or was lucky enough to witness it first hand at least the next best thing would be to know of it, to at least have some reference for the life he..... most likely.... really doesn't want
the glamourous Hollywood movie-star life
full of expensive cars, huge condos, swimming pools, liquor, drugs, and whim-drive shopping sprees

..... waaaaait a minute, here.
while they have her swimsuit
all that's really missing is the pool
(and the complex has one.... he thinks)
funny, the things you end up with
especially when you never expect them

they make it past the jewelry counter without incident
how he adores that she wears that single piece
it's one of the many reasons that smile never really goes completely away
just to know why and how and what for and what's behind it
it's the smallest things that mean so very much to him
then..... Dolchean Cabana... boy... huh?
there's a blink as he snaps back to the present
realizing she's veered away for something that suits her fancy
weight shifts, body slowly folding forward for this pausing interlude
elbows crossing on the push rail of the cart
he.... is somewhat amused at the way the other shoppers move out of the way
knowing what it is they react to
no wonder she always gets what she wants when on a spree, hm?
fingers idly tap a near silent beat on the steel bar in thought

"That one" chin lifts to indicate his choice "But think it's small enough?"

wicked, wicked Gnawer

(rune)
The Gnawer indicates his choice, and the sleek Walker tosses the other two back on the rack, haphazardly. Someone will pick them up, because someone is paid to pick them up, and she doesn't give it a second thought. She doesn't give the fact that she's taking the one that he picked and tossing the others back like too-small fish into the great branded sea another thought either. It's natural and only semi-conscious, the easy extension, the give and take. An older woman pawing through the next rack (sweaters, seventy-five percent off now that the season is passing) looks up and gives James a sharp glance, one that slides back to Rune with a prude's supercilious superiority. Rune catches the tail end of the look, and a perfectly arched brow rises in response.

"It's big enough for two." she murmurs, tossing the tee in the shopping cart, bumping the edge out of her way with a sleek, easy movemetn of her curving hip as she continues the two steps it takes to cover the cart's length. "...and that's just the way I want it. Well, big enough for me and your hands, anyway - unless," another sidelong glance, glittering at the disapproving woman, as she draws abrest of him and delicately disengages his elbows, hands and arms from the pushhandle of the shopping cart, settling his hands on her hips as she leans in to kiss him. (Animal).

It's a sudden assault, that kiss, and it ends as quickly as it began, though a minor encore is appended as she scrapes her teeth across his bottom lip before finally, deliberately disengaging. Two sliding, backwards steps (her hands lingering on his hands lingering on the curve of her hips until she is out of range, and the intimate contact ends) bring her to the nose of the cart. "Or maybe you can join me, hmmm? We could always see how that would work out." She arches a brow, and her red smirk curves wide and wicked, before her hand settles abruptly around the red plastic of the basket and they're off again.

Housewares! dead ahead.

(james)
the way she just flings away that which he didn't chose
it just..... blows his mind
sure, he's been treated so fairly in the pack
his opinion valued and validated when given
but this has to do with them
and perhaps a part of him still can't believe it
that beyond that, he's valued so
(everytime he's erased himself, she's drawn him back in)

the lady shooting them a dirty look gets the Ahroun's brow lifted, too
even if his aren't quite as perfectly manicured as hers
'Oh yeh, lady?' the black-(humored)-moon inspired look seems to say 'Wouldn't it just get your supporthose in all sortsa bunches if I.....'
well then.
it seems the sleek Walker had the same idea
because he's being delicately disengaged from the cart
long muscles in his back contracting to straighen
hands placed so deliberately on swaying hips (and grip)
the look drags away from the scowling lady
and that smile finds its way to his lips
(hello there)
before they're suddenly consumed and devoured and outright beastially violated in her kiss
(hoo. golly.)

don't mind me
I'ma just dribble ta ooze... righ there here
(clean up! aisle three)

safe to say
his head is somewhat spinning quite pleasently by the time she pulls away
even if he returned the gesture more than capably
quite ready to reach out and tug her back even as she so lingeringly pulls away

"Sure you don't need to try that on, darling?" he thinks better of tagging the oh so domestic honey onto the end of that, even in jest, some luck he will not push "Just to be sure?"

the very face of innocence
the very face of the dedicated lover
so understanding and agreeable and appeasing to this assertive shopping predatory way
in concern that she would spend her hard-earned money on something that fits properly
(how.... domestic)
just as she wants it - outright -demands- it
especially with the sly grin and wink tossed to the... yes... still scowling lady

"That could work. I mean.... you know I'll support you in anything you choose...."

like.... a trapeze.
he's bookin it to follow her before the lady decides to throw one of the markdown sweaters at him
amazingly good mood leaking out to include everyone in the teasing
including the innocent bystanders
housewares it is, and he can't help but become a little distracted again
half of what's here he hasn't even considered being in a house
much less a coloful (Swell!) option
but soon enough, bedding peeks around the corner
and he's pushing the cart that way

(rune)
"Tch." she murmurs disapproving as they saunter away. "I hear they have cameras in the dressing rooms. I think I like the one at home, better. And I'm not sure about those clapboard frames - "

The glance she casts over her shoulder as they disappear into housewares sweeps across the landscape behind, but comes to settle deliberately on him. " - they don't seem especially sturdy, to me." Some curving, precocious, secretive little half-smirk crawls coy across her mouth, disappears as she turns away. "Then we'd get kicked out of the store, and Decker would have to walk around naked, or, worse, stinky and - " the speech continues, she prattles on, apparently distracted by that pret. ty. martini shaker with the colorful martini glasses all packaged together, and in they go. Since she doesn't know how to make martinis, they're followed a moment later by a book of cocktail recipes, and all this without even stopping the cart.

Oh no, no. It keeps on rolling because they have a plan, and that plan will be fulfilled. It keeps rolling because they are warriors with a mission, and here are the sheets, in myriad colors - all pink and flowery, all dark and manly, and then the sheets for kids, covered in balloons or spiderman or teletubbies. Agents of the Wyrm that they are, she doesn't even touch them, not even when they're covering a nice pair of dark blue satin sheets she thinks are just perfect for Modi. Or, perhaps not quite perfect for the Modi, but - "Can't wait to see his face when I give him these - " the faint smirk, tossed back as she eases the package out from beneath the teletubby sheets and tosses them into the basket. Straightening, she continues to skim through the offerings and at last picks out a set of plain white cotten sheets, three hundred fifty thread count, of course, and tosses them back as well. " - but I suppose we have to get him something he'll actually use, too, hmmm?"

(james)
"Or soundproof."

chimed in as appropriate
isn't he helpful?
while he may enjoy the challenge that presents
he already knows of the miserable failures of keeping quiet
plus he quite prefers the cameras at home, too
that's more than obvious in the lecherous smile of remembrance

the cart keeps rolling because of their plan
the cart keeps rolling because of their mission
the cart keeps rolling, most likely, because he's idly strolling behind her in perfect synchronicity of pace so that all her browsing and tossing is coordinated with when the cart comes within a certain distance before she's off hunting for the next delicious little item that catches her eye
and his head tilts, in deep pontification of her latest picks

"Depends, you gonna get him PJs to match?"

(rune)
"Oh, now that - " she was moving again, sauntering down the aisle at her usual half-reckless pace, dark eyes methodically scanning the shelves for any other goodies (two more sets of sheets followed: black and satin, and not a comment on them, not now, how mercilessly they abuse her bed). " - is an idea. We're getting them, but I bet he won't wear them."

Around the corner, in fine order they go. Menswear is dead ahead, and are those the pajamas, and after a stop for jeans and t-shirts (two pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, two jerseys, and three packages of boxers for good measure - because if the Modi only has two pair of those, well, ewww - ) with nary a broken stride, it's on to the pajamas. The Glass Walker flips through the racks, musingly, half-humming an odd song, out of tune, beneath the cusp of her breath. After certain deliberation she picks out two sets of satin pajamas - one dark blue, perfect match for one set of sheets, another black as sin, perfect match for the others, unspoken.

Steering the cart back toward the aisle, turning back toward the check-out waaaaaaaay at the front of the store, she casts him a challenging glance over one lowering shoulder. Inky strands of hair sweep across smooth dark leather, curl across the sharp line of her cheek. "...so, is it a bet? If so, what are the fucking stakes?"

(james)
he can't help the outright laugh
of course he was serious in that suggestion
.... just because
but to see how she wholeheartedly accepts the plan
probably because she's feeling as devious as he?
too amused, is the Gnawer
just as he is at the sheets thrown in without a fucking word
he's well aware of abuse in question
(how could he not be?)
and since that makes the sheets less than perfect
well, everything must be perfect

should a Hood be so supportive of her shopping habits?
perhaps love has blinded him to how he should look down upon her self indulgence
how she is the rich propagating her own desires
course, come to think of it, the money she's spending really isn't -hers- is it?
it's earned by others, which she then takes and spends as need be
on herself, on the pack - none of which have 'real' jobs in the observable world
oh... and she spends it on him, too
(he still can't get over the donations she made in his name at Christmas)
but he doesn't think about that
because no matter what it is she gets him?
he's always so willing to give up what he has to another that needs it more than he
(which would probably explain where one of those shirts she got him the night they washed the Beemer went, don't mind that fashionable and now warm derelict down on 34th)

they roam out of housewares and towards men's clothing in fine, fine order
she may outrank him, he may live by the polite 'ladies first' motto
but that's something he doesn't think about either
because he's more concerned with the view tailing her delivers
that leather blazer hangs down only so far
a neat little line cutting right across a very tight spanse of baby-soft leather pants
leaving just enough to his imagination (face it, memories) to make the swaying, stalking, damn well dirty thought provoking walk very interesting
he almost misses that second set thrown in because his eyes are decidedly not on the available items

she's lowering a shoulder to glance back in brazen challenge
he's stepping lively to catch up (the view!) and drape an arm across those very shoulders
smooth contraction of muscle gathering her to his side to fit as a fucking perfect puzzle piece
brows lifting near arrogantly as he's quiet a moment in thought

"It's a bet, even if I doubt he'll wear them anyway." there's the slim to nothing chance the Modi will wear them just to spite her, and he's in a mood to enjoy the game, loving just to play with her "Though I wouldn't know what to set as the stakes, since I'd give you anything you asked anyway."

without even a second thought
massage, dinner, movie, money, all-night marathons, little red teddy bears... the list goes on
he's hard pressed to think of something that she'd have to work to get from him
or something that she would only acquire because he lost a bet
because he's already proven, too, he'll give her what she doesn't think to ask for
(and most of the time - never has to)

"So what do you want that you don't think I'd give.... or that you haven't bothered to get for yourself?"

(rune)
She glances up, eyebrows fluting together, eyes widening in puzzled surprise as he gathers her into his arms. It's not the gesture that surprises her, for she has become used to his easy affection when they are alone, when no one is around to watch them and condemn. She's become more than used to it, and the faint curve of a smile - a smile - that secrets itself across her lips is testament to that, as is the easy arm she slips around his waist, the warm hand she settles on his hip.

"I, well - " the dark gaze tracks up, sidelong, and slides across familiar features, lingering on his mouth before settling on his eyes. "I can't think of anything I want that you wouldn't - that you wouldn't - " quiet, now, her voice, though not quite soft (never quite soft). Some bemused lilt threads itself through her tone as her eyes slip away from his. Some glances are stark, some truths so bright and shining that they fucking burn you raw. It's a half-caught breath that spills, at last, from her lips as she finishes the statement, eyes fixed on some indefineable point in the middle of the shopping cart and all her newly chosen things. " - that you wouldn't give.

"And I can't think of anything I want - " Her mouth twists in a prescient, self-mocking little smirk. " - that I haven't gotten for myself. Does that mean the bet's off?"

(james)
above the eyes she settles her gaze on
deep, rich, soulful eyes
a brow lifts, slowly
most men would have to be tortured or behaviorally modified to give so openly and freely
but for him it's so goddamned natural
it's just the way that he is, to give her anything
to give her everything

(he already proved he'd give up his own life - without hesitation - to protect hers)

and at the way she falters and repeats herself
he only has that warm, easy, and oh so very kind (loving) grin
because he knows she already procured for herself all that she wants
because he knows she has him

"Bullshit the bet's off..... this your creative way of backing out?"

brow remains in it's lofty perch (izzat so?)
but it's dropping as the expression changes into a genuine smile
his head lowering to bump gently against hers in canid affection through the tease
something that speaks louder in it's silence than the way his arm lounges across her shoulders
the beast lurking within them both, at the strangest times, overpowering the human thesad
even though the others aren't around to condemn, and he's free to act as he wishes in the homo-sapien world
it is always the Garou that comes to surface at the root of all expression

their walk is slower, now, easy amble back down the main aisle towards the check-out way at the front
well-fed lions wandering back to the den from their shopping kill
no need to hurry, now, for the deed has been done, the mission accomplished
because as soon as they leave the yawning sliding doors
they're back in the world of the others once again

"There must be -something- you can think of, and I'm holding you to the bet, even if all I win is the knowledge you had to struggle to think of what you wanted."

(rune)
"Hey - " his pace is easy and long, the ground devouring stride of someone who always has to walk whereever he wants to go, and can walk until he gets there, a casual counterpoint to her own, the low predatory sway, slowed into syncopated rhythm with his, three-two alteration in 6/8 time. " - bastard. I'm not backing out."

Her chin rises in flat defiance of the suggestion, lifting her head against his and nudging him back. The gesture is accompanied by a subtle hipcheck, some minor aberration in her swaying gait, just a little extra ooomph to the motion of her hips.

"But you were right, there's nothing - " some intimation of a very spoiled woman's whine in those words. In a different life, in a different time (perhaps in different circumstances in this one), she could easily be someone he would despise, so bathed in luxury, so used to have her damned way in everything that she's blinded to the needs and deeds of the whole rest of the world, the center of her own universe, the sun around which everything else must revolve. The statement is shortened abruptly, bitten off. Perhaps she heard some remnant of the woman she might have been had her world not changed abruptly over a decade ago. Perhaps, instead, her mind danced across darker territory, the dark and bitter playground of jealousies and frustrations that flourishes in the darkest corner of even a loving heart. "Fine, fine!"

"Since you insist - " a playful, exaggerated roll of her eyes as they fall back into step once more. "If I win, you're coming with me for a day at the spa. Mudbath, cucumber eye treatments, shiatsu massage, the works. And - you'll have to pay particular attention to the massage, since I'll want you to demonstrate what you've learned when we get home. Now, if you win?" Somehow, they've covered the ground between menswear waaaaaaaaaay at the back of the store and the checkouts waaaaaaay at the front. Half-disentangling herself, Rune tosses their purchases onto the conveyor belt and offers the cashier her credit card, distractedly, dark eyes finding umber as she manuevers the cart around and then sends it rolling off to be recycled for the next lucky patron.

(james)
she swears at him
and he laughs
that low, rolling, infinitely amused sound that rumbles and purrs out of his chest
there's already a little victorious shine in deep umber eyes
just because he knows he got to her
(probably because he knows, too, that's all he's gonna win, so live it up boy)
just because he got that playful, exaggerated roll of her eyes

she disentangles herself to put the stuff (Stuff!) on the conveyor
and he, sorta just lets her, when he'd normally pitch in to help
because brows lift as she rattles off her prize
a little incredulity goes a long way

"Oh... kay." deep breath, James, digest that "I think I can survive that."

even if he has no idea what to think of it
a Bone Gnawer at a spa
at least with the mud bath and the dreads he'll be fittingly bohemian
or.... something like that
there's still a reasonable doubletake
(a trape......spa??)
but at this point he's just chuckling quietly to himself
being useful and grabbing the stuffed bags as she signs the receipt
(the massage end result doesn't sound all too offensive, either)
oh.... this.... should be priceless

plus, being thrown by her request gives him time to scramble and think
if it was hard for the sleek Walker? it's downright near impossible for the Gnawer
all he needs is her love, and he has that, unquestionably
'want' is a concept so rarely applied to himself
others need and want, the Hood provides
so the walk through the rain is filled with pseudo-glances and half breaths
suggestions fizzling out before they really begin
because they just aren't right
it isn't something he undeniably -wants-
so he will not cheapen their game with a half-assed request
more than once he circles back around to that proverbial drawing board
the words swallowed as the glance skims away beneath furrowed brow
the grin is there, though, no doubts about it
because he know how she's enjoying the way turnabout has become fair play

"Okay."

finally!
the epiphany has struck!
the heavenly chorus swells operatic and the blazing white light breaks through the clouds!
the sound punctuated by the secure and firm (but never slam) closure of the Beemer's trunk
safely locking in all their little items
and the very integral portion of their bet

"If I win? I want dinner."

he's reaching out, now
fingers plucking and catching at the leather blazer
pulling her right. on. up. to his chest
hands creeping beneath the jacket, and snaking around her waist
warm and smooth over the creamy sweater covering her back
circling to an easy embrace in these final moments they're alone
chin dropping just that little bit so their dark eyes meet
allowing her to think about that little request
before the smile slowly begins around his eyes
deepening the little wrinkles as if they, alone, were what caused his lips to curve
at first it's the adoration so familiar in the expressions he offers her
then it deepens and sharpens into something so invitingly animal
because, oh yes, there's more

"No take-out. No expensive resturaunts. I want dinner at home. I want you to make the choice of what it is.... because you're going to be the one to cook it."

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 02, 2003

.03.02.03. - whenever you're ready [rune]

[north jersey]

(rune)
Ten or fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty minutes after leaving the condominium complex, Rune found James sprawled - bleeding and unconscious - in the service alley behind a shopping center less than a mile away. He could not have gone far, of course, in the brief span of time between his retreat and the hard snap of his conscious mind from the baseline sense of totemic communication. Five minutes later (half the time spent trying, somehow, to hold down her gorge, the acid sting of bile rising harsh in her throat at the sight: collapsed on his back, both now-human hands close to his eviscerated throat, the wounds raw and ragged and so fucking deep that for a split second before the slow, agonized rise of his chest caught her attention, the wheezing sigh of breath not through his mouth but through the bubbling mess of flesh and muscle and tissue asserted otherwise, she thought him dead, and dead by his own traitorous hand) she had him maneuvered into the passenger's seat of the Beemer, her stripped t-shirt around his throat as a make-shift bandage. Nevermind the fine leather upholstery, it was the upright position that worried her

Note to self: next time, take the truck.

He will wake up, hours later, in Decker's room rather than her own. The bed is more stable, she kicked the Modi out for the night and sent him to the couch, or upstairs to sleep in the big black bed with its rolling mattress and slippery sheets after sending him to bag up the bodies Dire had so helpfully hosed down the sidewalk in front of the building to one of the neighbors' stoops.

Dirty work, that.

Hours later, the Gnawer will wake up in Decker's bed. Livingston is out back, getting high, recharging his spirit battery and ready for the next task, on theory that the arm might have to go. He can feel her presence in the room, should he think about it, sprawling in Decker's ratty old lazy-boy, and hear the low hum of the Modi's little 13" black and white television. She hasn't changed clothes again, and is wearing only her dedicated leather pants and a bra, having tossed her t-shirt into the wash with liberal amounts of bleach in hopes of getting the stain of (his) blood from the white cotton. She did not leave the room until Livingston arrived, and only then did she trudge outside to help the Modi finish the clean-up in the last hour of pre-dawn light. They were lucky that is was a Sunday, and none of the go-get-'em types were up (as usual) before dawn for the long commute to their cubicles in the city, or on the ring of development just outside.

Elbow crooked on the arm, chin rsting in the crescent curve of her cradling hand, she stares at the wall above the bed rather than the screen, where some cheap old Godzilla movie crawls across the screen, dialogue moving at a different pace than the mouths of the frightened residents of Tokyo, lightning shooting from the monster's beady eyes as he lumbers among the skyscrapers, tearing off chunks of the soaking buildings as if he were a drunken guest at a wedding, taking handfuls from the towering wedding cake and smearing them across his mouth. Half-lidded eyes flicker, now and again, from the blank wall, the patterns made by the mix of shadow and light, to her lover's body, stretched prone and quiet (but breathing, at least) on the bed, and then back to the television, before returning to the safety of the blank, bleak wall.

(rune rolling healing for James:
to Rune: 6D10 Dice Roll: 8; 9; 8; 5; 7; 6
to Rune: 6D10 Dice Roll: 1; 3; 6; 3; 6; 2
six levels, yay!)

(james)
he remembers running
for the first time in his 21 year life-span
he actually ran
a part of him kept telling himself it wasn't out of fear
that he was doing it for the safety of his pack
(clear as the burn of alcohol on a fresh wound that killing strike at Rune)
but he knows he left them to the rodent rain
but he knows he abandoned them in the middle of battle
even if he tries to think it was just for saving their lives
the only answer he had to the question of whether he'd continue to turn on them

by ending his own?

he didn't fight when the talons went for his throat
guilty enough for attacking and mauling one mate
he doesn't think he could bear the memory of it happening again
even if it wasn't in his control
perhaps there was a part of him that wished it to happen

ever wonder what it feels like to rip out your own jugular?
(now you know)

hours ago, the world went black
in some nameless alley less than a smile away
and now, as the world keeps turning and Godzilla deccimates Tokyo (again)
the world is beginning to regain some color in the rotation

...................ouch

first it's the throbbing in his shoulder and arm
that strange sensation of actually having the arm back under his control
a wriggle or two of fingers that happen by his own design, rather than sudden spasm
a twitching scratch against the sheets
that's when he realizes it's time to take a slow breath
second it's the searing burn of affirming, yes indeed, his throat is still intact, too (whee!)
...... this must be what strep feels like
that's what causes lips to pull back in minor grimace
teeth bared to.... erm.... wherever he is, eyes refuse to open yet
air hissed past his teeth as if sadistic aid to sorting his neck back out
(sorting his head out will be a whole other, painful process)

(rune)
"Ay-yi! Ay-yi!" Someone's screaming as another building topples. With a faint, lifting shrug, the dull-eyed Glass Walker skims back toward the screen. Under other circumstances, the sheer fakery of the old-style special affects might bring a smirk of appreciation to the curve of her full mouth, but now the sight receives only a flicker of a gaze. Weariness drags her her eyeslids down over dark orbs, and she stifles a sigh as her eyes shift back to the wall. Dark head tiltling to the side, eyes narrowing to play with the shape of shadows creeping up the wall as the morning crawls onward, when -
what was that?

- the scritching sound of voluntary movement against the sheets, the twitch of his (possessed) arm against the woven cotton. Awareness lances through her body, and she half-rises in the lazy-boy, shifting from languid sprawl to rise to one knee. One hand curves over the armrest, gripping both to stabilize, and as pivot point for a possible vault. The other rises to shift the fine strands of her inky hair away from her sharp-featured face, pushing them up from brow and back across the crown of her head, until they filter and fall behind her ears.

"James?" There's more to that one-worded question than most could know.

(james)
there's the slow, thick, clicking sound of (voluntary!!) swallow
movement bringing yet another grimace
he may be Garou, but things like that hurt
and the next breath actually brings scents washing over his senses
weed, sweat, Decker, Livingston.... (bless Gaia).... Rune
(James?)

"Hmmph."

it's a sound half moaned half groaned and one hundred percent aching from his battered throat
not quite at the point of forming words yet
the world is still soupy fog
he wouldn't quite be able to pinpoint where she was just yet anyway
there's a lightning storm of flickering lights
there's thunder of the great beast roaring over Japan
there's the apocalyptic fire of the sun cutting through the blinds
and when eyes finally dare to slit open
(the fuck am I?)
he can see the dark shadow of her movement
the way she rises to the readied perch
brows furrowing in focusing frown

"Hey....."

trying again
this times words fumble through
raw and husky, from the still-healing damage
by now he's struggling to sit up
one elbow sinking into the mattress
once-(still?)-possessed hand reaching to drag through still bloodcrusted dreads
before it's dropped infront of his face
fingers flexing fist and open once more
something that seems to surprise him, really
(I.... meant to do that....)

(rune)
Her grip on the arm of the recliner does indeed become a pivot point, though with less urgency (thankfully) than she had earlier anticipated. Whether she thought she would need to stop him from attacking her, or attacking himself, (or both) is not entirely clear, but the ratcheting down of tension in her taut spine, the easing of tensed muscles in her shoulders as she swings herself over the arm of the unstable lazyboy is welcome response to the welcome sight of him, pushing his hand through his blood-encrusted dreadlocks rather than tearing away at his own throat.

Long legs sweep over the arm of the recliner as she unfolds herself from its embrace, a hand resting on the back of the chair as ward against the inevitable recoil and balance point as well. The last step is a stumbling one, as she midjudged the balance of the unstable chair and it slipped beneath her shifting weight as she extracted a second long leatherclad leg, sending her forward more quickly than she intended. The impact of her collision with the edge of Decker's bed is softened by the forward sweep of her arm, and then she's beside him, weight dipping the mattress toward the edge, though not so violently as the waterbed.

"Welcome back." Her voice is subdued and quiet, and her dark eyes roam across his features, lingering on the vicious necklace of bruising encircling his throat. Her wounds healed in minutes, but they were inflicted by ratlings and then deepened by stainless steel blade. His, gouged by the Crinos claws of his rebellious arm, are not so easily closed. "How are you - " caution in the tone, some shadow of concern swallowed hard in the middle of the otherwise flat statement (war hardens all hearts) " - feeling?"

Her fingers brush lightly over his shoulder, a ghost touch across the the sharp line of his collar bone, the warm pads of her fingers tipped by tickling brush of sharp red nails.

(james)
she's rising from the recliner
and it seems the epiphany of control over his hand is forgotten
dark, bloodshot eyes swing back up to her form
following the haphazard misbalanced fall of grace
watching the tension bleed from her frame
enamoured with the way she's drawn closer and into focus
weight slinking and sinking the mattress

how he aches to reach for her
wrap her in strong arms and pull her close
reacquaint himself with the fact she's in one piece and alive
the wound deepened with the memory of reaching for her in blood
unable to stop the attempt to physically divorce her from her spine

the thoughts temper his actions
hands planting themselves against the sheets and firm mattress
weight rotating around lifting shoulders in sloooooooow drag upright
moving his hips beneath center of gravity
the breif moment allowing a glance around the foreign room
(must be Decker's, by the scent.... so this is where the Troll King sleeps....)
drowning in the light touch across his shoulder
that's when he reaches back

it's not the strong assertion that he, too, is alive
it's tentative, and full of regret
this absent (memorizing) trace along the stretched leather gloving thigh
not his dominant right arm, oh no
the entire upright move was to free up the other
so he wouldn't reach for her with that arm again just yet
fingers along his left hand wandering some invisable trail

"Like you should have left me in the alley."

somehow, he knows she was the one that brought him back
the words rolling unevenly across his tongue
he can't meet her eyes
instead attempting to make sense of some formless pile of.... stuff... on the shadowed floor
he doesn't know if the taint is gone
he doesn't know what he risked by running
he doesn't know if the next time he reaches for her it will be craving blood
all he has are his (horrifying, haunting) memories

(rune)
Her features are cast in slats of shadow and light, as the rising sun streams through the shuttered blinds in thin but blazing bands. One strip of sunfire blazes across her dark eyes, blinding her momentarily. She dips her head and shifts positions - dragging herself another half-inch toward the headboard - until the light no longer blinds her, dark gaze flickering up and over the blinds in a brief frisson of irritation, before falling once more to his hand, as it traces its invisible path along the smooth leather encasing her strong thigh.

Like you should have left me in that alley.

At his words, her eyes narrow and her chin rises sharply as she finds his gaze and stares hard at the downward slant of his evasive gaze. Beneath his trailing fingers, beneath the smooth second-skin of leather, the muscles in her thigh bunch and tense. "Fuck that, James." Her mouth twists into a stark, flat line, lips thinned with irritation. "Don't fucking say things like that."

Nostrils flare. The pads of her fingers close around his shoulder in a tightening grip, released suddenly when her nails graze against the deep bruise circling his neck like a high, mottled collar: purple and sullen yellow and bilious green and gray and black, all the colors of a gothic rainbow. Her right hand hovers over his shoulder, then shifts back to grip the headboard, hard, while the left finds some twisted purchase among the bloodied sheets.

"Don't say a fucking thing like that."

(james)
he doesn't recoil from the pressure that creeps and burns through his throat from the near-insult of nails' graze
it's not the dull ache flaring to life again through the gothic rainbow bruise
(those injuries are so much more than skin deep)
and perhaps it's not from the sharpness in her voice; the flare in her eyes; the irritation lining her lips
maybe, for once, for the first time in months, the barrier of Rank has risen between them again
she grips the headboard, nails digging into the wood which he leans slowly back against
the tender touch removing itself from her thigh as shoulders press on cool grain
(the Omega remembers his place)

"Why not."

those words are so incredibly soft
not just from the injuries this time
but from the ache it has left behind

"Do you have any idea what I almost did to you last night?"

it doesn't seem to matter that he tore out his own throat
it doesn't seem to matter that he may end up losing the arm
it's the fact he couldn't control going after her that pains him most

(rune)
"I know."

She removes her touch, he removes his. Nails scrape along the battered headboard, which groans beneath the sudden press of her balanced weight as she rises in a furious arc of motion. Better to bleed the riot of whatever strange mixture of emotion now runs in incindiery current with remnant rage and the long smoldering fuse of exhaustion and worry in motion, in movement, than to remain seated, stiffening, as the barrier rises again between them.

"I know what you almost did. And I fucking know that you stopped yourself before it happened. I know that it was beyond your control, and there was no fucking way we could have anticipated it, and I know what you did rather than turn on us, on me." She has stalked the length of the bed, pivoted to define an elongated L along the base, kicking the discarded comforter (unsuccessfully) out of her way.

Leather creaks at odd intervals from the movement, interrupted the rhythm swish of her long strides, which are again interrupted as she bends to disentangle the bulk of the comforter from her long legs and toss it aside. "And if Dire had been bitten first, or Imogen, or me, or fucking anybody else, the same fucking thing would've happened. And, fucking hell, if you hadn't been bitten first then we wouldn't've fucking known and the three of us would've gone apeshit with Imogen there and who fucking knows what would've happened. If you think that - if you fucking think that - "

She stops short, lifting her hands to run them through her hair, pushing the fine strands away from her face, away and back more than once, for lack of anything else do to with her hands, for lack of anyone in the immediate vicinity to throttle (the last thing he needs right now). " - that's just, that's just a stupid fucking thing to think."

(james)
their touches pull away
then she removes herself completely
perhaps it's the respect of rank that keeps his eyes on her stalking form
even if he doesn't look to meet her blazing eyes
rather than offering her the side of his head and neck to watch the floor again
the deeply ingrained canid submission that's coursing beneath his human skin

when she moves away, his legs pull up
slowly crossing to help balance out the equation of his weight
(the instinctual move to submit yet protect one's belly)
he's uncomfortable enough being in another's den, another's bed
the shame and agitation isn't helping
but he controls it
so instead of just slinking away
he toughs it out and listens

because she knows
she understands
she's rationalizing what it is that happened so fast in his mind
funneling the possibilities and excuses into an avalanche of irritated words
finding the victory when he's blinded by defeat
at least now he knows they're okay
but his words are still so soft

"How do I know it won't happen again."

it's a true fear within him
he's held the tattered remains of his mate before
he's left a bloody trail of footprints from where his pack silently lay in pieces
he feels fine, sure, but how does he know the taint is gone
just because he hasn't lashed out at her this very moment, how does he know the ordeal is over
she can see the thousand questions haunting his eyes

(...tell me, bitch-rhya, rune-love, tell me how I can trust myself tomorrow, the next day, and the days that form after, when you're soundly sleeping by my side...)

(rune)
"Look at me, James." The pacing stops, the path shifts. She turns in one smooth movement, shins and knees pressing against the foot of the mattress as she twists at the waist and and hip to settle again on the foot of the mattress. "We were all bitten."

Several long, deep breaths to steady the fizzing electric nerves, skipping and shorting livewire beneath her smooth, unblemished skin. How easily they heal all but the worst of wounds. Several long, deep breaths sucked in and exhaled, until calm or the semblance thereof descends once more. Lucky, they are, for the new moon, the blank moon, the trickster's moon riding shrouded through the vault of the night sky.

"We were all bitten. We excised the flesh around the wounds and then cleansed each other." Dark eyes skew from his gaze to his hand, his right hand, his strong arm, the fingers open, the bare flesh unblemished. "I cut around the bite before you were healed, and I know the rite of cleansing." She glances away, before her eyes return to his traitorous arm, mouth thinning against the cold truth. "I don't know if that's enough. Perhaps it will be, the Theurge should know, once it's done, if it's enough." Another breath, to fortify her, and she finds his eyes again. He deserves that much: a direct glance to accompany the hard truth of the possibilities. "If not, we can take the arm."

It will grow back, but such grievous wounds leave scars - shriveled limbs, lessened strength, atrophied muscles, even on their kind, without a Shaman to heal the damage immediately.

(james)
he looks up when she tells him to
out of love, respect, or fear of disobeying... it's unclear
deep, soulful umber eyes reaching for her as he physically won't allow
not yet

(We were all bitten)
oh, that helps
he scampers off and they all get bitten
even if she told him to look up, the gaze slides away again
the excuse to study the healed hand (still flexing of his own volition) enough for now
his eyes lift when she takes the breath to fortify herself
saying what it is he already knows
but it still causes his gaze to plummet

an animal will chew off it's own foot when in a trap
it is a decision that takes no rationalization, rather a simple deduction of primal logic
better to live free in pieces than to remain staked for the hunter's approaching death
the cripples become legendary, their struggling defeat of adversity spreading far and wide
it's the ones that escape the traps that become wise and old
then tell the man he may lose his arm
tell the drummer he will have to put down his rhythm which, because of scarring, he may never find again
tell the Gnawer that the only thing he's ever possessed that's truly been his may be taken away
tell the Warrior he must sacrifice the weapon he was born with, in order to heal it, yet know if something goes wrong that the weapon will become brittle and weak and ineffective
even among their kind there are some wounds that will not, cannot heal
a singular tone sounds, in the echoing depths of his mind
the smallest clarity of thought rising once more to the murky surface

perhaps he's hung around the Get too much
(..... you should have left me there)
better to die than to be weak

she took a single breath to fortify herself
he.... takes many, allowing that tone to echo into silence
and she can see the trains of thought barreling down his mental tracks
he's lost the schedule and can't figure out which one is boarding now
so, dammit, he's getting left behind again....
it's a long while later that hands lift to run through bloodtangled dreads
finally lifting his gaze back to hers

"We'll let the Theurge finish..... and.... if it's not enough, take it."

(rune)
"Alright then." Her words are clear and quiet, attention shearing away from him to the edges of the room, flickering over the the battered trunk, the old television with its jury-rigged antenna made out of a twisted bit of wire hanger. "Christ." Half-muttered under her breath, as she flickers her gaze away to find something else to look at. "Could hook that up to the cable for him. Fucking hell."

Calmer and clearer her voice, some bulwark of steadiness in the noisome storm of doubt and irritation, all the myriad threads that ravel from around the narrow ball of spent rage hard in the pit of her stomach.

"You want something to drink, maybe a shower?" Before anything else, of course. Before cleansing, before the possibility of limb-severing and whatever that entails. Condemned prisoners, after all, get a last meal before their (mostly painless) executions. It was the least she could offer him. Her hands find purchase on her hip and on the sheets. Clean, here, at the foot of the bed, but stained and stiff with blood where she carried him earlier. Dark eyes follow a trail up the bed, over his crossed legs, the defensive posture, and up to settle on his features. Close to his eyes, her gaze, but never quite meeting them, before falling back to his arm. "Nothing strange since you woke up?"

(james)
she strings together some random cursing to make sense of it
turning the thoughts outward to the room around them
the constructive things that could be done to fix and improve
or at least get the Modi into some semblance of living in the condo, instead of only sharing the roof
he.... just quietly thinks about it, stays focused inward
dark eyes studying his hand, the connected arm, down again to the thick layer of blood on the sheets
he's just as much defensive as withdrawn

he's used to the ups and downs of a Warrior's life
but this... is a bit to swallow

"Got a cigarette?"

a wry, darkly sharp expression finds its way over his lips
he can't help some amusement at the irony contained in that
maybe he should ask for a blindfold, too
cause he knows she has one
then the caustic smile that lifted the corners of his lips falls
a smooth flow of muscle into thoughtful frown
head shakes, dreads tug at his shirt where they've dried to them

"Nah, nothing strange."

he could use a stiff drink
something to numb this strange pain slicing and dicing at him
but why give them one more thing to cleanse?
he could damn well use a shower, too
not exactly sure what he fell into in those moments just before the world went black
these sheets are probably going to get burned rather than bleached and washed
but if worse comes to worse, why end up having to take two showers?

(rune)
"Yeah." The bed shifts beneath her weight as she rises, compressed coils and foam in the mattress sighing as the pressure is released and they open again. The nails of her left hand catch on the weave of the cotton, some faint hiss accompanying the subvocal sound of the bed rearraging itself to support only his weight. She pauses at the foot of the bed, smooth the rumpled sheets out in an unconscious gesture, mouth curved in an expression that is neither a smile nor a smirk, nor even a curled, half-birthed attempt to form one or the other. "Good."

She spent her verbosity on her rambling speech earlier. Now she can find few enough words to offer him. What, exactly, do you say? (It'll grow back. I've seen worse. We'll both suffer worse, before the end. You're going to be just fine.) Callous approbations to suck it up, or empty phrases of false reassurance, all of which cross her mind in some low hum as she considers and discards them as mere mental noise, none of which sit easily on her tongue.

"Good."

Bare feet on carpet, the symphony of unimpeded movement: a few long sweeping strides that begin at the curve of her hip and unfurl through the long, taut muscles of her legs, outlined by form-fitting leather. She sweeps low, grabs the cigarettes and ashtray from the floor beside Decker's tattered recliner and returns to his side. The pack is offered as she sits again, curving one leg beneath her while the other still sweeps to the floor. The ashtray is pushed across the stiffened sheets toward him, and a lighter produced from her pocket. Two fingers crooked as he receives the pack: she could use a smoke, too.

(james)
there are worse situations to be in
it will grow back, even if it won't be the same
we'll both suffer far worse before we are finally killed
one of us will watch the other die

they fight this war... why... again?

he's at the point he can only laugh, softly
she says good - twice - and it brings a little grin
at least she wasn't going to offer the false comforts
when she sinks down to the mattress, he scoots over a little bit
it's not shrinking away this time
this time, he's making room for her to sit beside him

two smokes plucked out of her pack
both strippa pink.... just because
gold filters twin between his lips
brow furrows on the inhale
(that... burns)
but sure enough both are lit
and one's handed back to her
ashtray settled between them
pack placed nearby
deeeeep breath, James
long on the exhale, smoke clouding towards the ceiling

"How long we got?"

(rune)
He scoots over to make room, and while he's lifting both cigarettes, she's scooting to sit more fully on the bed. Hips twist, and her hands, flat against the stiff crimson on the sheets curl to aid the transition as she shifts her weight and twists her body until her shoulders are against the headboard, her long legs uncurled in front of her, the left one crooked at the knee, bare foot flat against the bed.

She accepts the cigarette with relatively good humor, right arm lifting at the awkward angle necessary to accept the transfer when they sit beside each at such close quarters. "I'm not sure." Half-a-glance, sent sidelong through the curling veil of lashes lowered to shade her eyes. "Whenever you're ready. Whenever Livingston's ready. Doesn't seem urgent," some gesture, uncompleted, with the lit cigarette still burning in her hand. " - but it's not something we should put off too long, either."

The reasons remain unspoken. Both of them know, after all. It's been too long already, a few more minutes, an hour or two could hardly hurt. Just like a rat bite: minor wound, something that registers as an annoyance more than real danger. Insidious.

She lifts the smoldering cigarette to her mouth now, and takes a long, deep drag before her hand slides aside and she taps ash into the ashtray between them. Her eyes rise and graze across the opposite wall, some pin-up, black and white, tasteful, really, as such things go. Across the space between them, her elbow brushes against his upper arm.

"I'll be there, James." Some faint shrug, the graze of her bare skin against his. Even the joint of her elbow is smooth, pumiced and polished and exfoliated, daily. "You know that. For whatever it's worth."

(james)
"Well, I won't rush him...."

it shouldn't be put off
he can't help wanting to, though
so we'll lay this all on Livingston being ready
cause you can never really be ready for something like this
can you?

gold filter dents between dull canines
muscle through his jaw working, silently
then her arm slides against his
so very smooth against skin stretched taught over muscle
silkenly exfoliated outlining the curve of bicep peeking from beneath filthy tee
right hand lifts to pull the smoke from between his lips
and the muscle so recently traced flexes as left arm stretches
reaching to trace blunt nails down her forarm, over wrist, tangling long fingers
still the silence reigns
heavy blanket cast about them like the smoke whorling towards the ceiling

"I know."

they'd need half the pack there to hold him down
but it's the thought that counts
calloused thumb works over the side of hers
absently wondering about nothing, really
entertaining himself with the little things
the little touches and half-breaths
the thoughts that never make it to surface
there are a lot of things he just doesn't want to think about

(rune)
Though she couldn't find her way to offer any half-assed reassurances earlier, when he takes her hand in hers, she finds a multitude of them bubbling to the surface, like soap bubbles. Soap bubbles: myriad, shimmering with illusory light, the oily reflected rainbow of it all that shifts and slides and glides like the lights in a fucking opal, some precious stone polished beneath bright showroom lights, but explodes with a wet pop into a nothing more than a small, slick mess at the merest contact. Her mouth twists against them, swallowing them one by one as they surface.

"No need to rush him." The phrase emerges as the first rush of would-be reassurances slows and dies. His thumb rubs absently over the surface of hers, and her fingers curl more tightly into his grip. After a moment, she lifts his hand to her mouth and presses it against her lips. It's a wordless gesture, the remnant sum of the cast-off phrases, the meager fiber threshed from all that chaff.

"No need at all."

(james)
he can feel the pressure of fingerpads between his knuckles
spreading out the cartilege in menial massage
no rub and sway, but the slow, even pressure
just like something clenching into solid, concrete matter
just a hunch that suddenly dawns to light and truth
he returns the pressure
a slow study of her anatomy beneath his hand
one finger at a time pressing between her finer, smaller knuckles
not squared and shaped by brawling
not scarred and knicked by countless things he doesn't even notice anymore
soon there's the touch of her lips against his flesh
her warm breath sighing across the back of his hand

that draws his eyes to hers, finally
deep umber color of the richest earth lifting to the gleaming darkness of mahogany
there must be some symbolism here in earth and wood
chinese astrology claims wood types are sociable, creative and positive
then those from the earth are loyal, diplomatic and helpful
personalities destined by stars and mysticism
somehow intertwined into a nourishing dynamic
destined for growth in some cycle everlasting
from the earth grows the strongest trees
and when those trees fall, they slowly piece themselves to retun to the soil's warm embrace
and then the cycle slowly begins again, the strong making the stronger stand tall
but he doesn't think about that
nah.... now? he's just concentrating on looking into those eyes
finding the phrases in them they used to never say except in looks

he doesn't exactly pull his hand away from her lips
but his arm is moving, slow and sure
as if they were in some glitzy ballroom thang
rather than in a bloodsoaked and stained bed that wasn't even theirs
his elbow lifts, careful to avoid her skull, and twists to look around her neck
draping strong arm around her shoulders
there's some navigation to grab the ashtray and move it
just so he can pull her closer
feeling her shoulder snug up against his flank
the soft skin between corner of mouth and sink beneath cheekbone finding place to rest against strands of inky hair
clutch of their fingers tightening softly once again

(rune)
She reaches across his torso, handing off the remnants of her smoldering cigarette to him, her left arm curving across both their bodies to find his right hand. The movement twists her body more certainly into his embrace, shoulder digging into his flank, shifting to find a posture comfortable for them both as her hand falls to his thigh, palm-up.

She waits while he snuffs out the cigarette, and then catches his wrist with outstretched fingers. Sharp-edged nails, the soft pads of her fingers, the smooth curve of her palm across his skin. Though she does not draw his rebellious arm closer to her, she does not release it either. Together, clasped hands fall to his thigh, a slow dovetailing touch before she releases his hand at last.

There's nothing more to say, and so she says nothing. Instead, she soaks up the slow grace of the quiet moment, some subdued, precious eye in the midst of the circular storm. It will pass, they always do, and then another will come, and another, without fall. This one will pass - in a day, or five - and another will come, relentless, and one day, one of them will fall. And then, days or weeks or years after, the other. Death is the only certain shadow on the warrior's path, death and the faint hope that it will be one day dressed up in some tale, remembered, somehow, as a prettier, surer, more glorious thing than ever it was.

Her eyes are closing, lashes falling to whisper along the curve of her sharp cheek. Her eyes are closing, and she's turning her head just slightly, cheek grazing cheek a moment before she turns back. The weight of his head resting against hers feels as close to grace as she can come, the curve of his encircling arm is as much comfort as she will allow herself, as much comfort as they are allowed at all.

Whenever you're ready.

She does not say the words. She does not think them, but perhaps he can feel them, divine them from the texture of the fine strands of hair shifting beneath his cheek, the whorled ridges of her fingerpads as her hand curls in his grasp. She says nothing, because the moment will end soon enough. She will not hasten its end.

(james)
cigarettes stubbed out
remnant smoke coiling in lazy circles towards the ceiling
taking their time in the wanton float heavenward
as if some final offering in plea for luck and grace and blessing to Luna hiding her face far above

his breath sighs out warm and moist (alive)
stirring the silken strands of her hair just infront of his lips
dark eyes dropping to track the reach of her hand for his
the one that disobeyed so greivously just hours ago
maybe it's instinct to pull away
punish the offending limb by witholding her touch
but since she's reaching - that would be punishing her, too
and that's the last thing that he'd ever do

already proven he'd take his own life to protect hers

and so they press on
fingers twining and tangling
twisting further together their separate stories
how much more complicated this makes things - a simple touch
but it's trudging on through the desolation
finding the smallest and simplest comforts as confusion and hurt reigns
honing in on the fact that they can press on
through this storm, through this trial, through this pain
one more step towards the horizon which only holds more heartache
but thinking like that is just waxing philosophical
and he's no philosopher, no shaman, and no oracle
no matter how much the spirits may govern his life

he's a Warrior
he lives in the now
because tomorrow may never come

so slowly, he unlaces those (offending) fingers
breifly disentangling their lives
making everything so. damned. simple.
because slowly, that hand is climbing towards her face
no talons this time, no killing stroke
just the simple, tender touch that finds the undercurve of her jaw
(face your fears, Jamey-boy, never back down.... not from them... not from you)
outlining the fine bone before pressure tilts her head up
lifting those dark eyes to his own for a breif, breif encounter
and that's when he kisses her
once again playing their game of give and take
earlier, he backed away, now he's surging forward for her touch
needing that confirmation that's found in the press of lips
normally it would be so hungry, so animal, so damn consuming
because if they took their time their passion would eat them alive
he tells her things in that kiss that he could never say, even now
even with the education he's gleaned from countless books
sometimes there are no words
and so it lingers, sad and sorrowful, even if she can feel the soft smile
he never knows which will be their last - so he makes every one count

funny, the little things that can remind those that seem immortal of just when their thread may be snipped
it was just a little bite, really, only a nip

his weight shifts, and the kiss breaks
body forced into cooperation to move
one thigh presses into the stiff mattress and the other swings to straddle and step over
foot hits the floor and he's pulling her up off the bed with him
left hand crossing over the distance between them as it tugs gently on her right
he doesn't let go of her hand until they're out the door
heading towards the marajuana smoke drifting in from the back porch that's a homing beacon for the Theurge

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

March 01, 2003

.03.01.03. - chitters [imogen-dire-rune-decker]

[noje]

(james)
at least tonight it's the occasional drizzle rather than the monsoonal downpour
so the Gnawer is not a drowned sewer rat; instead only a damp one
dreads cling wetly to his shoulders
hands shove protectively in his pockets
strides slowly plishing through the puddles
it's the black moon high overhead
Luna's anger hidden from her Children
and it's more than obvious in the Ahroun

the way his shoulders set even and low
that swing in his gait that lends more stroll than stalk
there might even be a partial easy smile resident on those lips

hours ago, he watched the sun sizzle down
since then he's been roaming the city
and now he's finally found his way back to the complex
wandering.... through.... the puddles in the parking lot
eventually stepping up the curb onto the walk
weaving up the shoveled paths that outline where the flowers will be come spring
yep.... heading home
(however strange that still is)

(imogen)
The rain pratically hangs in the air, it's so fine, a veritable mist as he walks down the walkway. The snow is nearly gone, only small piles of dense whiteness, small islands in a sea of dampness. The grass is brown and yellow, long dead after the winter. Some day, the green would return, taking over the white and grey and brown. Until then, she will have to content herself with the rain.

She was likely smoking. Or had been. The ashtray rests on the balustrade, a cigarette butt resting cold in the glass receptacle. It's cold and damp and forearms rest on the edge of the balustrade of the balcony. She watches as he approaches, the guttermutt half damp to the bone, the wetness seeping through his clothing. A smirk touches her mouth, as her hand slides into her pocket, searching for the cigarette package, a faint lift of her chin in his direction, her free hand running over her hair.

Thick and rather disagreeable, it is unaided by the rain, the moisture causing it to stick against her cheekbones and neck in places, and in other kink in even more riotous waves as it falls down her back, a waterfall of colours, darkened by dampness. Red and roan, darkened blonde, auburn and oak spilled over her shoulders.

(dire)
The Jetta pulls into the parking lot and stops. Powers down and the skald steps out. Teeshirt under his oversized leather jacket. The ballcap, black with the white explination point. Jeans. Steel toed boots. He looks up at the portches. Glaciers heart ice eyes take them in.

(james)
red and road
darkened blond
auburn and oak
like some elemental caught on the balcony
backlit by the low lights coming out of the sliding doors
wreathed by the frame of crafted stucco construction
some poet in his right mind would have noticed her from ten yards out
already composing some ranting sonnet to the fire that dances halo

he?
must be in his left mind
because there's that bit of a nod up
because there's that bit of an easy grin
and, in fact, there might even be a word or two by the time he's about three steps off the sidewalk
rebar clanking the punctuating question mark

"Gotta light?"

a glance back to the door shutting on the Jetta
due time.... due time

(chitter)
(chitter)

In this dismal rainstrewn world, rats outnumber humans a hundred to one in every human city. The ratio's much higher than that in rural places. They scamper unseen through the night, tunneling through the topsoil, gnawing into the walls, stealing, breeding, fighting, dying.

Spreading disease. Pestilence.
Vermin they are, vermin they will be.

But James is intimately familiar with the much-maligned rodents. And the chittering from the side of the path catches his attention. There's a large rat there, sleek and black, beadyeyed, forepaws clasped to a chest splashed with white.

Watching the Bone Gnawer quite purposefully. Nose twitching. Whiskers moving.

Emissary from Mama Rat...?

(imogen)
She comes from a long line of ranting poets, the songs and sonnets, though it's doubtful she'd ever heard such, and if she did, she may not have cared. She doesn't appear to be the type of person to be serenaded.

She glances down at him at where he stands, "Yeah..." a quiet answer as she begins down the steps, hands still probing her pockets, "'ere somewhere anyway." the rain dampens her hair almost immediately, a small rivulet of raindrops following the curve of her cheekbone, across the smoothness of pale white skin.

She stops on the bottom-most step, pulling out a battered zippo, well aged bronze. Senses dulled by being what she is, and not as attuned to vermin as the Gnawer is, she does not notice the rat unless James himself turns toward it.

(james)
one long arm reaches out for the bronze zippo
easy grin raking across his features
there's that telltale clack in the misted night
orange flame haloing on damp dreads
flame flickers through inhale

and that's about when the chittering smacks through his senses
zippo snapped shut and handed back with a nod for thanks
and brow.... lifts when those eyes look down at the rodent
(....yes?)

(dire)
He reaches up and tugs the cap down a bit low over his eyes. His boots clomp softly as he heads the way the others are. He was in a social mood tonight. Not overly moody though a bit quiet. As he approaches he hears the rat. His ears pretty sharp and then looks over. Licks his lips. That one looks pretty meaty.

(chitter)
The rat remains where it is, plump and sleek as a fed cat. Snout raised to the air, its tiny, pointed nose twitches as it scents out Dire; eyelids flicker over its eyes almost too fast to be seen, but it doesn't look away from the Gnawer. From time to time, he runs forepaws over its whiskers and ears, precise and exceedingly quick. It seems to be waiting for James to approach.

(chitter)

(imogen)
Dark blue eyes flicker toward Dire as he approaches, the soft clumping of his boots bespeaking his approach. Her attention turns back in time to take the lighter from the Gnawer, plucking it from his fingers as her attention follows his toward the rat.

She frowns, however briefly as she glances at the large rat, a small line forming between her eyes as she repockets the lighter.

(dire)
He stops short and eyes it "THat's a goblin sized rat...."

(james)
the tip of the filter crushes between sharp teeth
curiosity peaked
just as it was when he met that strange shifter earlier
dammit it's on the rise yet again
there's a glance towards Imogen
pretty sure she's aware of the do's and don't's of the local rodentia
and there's a bit of a nod to the Skald's appraisal
(.... that's a really well fed rat....)
but he steps a little closer anyway

(chitter)
Another second or two passes. Another two sweeps of forepaw over whiskers. Then for a split-instant it almost looks like the rat's eyelids droop, narrowing the eyes - a too-human expression to be certain. By the time that registers it's too late. Without warning, the large rat darts (no: flows, like a polecat) forward as James' attention shifts to his packmate, and - sleek black fur? No, no. When it drops to all fours Dire's sharp eyes can see in the blur of motion the hairless patches where the fur had fallen out from lesioned, sore-ridden skin: like radioactive sickness. Like leprosy.

Worse.
Kchsh.

That peculiar wet crunch of flat long rodent teeth into muscle and tendon: the net of flesh between thumb and forefinger. By the time the pain begins to register on James the rat's slid away, scampering toward Dire with all the speed a rat can possibly muster - and more.

(chitterchitterchitterchitter...)

(dire)
He blinks "GOBLINRAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
He leaps up and back. powerful legs prropelling the get in a back flip. Landing on his toes he's airbourn again, another flip as BUBBA the Long black crow bar slithers down his arm like a greasy snake and solidifies into it's long iron form.

(imogen)
James could feel the sharp inhalation of the kinfolk's breath behind him as the rat speeds at him, a sharp reaction of the redhead as the rat's teeth sinks into his skin (and then he's worried of other things). Dire's eyes are sharp, as are the good doctor's, though she has less luck in the darkness. What had seemed like slick fur comes across as disease ridden in that moment she could get a good look (as James's skin is pierced, roden teeth breaks muscle and tendon).

It's possible some part of her doctor's psyche told her to help the injured, however slight the damage maybe. Then again, she spent her life helping the dead; she may not be too interested in the pains of the living as she begins taking steps backward up the steps, working her way obliquely back away from the altercation as Dire surges forward for the attack.

(james)
first thought: Decker's gonna be pissed.
simply cause Imogen was in the proximity
second thought: SONOFABITCH THAT HURTS
third thought:

it's a movement, really
nothing ruins a mellow mood like a goblinrat
invisable hackles blister up his spine and nape
as he steps back something moves forward
switchblade snikts open and whizzes through the air
aimed at that (damn fast) rat

(james throw diff 7: 6D10 Dice Roll: 2; 2; 3; 8; 10; 3 )
(rat dodge diff 5: 4D10 Dice Roll: 4; 6; 5; 2 )
(dire)
Landing Dire abruptly changes direction. With a snarl of anger he grunts out "BITEMYBROTHERWILLYOUYOULITTLESQUEEKYGOBLINMOUNT!!! I"LL SHOW YOU!!!"
He swings. perfect swing full extention Bubba coming around in an ark that could shatter stone if he connects!

(dire swing diff 7: 8D10 Dice Roll: 5; 10; 10; 5; 10; 3; 5; 1 )
(dire: 3D10 Dice Roll: 9; 4; 5 )
(rat: 4D10 Dice Roll: 8; 1; 3; 2)

(chitter)
Just like that the rat changes course. Not your average insane beast, this, mindlessly pursuing a single target. No; it has a brain. It calculates - perhaps a little too well. In midstep, as soon as Dire leaves the ground, the rat switches direction, doubling back on itself to race, instead, toward the kin at the bottom of the steps. It's that sudden switch in direction that saves it - the switchblade hits the concrete, raising sparks, a millimeter from the rat's flank.

It's a damn well-fed rat with some damn ugly lesions on its back, but it's still fast as hell. It's like a little liquid shadow streaking along the ground, an impression of movement seen more as a long slither from pointed nose to trailing naked tail, a serpentine shape, than the elongated, assymmetrical oval of a rat standing still. And now it's approaching the stairs, not so much scrabbling up as it simply leaps.

Rats can't do that--
--and the rat doesn't do that, after all.

Dire's crowbar smashes into the rodent as it's heaving itself up the first step toward the good doctor. The force of the blow is enough to split a head open, and the rat...well. It does more than split.

(krunchSPLAT)

It explodes like an overripe melon.

(dire dodge splatter: 4D10 Dice Roll: 4; 2; 8; 2 )
(imogen: 5D10 Dice Roll: 3; 5; 8; 4; 7 )
(dire rolling stam: 3D10 Dice Roll: 2; 9; 7 )

(chitter)
...rats don't do that, either. But it happened. All that remains is a smear of blood uncurling drifitly into the nearest puddle, some fur drifting in the frigid air. It's drizzling, and the evidence is slowly being eliminated.

Dire is splattered. James is bit. Other than that, it doesn't seem too bad. Neither of them are experiencing any sort of pain (other than the inherent pain of getting bit by a rat), and Imogen is unharmed.

There is, however, an ominous rustling in the bushes. Something's in there. Something quite a bit larger than a rat.

(dire)
He turns to the bushes and snarls "Get her out of here James.... I'll hold the line...... "
He shifts up to glabro and pops his neck

(chitter)
The rustling grows closer. Thirty, forty yards. It's moving fast.

(imogen)
She'd been half way up the steps (backing up slo-o-owly) when the rat had come diving at her, followed by Dire and his crowbar.

Splatter.

She had more or less dropped to avoid the splatter, and her hand grabs the railing dragging herself up. The bushes now. Her attention flickers toward Dire, then James, and the knife beyond, before speaking to James, "Stay." Spoken between sharp breaths as she completes the straightening, starting to back up again, heading toward the door, "I'll get m'self inside."

It's coming too fast for her to go anywhere else, even with a Garou's help, and she would be damned to drag break the pack up just for her own protection.

Thirty yards away and it's moving fast. She starts back up the steps without waiting for an answer from either Garou.

(james)
there's a breif scowl as the switch ting!s and skitters off the sidewalk and into a pile of remnant snow
then the rat changes directions again
(oh.... shit....)
and he's moving to now remove Imogen
then the crowbar hits and the rat explodes
(......ew)
he doesn't even want to think of what that's doing to his beloved coat
knowing how soaked it is helping the.... goo.... cling
so he doesn't think about that, instead just snarls

"The fuck was THAT?!"

no James, the fuck is that
now the bushes are rustling
..... just peachy
fuck the blades fuck being social fuck being proper
out comes the rebar
(aren't you glad you went gunning tonight)

"Next door."

spat as the kin goes up her own steps
she can jump the damned ballustrade
he knows pack is nearby
but he's not about to abandon Dire
for whatever doom is barreling up o'er yonder

(chitter)
And closer.

Twenty-five yards. Twenty. Crashing through the manicured bushes, splashing through puddles. There's a metallic clinking, though it's hard to place exactly what it is...

James' index finger and thumb on the bitten hand twitch. In the heat of the moment, no one notices.

It's just nerves.
Steady...

(dire)
He grunts and twirls the crowbar. "Lets rock and roll motherfucker..."

(chitter)
Seventeen yards. They can see the winterlocked plants swaying with the movement now, and discern the vague shape (about twenty times the size of a rat) of it through the bare, dark branches.

Behind the line of the two Garou, Imogen's trip up the stairs happens in relative safety, other than a patch of ice that conspires to trip her. But the kin is surefooted...

Twelve yards.

(dire)
The fuck is that? A Bear?" He steps a bit away from james Presenting two targets instead of one. Just to be sure he looks behind them to make sure something more sneaky aint' coming that way

(Imogen)
She doesn't answer as the Gnawer orders her, taking the last two steps in one sharp movement. Patch of ice conspires to trip her, and sure footed or not, her movement is half caught by one booted foot going out from beneath her, one hand catching the railing as she keeps herself on her feet.

In the extra second, seventeen yards becomes twelve. she must have heard James, however, because it's to the balustrade, not her door that she goes, clambering up to the railing, where the ice is worse, and there's six feet between both railings. Stepping across, one would hope without breaking her neck.

(rune)
Upstairs: showered, made-up, primping now - the shape of her eyebrows must be maintained, of course, her legs must be waxed - and while lipstick and perhaps even some other cosmetics may be applied in the presence of another, hair removal is a distinctively private business. Usually she goes to the salon and has them waxed, but... well, she only had time for the manicure and pedicure today.

That's when the sharpened awareness of her packmates' approaching presence changes, lightning quick. The sharpened awareness of her (lo - ) packmate's pain, the bristling change, the charge - rip - off comes the strip of wax, leaving a quickly fading reddened strip upon her pale skin - less noticeable than it would otherwise be, since the rest of her calf has been similarly abused.

Down the stairs, doubletime. The front door swings open on the landing above James and Dire. The Glass Walker shivers briefly as the cold air hits her bare skin takes in the situation below through her own eyes.

(james)
linen wraps fall away
(damn that hurts)
razor sharpened ends uncovered as the..... thing... gets closer
(steady James, steady)
just waiting..... waiting...

Fuck if I know

none too happy on Eagle's wings
Dire goes left, he goes right
flanking, two targets, work as a team, boys
the Skald can feel it, too
how the Gnawer begins drawing on Eagle's strength

(chitter)
Seven yards.

Over Dire's shoulder: the arc of the condos. The parking lot to one side. Nothing else. No time left, either.

Five yards. Four.

As Imogen's stepping across the space between buildings, she hears something. Hard to say what. Might be the metallic clinking below. Might be the crackle of breaking branches. Might be the cracking of ice from the doorframe as Rune opens the door, or the popping of her own joints.

Three yards. James draws on Eagle's strength.

(ready...)

(dire)
He crouches ready to leap if he has to. both hands gripping bubba ready for the swing. Ready for the attack he does't have to nod to james he KNOWS what to do. James one side, Dire the other and pretty pretty sexy momma Rune from aboive. He KNEW she liked it on top. Decker owes him $5

(imogen)
One foot across.

Metallic clinking below, Rune opening the door, the ice cracking from the door frame. Her own joints popping as she crosses the space as she had god knows how many times (though rarely so quickly). It might be her imagination. It might be the ground settling.

Might be.

The other foot joins it's partner, and she slides off, feet hitting the balcony's floor, an audible crack.

Five yards, four. Rune's joining the rest, and Imogen's heading for the door.

(chitter)
Two yards.

James' fingertips twitch, all five, all at once. A little harder to ignore, but no time no time no--

(rune)
Pretty pretty sexy momma Rune: shivering in the cold, clad in boxers and a bra, and nothing more. One doesn't dress up to wax one's legs, after all. And her legs: long and muscled and well - red, still from the waxing - inflamed and angry, the skin.

Slow-motion: Imogen, across the balustrade, apprehended in a brief glance as the Glass Walker strides two steps forward and -

- shifts. Pack or no, front porch or no: she's not meeting the unknown in anything other than warform. There aren't any troubling cameras trained on the front porch to slip them up, either.

Warform: forward momentum, now yellow-eyes trained on the bristling rustle in the bushes.

(james)
hand twitches
(ow)
but he won't think about that
he won't think about that feeling crawling up his arm
just clamp down around that rebar
(forcibly. make. it. stop.)

war form shifts behind him
forward momentum towards the thing
(death from above!)
what the hell
knowing what it is or not
he charges, too
keeping flank

(chitter)
One yard.
(attack!)

--and bursting into sight: just a runaway, half-feral Rottweiler, chokechain collar clinking against dog tag, ribs showing, starving, drawn by the scent of warm blood. It bares its teeth at the two (now three) charging Garou, hackles rising, and skids to a halt with a confused whine-sliding-into-growl.

Meanwhile, up on the balcony of Rune's condo, way, way up there, some twenty or thirty feet away from the tensed Garou: that sound Imogen heard crossing between? She hears it again. It's coming from the roof. And she places it now. And she recognizes it now. She. remembers. it now.

(...chitter.)

(imogen)
The poor rotweiler might be the unlucky one to get the Garou's rage. From the kinfolk, she pauses, almost at the door, and stops. Stalk still for a moment, and it's just one word as her eyes pass across the balcony quickly sharply.

"Roof."

(dire)
Feeling the air displaced by Runes transformation more than actually seeing it as his Glacier hearts ice blue eyes are on the rottie, he feels he might as well join in the fun. Reverting to his Breed form and growls. eyes wide GOBLINS. Goblins on the dog on the roof they were mounting an attack. Bloody goblins riding dogs like wargs!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!? That movie. The two towers, with all the fomori in it. He sees it in his mind as the goblin on the back of the Rottis gestures with it's spear

(rune)
The -

- hell?

It's a fucking dog. There's a snarl of frustration, strange and sharp, whetted, the feeling, as she takes in the sight of the half feral rottweiler below and snarls once to send it packing.

Roof.

Half-heard through the stew of frustration that rises to cloud the clarity of battlemind, but heard nonetheless. Forward momentum carries her two - three - four steps down, but even as she's taking those steps, the Crinos is turning heavily on the concrete stairs to see what's above and behind them.

(james)
and! it's! a!
...... rottweiler?
(roof..... woof?)
OH.... roof

he doesn't have the forward momentum of Rune's Chrinos mass - nor the advantage of talons
so it's still a struggled to switch directions because of ice
fuck
the feral dog is sent packing
(no blood for you)
grip on rebar slickening
but he's not about to stop and wait for some big pumpkinhead to reach down off the roof and snatch the kinfolk up
he's already making his way up the stairs
(hi honey, i'm home, how was your day? ooh. waxing? how fresh...)

(chitter)
One word, because one word's all that she has time for. She can't see the roof from her standpoint, but the Garou can - Rune can better than anyone from her vantage point almost directly beneath the eaves - and it's teeming. swarming. With rats.

Time hangs still. The breeze shifts. They're downwind of the rats now, and the sickly sweet scent of decay hits them like a tidal wave. The noise grows maddening, symphony of the fuckin abyss urban style, all the rats chittering at once. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred. Two hundred. More.

(A hundred rats to every one of them. Mathematical population ratios. Remember?)

James is coming up the stairs when his entire hand spasms. Fur sprouts along the back of his hand against his will, and then muscles contort and grow; claws come lashing out of his fingertips. His biceps strain against the sudden weight of a Crinos forearm before his upper arm, too, is changing against his will. He can't feel his fingers. He can't feel his arm. It started slow, and now it's accelerating. Numbness races over his shoulder; acting of its own volition, his arm swings a killing arc, backed by Eagle's strength, toward the nearest target. His packmate. His lover.

And all this, all this, in the split-instant of time before

the rats
come boiling
off the roof.

(dire)
He swings his head to look up as the rottie and it's mount retreats and seeing all the rats illicits the classic sound of confusion in High tongue "Arooogh?"
Though the totem link he asks very softly because shit shit just ain't funny "RUne, what's the play?"

(imogen)
James starts toward her, a step, two. And then, inexplicably, he begins to change, human skin replaced by fur (it's something that's always fascinated her, this change, the defiance of science, her only religion, this complete breaking of the laws of reality), and even more inexplicably, his arm swings out toward Rune, an attack that seems to have no rhyme or reason (It's Rune). There's hardly an instant for shock, however before the rats start to pour off the roof.

She should have taken up the offer, somehow, to get her out of here. She's unarmed without her knife, because she hasn't carried it for weeks. Perhaps not because she felt safe, but for pratical reasons.

The door is still open. She'd like to help make a stand somehow. She'd like to be able to give a hand in some way, but these are rats, and James has lost his mind (or Rune has), and really she would do nothing well.

A step back. Two. And she's in the door way, shoving the door forward to slam it behind her.

(chitter)
Out of the Niagara of rats, the vast majority miss the balcony altogether and fall two stories to break bonecrushingly on the pavement below. Some explode like their predecessor; most simply hit with a crunch and lie still.

That still leaves eighty, a hundred rats that do find footing. Do scrabble their way onto the balcony. Of those, many - many - pour ripplingly down the stairs toward James and Rune.

Of those, perhaps a third turn, going against the tide to rush for the kinwoman fleeing (finally, wisely) for the safety of the condo. And they're fast.

The door opens. Imogen rushes in, slams it behind her. A rat is caught in the frame - crushed, blood spurting from its mouth, eyes bulging - but before she can kick it away or simply shut.the.door anyway, three, four, five of them scramble in over the body of their brother. The door slams on the tail of the last and it wails, a sound neither humanly nor ratlike, thoroughly chilling, while it scrabbles to get free. The rest are on the kinwoman, gnawing at her shoes and her jeans, squealing and chittering in frustration as they find the leather too thick, the denim too tough - scrabbling to climb her ankles to burrow into her jeans, or climb her body to find exposed skin.

(rune)
Should've picked up that flamethrower she'd admired in Counterstrike. She saw one on the web the other day. The roof would be on fire, but at least -

Rune, what's the play?

- it's not a situation for which she is prepared, in the least. (Twenty. Fifty. One hundred, rotting sweetly on the roof of the condo, boiling over the sides and -

Kill them.

- attacking. (Good plan, that one.) It is, perhaps, a good thing that she cannot see behind her, remains - for the moment - unaware of the transformation taking place behind her except peripherally. There's a loud crack to send the ratlings sprawling, and only then does Rune clarify her earlier statement.

Kill them quickly.

(james)
his hand spasms
(what the...?)
muscle and bone going through that familiar routine
expanding and crackling and lengthening and strengthening
needless to say, it slows his drive up the stairs
confusion reigns as the rampantly as the agony of it
(he can't feel his arm... it's all in ya mind, boyo, all in ya mind)

uhm, hello? arm? come back....

he knows the strength that pours through his veins
he knows the power he'd have without it
and to have it out of his control
to have it aimed at his ma.....

(no...)

momentum is all he has
he may no longer control his arm
but he controls the rest of his body
and it spins away
somewhere in the storming rain of rats
somewhere in the ensuing confusion
for the first time in his life
the Gnawer runs

(dire)
James in homid turns and comes sprinting down the steps. Running. Dire in crinos just hops over him on his way to back up his packmates. His words in their minds showing his confusion
"Wherethefuck HE goin'??"
He sure as hell wasn't checkin' the ground for spirals this time. Dire moves up the stairs. Bubba flyin down left and right. CLANG CLANG batting rats off as he comes to them. Thinking NO longer about eating them.

(imogen)
Kill them quickly.

She cannot hear the mental conversation of Garou, the totem link only for packmates, however this is sentiment rather powerfully shared by the kinfolk (should have left them to it, never bothered to tell them about the roof, they're fuckin' Garou, and they would have noticed sooner or later anyway...fuckfuck), as the rats (three, four, five) slam over the body of their crushed brother, heading toward the thick leather, the cuffs of her jeans.

There are knives in the kitchen. She's seen them, but she has to get them off her now, so asking for a time out isn't exactly possible.

A kick of her boot sends two, maybe three of them sprawling, and if she's lucky, one might even hit the wall. There's another crawling up her body, tiny feet racing up the expanse of thigh.

She's lucky she's not prone to phobias and other such queasiness as sometimes seems to afflict others.

If she's lucky, the rat (or rats) climbing up her legs might be dislodged by the sudden dive toward the closet, shoulder slamming painfully into the sliding door as she reaches inside, looking for a hanger, or a jacket, and one hand reaching up, dragging a coat from it's perch as her other hands finds... the curved edge of a stiletto heel.

More solid than a hanger, if she was thinking logically. It might even be amusing if she thought about it, which she's not. Scrabbling backward as she lashes out at the nearest rodent.

(chitter)
James' reaching, rebellious claws rake the air an inch from Rune's back. She can feel the wind go by. Then the Bone Ganwer runs - the wisest thing to do at this point any way you look at it - and as he goes his runaway arm whiplashes back on him, turning talons-in, flying straight for his face to claw his own eyes out.

Meanwhile, Rune gives the order to stand and fight: and thunder splits the wet night: and three-quarters of the rats fall asunder, dazed: and the Skald, too, falls dazed: and then the flood is upon them.

Dire crushes rats under the weight of his Crinos body. Rune's claws rake and tear. Rats are everywhere, pouring around their feet like living sewage, dying in tiny splashes of blood, a few exploding; dying as easily as mosquitos die under the smashing hands of an annoyed camper. But rats, too, are clambering up their furred legs, are sinking tiny claws into their feet and sinking tiny rodent teeth into their skin, biting whatever part of their bodies they could possibly reach. Their skin is tough, but the rats are many - the rats are bloody legion - and blood flows from a dozen, a hundred tiny wounds. Nothing life-threatening. A nuisance, really...

...until you consider James losing control over his own arm. How long did that take? How long do they have?

(chitter)
Here's the annoying thing about real life. The enemy doesn't patiently wait their turn, attacking you one at a time. They come in droves, in waves, two or three or four at once.

Imogen kicks two or three away; one hits the wall and lies stunned. Two more are crawling up her thigh. The dive sends them both scrabbling for purchase, one falling off, the other slipping to her calf. By then the ones she kicked away are back and at it; the dazed one struggling back to its feet.

She finds a weapon. A fuckin' stiletto heel. She lashes out; the pointed heel connects with the side of one rat, glances off her own thigh painfully. Tiny ribs break and the rat lies gasping for breath, still dragging itself determinedly toward her.

Meanwhile its brethren are scrambling up her back, assisted by the prone posture of her body after the dive. Tiny feet pitterpatter over her shirt; claws dig through as she moves, and the rats hang on for dear life. One passes the divide of her bra and sinks its teeth into her shoulderblade, where the skin is thin - but her jacket is thick, and though it rips, it does not tear completely.

[must get rest of file from damon]

Posted by james at 12:00 AM

.03.01.03. - the balderdash romantic [grania]

[noje]

(grania)
The opening of Cymaa gives birth to figure swathed in black from tip to toes, the darkened walls of muted sound expelling slender, lithe form with little more then a shudder. A pause, and long coat is pulled more tightly around, collar lifted to keep neck warm under shock of blond curls - a halo of sunlight spilled to just below jaw where it tickles and teases against cheeks in the wind that plays along the street.
Adjustments made from the throbbing heat to the chill of Jersey winter, what little protection thick coat, and boots make are completed with the pull of leather gloves over long, slender fingers. It is then the heels of her boots click along icy sidewalk, direction chosen seemingly at random, innate grace shown in sleekness of movement, serpentine, animalistic (feline)…

(james)
he had spent the evening in the park
half-sprawled on a bench
watching the sun set behind the radiative pollution clouds
y'know... the ones that linger just underneath the ones containing the occasional shower?
those clouds
he watched the sun's rays glow brilliant on the bellies of the clouds
flaming orange lining the token silver
but it's when that drizzle became a little too cold that he finally drug himself up off the bench and started a lazy, absent stroll back towards the condo, not necessarily taking the most direct route, ambling thissaway, and thattaway, wherever his boots shall lead
tattered trenchcoat tails snapping like puppies around his ankles
dreads weighted down by the liquid clinging to them from the last shower
hands shoved into his pockets
Camel hanging from his lips
relaxed. as. can. be.

gotta love that black moon

(grania)
Black moon, dark moon, Luna’s call answered in a different way. There is an ease of movement that belies natural, there is a slide of grace that suggests there is something more under the skin of the bright eyed beauty (..do you feel, do you know, who’s call do you answer..) that takes in the concrete jungle with gaze of curiosity, eagerness, learning from every simply shaped cement block that builds into the next and the next after that until walls have been erected and decorated and a bit of uniqueness is seen in all the sameness of walls that trap the unwitting and delight the predators..
she stalks more then she walks, but her gaze is pulled from one direction to the next and in doing so it is she who finds James first - not through unsettling glance, not through approving look, not through any notice at all, but rather with the accidental attack of her shoulder into his, resulting in slip of her feet from under her - a fight for balance, and grip of his arm aiding in the sleek recovery as darkened lips spread in (..sultry..) embarrassed smile.. “Oh no! I’m sorry…”

(james)
when her shoulder attacks his
(crrrryyyyy havoc!)
the Gnawer. doesn't. even. flinch.
it's like smacking into a brick wall
rather than one tall raggedyman

make that one tall surprised raggedyman

because his attention has snapped back to where he was going
and, incidentally, her
forward momentum stops, boots spread wide and balanced on the slick sidewalk
his own arm bracing beneath hers, strong hand wrapping around her bicep, in order to keep her upright
(seems you're making a habit of running women over these days, Jamey-boy)
and the smile is warm and easy, if slightly... damp
beneath those deep umber eyes

"No worries.... y'allright?"

even if so mellow by the absence of Luna's silver light
can you feel.... his.... Rage

(grania)
Her hand warm (so warm) - though it may not be noticed through the leather of gloves and the patchwork trench he wears - rests against his arm until she is certain she has her feet solidly under her again and bright blue gaze lifts, and lifts, and farther still to meet his gaze from her much lower vantage point… at 5’3”, including the 2 inches of her boots, it is a slow slide over chest and shoulder, and throat, jaw, lingering along that damp smile, before meeting umber gaze with the bright, bright blue of her own.. “I’m fine… fashion over function is not always a wise choice…”
The grip of his hand wrapped around her bicep is strong, stronger then normal, and coupled with the slamming force of rage (…do you know?) ticklescreaming along her skin, the smile widens just the slightest touch, just the further spread of warmth over burgundy stained lips.. and lashes fall and rise again, a brief flutter, a shutternsap that hides gaze less then a moment as she studies him… It is then her free hand rises, plucking a damp dredlock from where it clings along jaw and sliding it backwards to join the other. The intensity of every movement, the careful calculation, the inherrant grace (..I could devour you..) all speaks of something deeper, familiar, though perhaps unrecognized within her as she memorizes with the slightest touch..

(james)
there is a muted curiosity that electrifies chilled skin at the touch
more than a little wary at the bold touch that removes errant dread and tucks it back into play
(....oooh.kay.)
strangely tolerating her study
probably because he's so damned intrigued by what he can feel
it's not Rage in the normal sense
that little niggling, twisting feeling that calls the ebb tide of his own
but it doesn't call it in the same way
familiar yet not
how.... strange
so it takes a moment for her words to filter through

"I'm used to it, seems a trend this month.... you're the third woman that I've tripped over this week." dark gaze lifts cloudward, frowning playfully "Soon enough you'll be dropping out of the sky......"

finally, he remembers to release her arm
the grip (strong, too strong enough to bruise?) easing from around trapped muscle
and he lets that arm fall right back to his side

(grania)
Bold is her touch, and even more so her gaze, as head tilts slightly to the side and breath is taken deep within her lungs, accompanying the feel of him beneath fingertips that now slide from his hair in a chill of leather over heat, lingering touch along his jaw before it falls away completely to capture mused murmur behind her lips with the touch of her hand “beautiful... not traditionally - uniquely…” Heard, in the closeness, she is sure, though perhaps she is not entirely sure the thought was spoken aloud. The intrigue is there, the added crawl of his rage over her skin under silk and leather that protects her from the dampness of the air…
His comments brings a smile, as head tilts and she too looks at the sky… “Perhaps your magnetism calls to the Angels and begs them fall to taste your touch…” brow arches in slow slide toward curls as she returns the heat of her gaze to him… “Or perhaps as simply a warning to be more careful where you walk..” glittering tease shimmers crystalline in depths of blue.. he remembers to release her arm - where the bruises already fade from such fair skin, but she does not move away, reveling in the curiosity that he shows, her own piqued by the strange raggedy man…

(james)
(beautiful..... not traditionally - uniquely)
say what?
(perhaps your magnetism...)
.... huh?
(or perhaps as simply a warning)
aha! that one makes sense
so in turn, it brings out that easy, easy smile
followed quickly by a round of soft laughter

"Probably, though you're the first one I haven't watched where I was going."

seems he's one to always inherit the blame
seems, too, that the curiosity she's peaked outright vibrates beneath his skin
colored and infused with the natural Rage that boils his blood on such a cold winter's night
glittering in the deep earth's tone in his eyes

"Though I see more poetry than truth in the rest of what you said."

.... whatever.. it meant.

(grania)
Her laughter rains, soothing from her lips as hand lifts from her lips and gestures slightly, perhaps waving away an explanation of prefacing the same - the answer a moment or two before it falls from burgundy smile. First comes a shaking away of his self blame with softer words… “I tease… for I know well it is I far too intrigued by the shape of brick and mortar in the wall there… come, see?” and his fallen hand is taken with such smoothness that he has no time to deny her, and the steps are few, no more then three, to allow free hand to trace a pattern unintentional in the laying of bricks… “It is a Sphinx, do you see? Here, and here… and there” a few inches away “are the pyramids. Interesting, no?”
her smile is one of almost childish delight in sharing some secret unearthed, some riddle found in the haphazard placement of bricks against another. She remembers, but does not release his hand, not yet, still exploring how his touch pulls at her, the vibration that signals his curiosity that glitters deeply within his gaze… She smiles, slow, and nods… “I am an artist… and your beauty speaks to me... begs that I portray it in marble, or perhaps bronze… I am tempted to beg that you pose for me…”

(james)
a brow lifts as he's grabbed and manhandled and drug to the wall
(here we go!)
his head tilts, dreads clinging wetly to shoulders to study that which she points out
he can see it, with a little study
that little grin of enlightenment spreading over his face in the drizzle

"Yeh, I can dig it."

she can feel the animal vibrating beneath his skin
in the way rough palms and calloused fingers are held in hers
soon enough, thought
that wary curiosity turns to skepticism
though laughter warms his words

"Now you've gone from poetry to sheer balderdash."

(grania)
She waits while he looks, and pure delight dances over her face in such easily readable patterns once he too sees… she cannot be much older then the age required to gain entrance to Cymaa where she made her escape from just before the collision. His hand in hers is lifted so that she can wrap second hand around it (can you feel the warmth?) and hold it against her chest, and head shakes, slightly, earnestly as curls bounce in time and tangle with lashes.. “No, I do not seek to flatter you - you have such fine bone structure, such strength… almost animalistic..” almost… hm? “I would be most pleased if you would pose for me… if not, I will simply form what my memory captures..” Ah such disappointment should that be the case weaves through her words… needed tell him that every movement, every single look, every single line of his face, his raggedy frame has already been memorized…

(james)
he almost begins to pluck his hand back as she takes it up to her chest
(easy there, tiger)
but he's still so wrapped up in that curiosity
he knows that she's like him
but infuriatingly he can't pinpoint exactly how
like that damned ditzy kin the other day
oogobs of purebreed but he couldn't place that either

seems you're losing your touch, Jamey-boy.

"Animalistic, huh."

chuckled as if it were pure muse
(that sensing wyrm gift would be good about now)
a hand reaches up to scratch through wet dreads
not quite sure of what to say next
cause it would sure be a waste to get things wrong from memory
but then again, this could get him into trouble.....
in more ways than one

(grania)
easy there tiger… so close yet still so far… the smile still lingers pleading stain across burgundy lips, under playful gaze that dances deep in her eyes. Such passion in little frame crowned with angelic curls… tip of her tongue wetting her lips as she awaits his decree…
There is the rage in her veins so close to his own.. and then lips part to speak again as understanding flashes… “Oh! You must have a girlfriend… I promise - nothing funny will go on.. you can pose clothed if you like.. and bring her..” She flushes as she looks down at his hand clutched tight between the swell of flesh and she places it against his own chest and slides her hands free, shyly… before outright teasing again.. “I said I would beg… would you like me to be on my knees before asking again?” and there is no doubt the playful (kitten) girl would do just that..

(james)
he just has no idea what to think
screams shifter but that's surely no Garou he's ever seen
not that it's know all end all, but such things are only legends
of course, so was Mr. Stake-Through-The-Heart
and our good, fashionable friend Bastion
so who knows what she could conceivably be

"How about...."

his hand carefully pulled away
not to offend or anything
he's just still quite wary of the entire situation
(someone begging a Hood, this is rich)

".... you save the begging for my girl.... if you really wanna beg someone."

(grania)
Her smile widens and she tips her head, slightly, studying him, something glittering deeply in her gaze.. so vibrantly… alive as she arches that brow again.. “Deal…. As long as she’s as beautiful as you…” and then as if some sudden inspiration… “Oh! You could pose together - you and your girl! Wouldn’t that be lovely… would you like to see some of my work? I could show you… then you would know I am not only some crazy lady on the streets who finds patterns in bricks and begs strangers to pose - but truly an artist…”

(james)
"Moreso, I promise."

and while he's still leery of the entire thing
there's a part of him that knows Rune probably wouldn't mind posing for someone
it just appeals to that spoilt side of her
but he'll save the definitive answers for after having asked her
and a brow lifts as he's chuckling

"But what if the crazy lady on the streets begging strangers to pose is the artist?"

(grania)
Her smile widens and she laughs with delight... “Well then, you are in for a marvelous time, aren’t you?” fingers start searching her pockets, until she finds a slim base and pulls a rather plain white card with her name (Pronounced GRAY-nyah), phone number and address on it in a smooth ornate script. “I promise I’m not completely off my rocker... but I always know beauty when I see it. You would make a fantastic sculpture.. animalistic - did I mention that already? I think I did… but you’ve a spirit of the wild about you… something… almost canine, like a wolf…” Merely mused.. or is it? And if so, should she truly be playing with him so? Is not the hatred innate to all species… or perhaps, she is as strong as he… and head shakes and card is offered… “If you decide you wish to see, even if you do not pose, I can be reached there most of the time, or at Cymaa many evenings…”

(james)
the card taken, glanced at, read
doing his best to keep up as she just prattles on
and the slim paper is put away before it can get soaked when the drizzle begins again

"Lupine, hm?" he doesn't give away much, a streetcorner is not the place for name, rank, and serial number no matter what he may think "You won't find me in Cymaa.... but I'll give you a ring when I want a looksee."

strong hand held out for a more controlled meeting, this time

"Names James."

(grania)
She just smiles and nods, her hand sliding into his again in a much more typical fashion.. “James..” and on her lips it holds a caress all its own, almost as if purred sweetly from her lips and her gaze falls to the card.. “and that is pronounced GRAY-nyah… it’s gaelic. My mother had a thing for odd names, though we are not of Irish stock. It means love - she was also an incurable romantic.”
She laughs then and releases his hand, clasping her own before her as head tilts again, a long breath taken.. “Listen to me prattle on… you’ve most likely got things to do… I will be looking forward to your call, James…”

(james)
"Nothing wrong with being a hopeless romantic."

grinned so softly
apparently he is one, too
but it is with that thought he leaves her
for she's correct, there are things he must do
a bit of a nod, and that easy smile
soon enough the raggedy man is on his way again

Posted by james at 12:00 AM