May 31, 2003.05.31.03. - it's better not to ask [imogen][noje]
(james)
the sky blazed white hot fire
lightning split the darkness into the god's cheshire grin
thunder rolling heavy mere moments later
rain hammered the ground in sentient angerby all means, most would stay inside
perhaps that's why the Bone Gnawer is out on the balcony
sheltered by the building from most of the wind and rain
his dark eyes gaze earthen to the show the sky provides
just as the soil peeks from beneath sheltering leaves in the planters below
deep umber focuses past the thick curtain of dreadlocks to the gray storm aboveit's cleansing, really
just as the earth is washed (away, at times) with the pouring rain
he feels as if the Rage in the sky were some magnet for his own
why not allow it to pull tidal at the constant volcano dormant beneath his flesh?
he has given his life to fighting for the preservation of Mother Gaia
it's only fair that he receive some compensation in return
no matter how small it may seem to others
it's enough for the Gnawer
this reaffirmation of what it is he fights for
(what he sweats, and bleeds, and cries for)
it's the beauty in the savagery of nature
witnessed by this urban primitive within the scab's concrete jungle
shaman's tears bled for the glory etherial in the billowing cloudsit places a faint smile near permanent on his lips
course.... that may also be the joint rolled from Livingston's stash
dangling between thumb and forefinger that slant up to a wrist lain across bent knee supported by boot on chairbut why look a gift horse in the mouth, hm?
one thing his Tribe won't do is complain when they've got it good(imogen)
It's a violent night, with the wind tearing across the condominium plaza, and howling between the trees. Once, in the aftermath of a thundering retort, he could hear a child wailing, the sound muted by walls and window and distance. One of the perfect children from the perfect families who lives here. The mother gave the Eagle packs baleful stares, whenever she saw them. Luckily, considering the hours they all kept, she did not see them very often.The mercedes is a shadow amidst the rain, an impression of shape and size, with headlights a bleary break in the darkness. Then it parks, and the lights cut off, and for all the rain, and all the clouds, and none of the stars, no moon, it cannot be seen.
Night's like this, everything is black, with porch lights and street lights barely pinpoints amidst the gloom. Until lightning flashes and everything is day-bright, limned in electricity, limned in light that is natural, but seems out of place, ghosting objects.
She steps from the car, rain water soaking through already damp and wet hair, chilling her to the bone. She is not so undignified as to run, but she makes her way swiftly across the parking lot, up the pathway to the stairs. She looks up only as she gets beneath the eave of the balcony. And then, she stops. Where most people would go in, get dry, she digs into the dampened pockets of her jacket, pulling out a cigarette packet and lighter, her other hand combing through the soaked tresses of hair, stained red-black, like rusted iron.
A sideways glance to the opposite balcony, the Gnawer and his joint, and her lighter flares, providing minor warmth and light for her cigarette. Inhale, slow, and she shucks her jacket for the much drier blouse beneath, tossing the damp suede on the patio chair.
(james)
the mercedes rolls in black ghost through the nightmarish weather
he's paying more attention to that than the baby's wail across the plaza
(admit it, Jamey-boy, it still tugs at you, your need to protect)
perhaps existentializing some beauty in that too
fine, expensive, German engineering rugged against the rain
well-exterior dampening the true sound of the storm
wipers flicking themselves silly to keep the way clear
insulated interior keeping out the muggy, moist chill
then the lights cut, wavering beams suddenly swallowed by the shadowy night
door opening to allow the electric, ozone-filled atmosphere into the climate-controlled world
and it's something of a cordial glance that follows the Kin on her journey from car, to rain, to balconybeneath half-lidded gaze, he watches the way Zippo flares into a thousand prisms falling from the sky
the ambient glow settled behind the veritable waterfall between the respective balconies
then slow and sure he's leaning forward, weight leveraging onto the Cochran II's picked up from the surplus store earlier (tank boots hawked and replaced, good riddance to the memory of the chiminage gift, he's suffered enough because of the Skald), toes spreading on the nicely padded (and intact!) soles as long, lean body stretches from the chair, BDUs giving into gravity and wrinkling about his ankles, long sleeved shirt soon following suit but catching on the buckle of leather belt
dreads settling about broad shoulders complete the move
the forward momentum continues, carrying him towards the railing
like some Mohican from a DVD he watched the other night, form enters the divisive rain-inspired waterfall
he may not be fleeing the enemy to later rescue his life-love - but the imagery is there
the way the downpour suddenly weights ropey mane of medium brown to near black
the sculpt of wet fabric pushed up to his elbow over muscular arm suddenly glistening in the rain
the undulating focus of his features through the steady shower
spastic lightning illuminating the joint sheltered beneath the overturned palm of his handthough once she takes it, if she does, he withdraws and without a word and sliding doors wsh and whisper about his soddy retreat back into the condo
(imogen)
She doesn't take it, though her head turns to look at him, damp hair sliding the fabric of her shirt leaving darkened marks in the strands wakes.She exhales cigarette smoke, using the cigarette as a gesture, a movement of her hand, "One addiction at a time, I think," she says, before replacing the cigarette in her mouth, holding it in the corner with her lips, and both hands slide into her jean pockets.
Her jeans are dampened, across the thighs where water soaked through her jacket and dripped downward. She'd been out in the rain long before the fateful walk from her car to the condo. She watches as the Gnawer walks into the condo, before turning away, taking another drag on the cigarette and stepping to sit in the same chair she'd left her jacket, back against the armrest, one foot drawn up on the edge of the seat, the other straighter. Her hand brushes against the wetness of her jeans, contemplative.
(james)
Fair enough his expression seems to say
as it's always been, and ninety-to-nothin always will be, the offer was simply there
while still in the process of replacing the flesh she so easily (proverbially) flayed, he still considers her his friend
it's something that goes beyond the association they have through packa few moments later, the doors are whispering again
heralding his arrival with two beer bottles clutched in one hand
he doesn't make the cinematic stretch, this time
instead ambling down the steps and into the virulent storm
longer legs making it easier to step to the adjoining pathway a few feet shy of the Y connection
yet still avoid the mud that's forming beneath the growing grass
this time, it's the chilled, already opened bottle that's offered instead of the joint
(one thing he knows she'll never turn down)he doesn't place himself in the empty chair
instead sitting back against the railing: he'll never so much as sneeze from excessive exposure - so the fact the damp speckles on the back of white shirt spread fabric thin to show the dark scars over tanning skin beneath doesn't really come into consideration, a warm shower later will fix everything
there's a familiarity between them, yes
though whether forced from weeks on end in a motel room together, or congenially evolved since
he doesn't invite himself comfort within her den
the fact he crossed to her balcony is explained by the fairly newly-lit joint
he doesn't suck them down as fast as his packmates
(and it's good chit - he doesn't need to)
so that she's only taking one addiction at a time may lead to her later acceptance
and it would be simply rude of him to require her to further dampen herself should she choose to do so(imogen)
One addiction at the time, but she will smoke and drink at the same time, and she reaches out to take the bottle from him. "Ta." The bottle is placed between her and the back of the chair, pinioned in place by her hip and the wood. Cold seeps through damp jeans from the refrigerated glass.She doesn't offer him a seat, which somehow might come off as rude in more ways than one. He does, after all, always offer a seat to her. Nonetheless.
The ember of her cigarette flares as she inhales, and she moves slightly, sliding forward and leaning over the raised leg, arm stretching down, and down to catch the ashtray on the ground by the foot of the chair.
She straightens again, leaning back against the armrest and reaching out to put the ashtray on the armrest opposite to her, between her and the Gnawer. easy access.
Only then does she pick up the bottle again, her other hand pulling the cigarette from her mouth and reaching out to place it in the ashtray. Take a pull, and then she speaks, a casual question. "Know the bloke from last night?"
(james)
she's arranging herself around the beer and ashtray
he takes a moment to lean backwards, joint plucked from between his teeth to hold out of the way
dark eyes falling closed, the stretch is far enough to allow rain bravely driven by the wind near enough to fall into dreads
it's a cleansing thing, really, this downpour: Gaia's washed clean
having spent the majority of his life on the streets of New York state without a protective roof
(one isn't born knowing comfort-giving rites, of course)
perhaps there's a symbolism there to him, as wellMother's Warrior
partaking of this ritual spring (downpour) shower
seems it's not only the Theurges that maintain some sense of spiritualityalso a convenient way to weight dreads to hold out of one's face
her question draws him back to the balcony
head moving in a slow, negating shake"Only know he's Garou." the next question: Was he bothering you? writ in the lift of a brow, though it's verbalized through "Should I?"
(imogen)
The beer is put on the armrest beside the ashtray, and she leans back again, fingers plucking the cigarette from the tray as she reclines once more.The question written on his brow, in his expression is unanswered, or unnoticed, "No," or perhaps not, "Not so far's I know," said contemplatively. There's a pause, here, because really, her comment must have seemed out of place, unless there was a reason James should know him, in the silence, she completes the motion of reinserting the cigarette in her mouth and inhales. Her words come out, framed by blue grey smoke and that particular smell of filtered camels.
"I recall a ... law, I s'pose abou' introducin' yerself in new territory, is all," a brief smirk, "was wonderin' if he was bein' incredibly rude, or not."
(james)
the slight tip of his jawline downwards
his inner commentary on the response just as contemplative
translation: Not yet."Incredibly, if he's been Northside. Last night woulda been an insult to the Clutch or RoadRunners."
the joint sizzles on another slow inhale
zigzag crisping and curling in the embric heat
call it an invitation for more(imogen)
A faint sound, acknowledgement, as she takes another drag on the cigarette, slow and easy rather than answer immediately.Lightning flashes beyond the balcony, bright and sudden, sheet lightning that outlines every curve of the clouds in the sky. A second passes, two (one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus--), and thunder crashes. She waits for the final retort of the sky to fade away before she speaks, "I mentioned that."
It might be some sense of tribal loyalty that causes her to avoid mentioning that the Garou had been north already, once, twice. Perhaps the territory lines simply do not occur to her, not clear cut in her mind.
(james)
lightning flashes - silhouetting the wolf quite literally at her door
probably a very imposing thing, that
an Ahroun backed by the fire of the sky and rolling thunder
the raggedyman with a wild mane of heavy hair atop a body with the strength to kill. so. easily.
but then again: this is James, and that is Imogen
that thought probably crosses neither of their minds"Think he'll take it into consideration next time he's up this way?"
she didn't mention that he had been
whether out of (former) tribal loyalty
or the blur of territorial lines to those who don't bark at the moon
but.... she mentioned it to him in the first place
therein lays the key(imogen)
"I can't say I'm a particular judge o' 'im," she answers absently, speaking around the filter of her cigaratte as she runs her hand through her hair once more, coiling the soaking strands at the base of her neck, letting it fall against her skin again, for a brief moment before she pulls an elastic from her wrist and confines the wetness as best she can. The elastic has left an indentation across her skin, pink against the porcelain flesh. She covers it with her other hand, setting her wrists on one eleveated knee."Though I told 'im about that, too." A brief smirk, "Bit o' being messanger, I suppose." The smirk is wry and dry and wholly caustic, amused by the role she plays.
(james)
there's a bit of a smirk around the joint
(it's the things she doesn't say, Jamey-boy, you're learning)
it isn't quite as caustic as hers
regardless of the amount of time he's spent around the brooding Modi and serpentous Walker
unless fired by the full moon hanging heavy in the sky
abrasion is a fairly foreign thing to the Gnawer
and right now he's as mellow and rolling as the dark clouds above only appear
lightning cracks once more (.... rag'bash .... the'urge .... phil'd-) and thunder moans over the cityscape"Join the club."
Omega - he's run more than one errand and delivered more than one message for the pack
weight shifts a bit, resettling from where gravity called him downwards on the slick railing"Anything I should be aware of?"
another thing he's learned - get the opinions of those... smaller... than you
or at least lower on the alleged food chain
rank can breed confidence, and confidence can breed arrogance
he's well aware of those that thought they were powerful taken down by a threat they didn't think was there
those that cannot fight as you can will notice the things you do not
and it never hurts to be aware of something so that it does not become a threat
knowledge is, after all, power
(and wouldn't his Frankenweiler mentors be proud)(imogen)
A shake of her head slightly, "I don't know anything, other than he's ..." of my tribe, but... "Fianna." He's not of her tribe anymore. That she might feel herself a traitor is never quite a subject broached. Then again, however. A woman who never claimed her tribe to begin with (and wanted, and wants nothing to do with them) can hardly feel that she has betrayed them anymore than she had before. "So I can't exactly answer that question."The cigarette is taken from her mouth, and crushed in the ashtray, a final exhalation of cigarette smoke and she reaches across her to the back of the chair, pulling the jacket from it's hang, and drawing it over her shoulders, carelessly.
Lightning again, and unnatural daylight in the night sparks across the parking lot. Seconds pass. Thunder crashes. Her head turns, away from him briefly to look out over the rain, thoughtful.
(james)
again, that slight tip of his skull that signifies a nod
for a moment, he seems to remember that he has a beer
finally lifting it to his lips to take another slug or three from the cold glassit's what she doesn't say
perhaps the knowledge that the... bloke... is Fianna sets off a little chain reaction of thoughts
a little stoned freight train running rampant along the tracks and only taking notes of the stations it passes through
smokestack belching clouds of supah-green as it whizzes (floats?) on by
he's well aware of the problems his pack has had with Fianna in the past
especially concerning the firey Kin
for some reason he's got the feeling those won't be the last of their problems
while he may not be versed in the specific traditions and beliefs of the various Tribes
there's that little issue of blood claim that comes up at the most impeccable of times
mm. hm.the strange Garou hasn't given her a problem..... yet.
there's an amazing amount of levels to exactly define "problem"
one, may be manhandling her as was done before
two, may be simply disrespecting her in a myriad of other ways
three, may be that none of them (note: Modi) know what's happened so far to react thusly
he could come up with more
and a breath fills his chest to put a question to voice"I'll keep that in mind."
it seems the question floated away
or was physically clipped by his tongue
(she knows, what he would ask her)
but as she looks to the rain instead of him
perhaps she doesn't see the veritable shift in directions
the way his gaze sweeps left rather than look to her and inspire his curiosity
the way the skin beneath and to the left of his lower lip pulls between teeth for thoughtful nibble
the attention falling to the roach burning entirely too close to his fingers
one last drag, and it's flicked away into the night
(to the Roach Gods!)
just as his weight pulls off the railing to stand"Night Imogen."
and continues in a turn towards the stairway
easier to take a walk in the rain than to ask
because she knows what he's going to ask
and he's learned: it's better not to ask(Imogen)
"Night, James. Thanks fer the beer." The words remind her, and she reaches out to grab the bottle by the neck, drawing it up for a drink as he leaves.She sits out in the rain, shielded from the rain, rather than going inside, at the first. It's a near summer storm, and so within thirty minutes, the thunder is a distant purr. Long after that, and the rain begins to slow, the pound becoming a trickle, and long after her beer is done, she sits on the porch, eyes settled on the parking lot, the buildings. She rarely sleeps to begin with. James knows this nearly as well as his Modi packmate does. Dr. Slaughter sleeps brief spurts and never deeply, never soundly. Long after her skin rippled with gooseflesh, beneath the folds of her jacket, she sits. Breathes in the silence. Wraps herself in solitude.
She does get up, finally, and walks back inside, before the sun rises, but not much. The door clicks shut quietly in the pre-dawn dark.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 30, 2003.05.30.03. - love in an elevator [imogen-uaghaihg][atlantic city]
(james)
it was probably the most extensive conversation they've had in two weeks
the.... random.... call from the Kin to explain a certain issue at this hotel
luckily, it coincided with his being in AC to earn some dough
he'd meet her there and grab a ride homethat was supposed to happen ten minutes ago
and Imogen is punctual if anything
for a while he figured that she was delayed by work
though you ever get that itchy feelin'?
the power being out isn't helping
but he supposes those things happen in hotels
they're working to fix it, anyway.... sorta
(lights on, lights off, wax on, wax off)another few minutes strolls ever so slowly by
by then, enough's enough
one Bone Gnawer whips a cellphone out of his trench pocket
(only in AC baby)
Imogen's phone.... hopefully.... rings(imogen)
Her gaze is cold and unforgiving even with the shame faced mutter. Possibly because he's called her bitch, bint, british whore and traitor. "That would be a tribal trait." Not always respectable when drunk.He slings himself into the corner across from her, and she rests her weight further against the wall of the elevator, cool and solid against her back. Her eyes lift as the lights flicker, but power does not quite return. This is not a perfectly timed world.
Her cell phone, does, in fact ring, but it takes a second attempt for it to get through (the first time "the customer you have dialed is..." was the electronic message. The second time, this time, is reassuring ringing and...)
The ringing is a jarring sound, no where near the pleasantry of some of the latest jingle phones. Her attention jerks away from the flicker of the light down her hand reaching automatically into her pocket, pulling out the phone and frowning briefly at the display before bringing the small device to her ear.
New and digital, she rarely hears static, though she hears it now, and certainly so does he. "-Lo?" The beginning of the word cut off, though the Fianna in the elevator with her certainly heard the whole of it, as the redhead's attention flickers down to the elevator ground as she concentrates on trying to hear through the mess that is her cell phone signal.
(ugh)
He thinks things, like, well, 'least it isn't a taint like beating women just 'cause you're a chauvenist bastard (no, it's because you're an alcoholic -- difference!), and, bah, who needs 'er? I could sure use a drink n' -- Oh, are those the lights?Lots of thoughts. Like that. And then her phone rings and his muscles tense. He cants his head (wolfish) and eyes it like it were personally responsible for the elevator breaking down.
Annnny moment he's going to ask why she can't use it to power the elevator... really.
(james)
the first electronic recording gets a decided frown
(stupid piece of technology)
but if anything, the Gnawer is tenatious
and therefore redialshuzzah!
another frown: static
(....-Lo?)"Where are you?"
short and sweet
though he's craning his head around for a bigger signal
just as if this were the portable at home
quite the sight, that, dreadlocked raggedyman in a hotel lobby with a cell
who knows how long the connection will hold(imogen)
A pause, a frown, and she glances up to see Uaghaihg eyeing her, or more specifically her cell phone. Motion comes to live and she stands, as if this might improve reception. More likely, it simply gives her an outlet for restlessness."Between th'third and fourth floor. In elevator four." Said as she glances up at the plates on the front of the elevator, the one that seems to be confused what floor they're on, and the one identifying the elevator.
Like him, she's succinct. "Be down soon, I s'pose." Whenever power comes on. Whenever it's fixed. With the murder, the hotel staff appear to have forgotten to check the elevators.
(ugh)
Uaghaihg half-smirks half-smiles, looking downward with closed eyes in that classic Anime pose... (though he's not thin or pretty enough to pull it off well...) He's scruffy, let's face it. He crosses his legs at the ankles and folds his arms back behind his head, with a little enigmatic "Heh" that could mean nothing, and probably does.The Irish boy opens his eyes after another moment, the smile full of rue still curling his lips...
...And the elevator rumbles.
(james)
the elevator
..... how... nice.
the quizzical look on his face must be priceless
there's a stifled chuckle from a little girl that's sitting on the couch over there
seems she was quite fascinated by this interesting looking fellow
dark eyes slipslide sideways, and he flashes a little grin
(sorry, Jenny, the carnival is not in town)
even something of a wink
though his attention doesn't stray from the phone"I'll..c.m....et ya."
going. going. gone
there's a look at the little piece of machinery as if it personally insulted him
but rather than smash it in a display inherant of his packmates
it's just flipped closed and shoved back into a pocket
(he does have to return it to Rune, anyway)to the stairs, Kato!
(imogen)
The elevator rumbles, jerks. The elevator starts to move, "Wai--" static, and then dead air. The word stops before it's completed, because there's no point in finishing it. Another word added as she shuts the cell phone, succinct and to the point, "Bloody 'ell."A glance at the display on the phone indicates just how likely it is that she'll get a signal (no chance), and she shakes her head sharply, shoving the device into her pocket.
Throughout the hotel, lights are coming back on. Whatever mistake that had been made has been corrected. In a room several floors up, the bloody formed mess of the body, not yet cleaned up, because of the lack of light, is brought back into sharp relief. Ironically enough, those who had been sitting waiting for electricity to finish their work, suppress a cheer at the grisley sight.
The descent is jerky. The descent is slow. It is a descent, nonetheless.
(ugh)
At least they aren't plummetting to her grave and his... well...At least there's that, and in these old buildings, even when they're gone over constantly, you just never know.
Uaghaihg (trying saying that -- dare ya) doesn't, as is perhaps expected, ask who that was. Instead, he maintains his silence. Not an icy silence but... silence.
Till finally, "Yer right, I'm not fra around 'ere. There anythin' else y'think I should know nae t'paw?"
(james)
he's heading towards the stairs
luckily, one must pass through the elevator foyer to get to the apporpriate stairwell
(why walk farther than he has to)
and that's about when the lights flicker on
dark eyes lift to the ceiling, as if to double-check they stay on
focus pans left, towards the quiet doors of shaft four
(4... 3..................000000000...2....)well then
if that isn't convenientweight shifts then
pivoting on the heel of his right boot
dull and worn and faded on top of shining polished floors
hands slide into the pockets of patchwork trench
and attention settles on the doors of number fourwhen it finally slides open he's wearing one of those "see? said I'd come get'cha" half grins
(imogen)
Silence answers for a moment as the elevator jolts, and the lights flicker, but stay on. Power it appears, is resumed for now. "Go south, and y'll find th'Pine Barrens. There're some more ...forest minded Garou and kin there. No Fianna, though there are some kin. This is territory o' the Silent Striders, last I checked. Go north, where y'saw me first, and that's th'territory o' the Eagles. I know of no other packs." It's stated by rote, as she answers his question.The elevator comes to a jerking stop at the ground floor but it's a beat or two before the doors open again, complaining every inch of the way, still battered from Uaghaihg's attempt to get out earlier.
James has a half grin, and by now, he can't be surprised not to see it returned. "Glad y'didn't have to walk the stairs, are you?" amusement, perhaps, though more automated than felt. Hands slide into her jacket pockets as she steps out of the elevator (it will be the stairs from now on).
(ugh)
"I meant..." but he lets whatever he meant unravel and go. He'll stick one fist out to hold the elevator for the autumn haired kin. Then he'll follow, a hooded glance cast towards James. (Mental image: -that's- the Fenrir? Well why not... she's got Fianna blood n' she's th' enemy sleepin' wit' th' enemy. This is New Jersey, silly Uaghaihg.) A jerk downward of his chin. "Thanks."(james)
that would be why it was a half-grin
not anything near a full, trademark, easy grin
because he didn't expect anything in return
in fact, he probably expects little if nothing, at all
which would explain his slight surprised at the call earliera brow lifts
and his chin follows
bit of a nod up at the strange guy holding the door open for Imogen
(looks like he's been degloved, poor guy.)
then the movement seems to slow as it reaches apex
and he's feeling that pent up Rage washing out of the enclosed area..... interesting.
hands pull out of his pockets
(subtle, Jamey-boy, subtle)
and dreads drag over broad shoulders"Was a far sight easier this way."
half-quipped, half-stated
glance back towards Uaghaigh
but he's following the Kin(imogen)
Her head turns as he thanks her, her shoulders lifting in a vague shrug, "S'nothing," she answers, before turning away from her ex-tribesmate without farewell to look at the Gnawer (who Uaghaihg must think is Fenrir, and don't think she cannot put two and two together), "Still need a lift?"(ug)
And... s'nothing. Uaghaihg quirks an auburn brow at the 'Fenrir' n' dips his chin in a faint nod... before, yep, bucket o' rage that he is... stalking away. All stalk-y.(james)
the little bucket o' Rage that was trapped in an elevator with his packmate's mate.... stalks away
that doesn't slips the Gnawer's attention
just as surely as Uaghaihg's ascertation doesn't escape hers
(must've been degloved)
he doesn't do anything about it
but he certainly makes a mental note"'Preciate it."
this time, his chin dips in affirming nod
hands slip back into his pockets on the stroll towards the front lobby
and they're quiet for awhile
the nervous buzz of anticipation from the presence of the authorities still weaves through the patrons
perhaps there's something beneath his skin (predator) that reacts to it (prey)
the earlier phone call was the most they've spoken in two weeks
and he doesn't do much to break the trend
she offered him the ride home (twice now) and he's taking it at face valueonce outside beneath the city's neon glow
there's a glance that swings towards the Kin
(anything I need to know about that guy?)
but he doesn't vocalize the query
if it's important enough, she'll fill him in once in the car
but he's learned his lesson about asking questionsPosted by james at 12:00 AMMay 29, 2003.05.29.03. - clever [rune][north jersey]
(james)
somewhere outside evening drug the sun below the horizon
bare fingers cast themselves as lifelines towards the sky reaching with diligent cling to the dark clouds above that so far had spared the day their rain, blushing the burgeoning gray with shades of orange and yellow and, even, strippa pink as if some reminding blooming quality were found therein that spring was indeed here, and the weather was not casting them back into the eternal, drab, lifeless gray of winter
it's beautiful, really
thinking about how the horizon flames above the cityscape which surrounds them
the power and glory of nature overcoming and overpowering the expanding concrete scab
the relenteless victory of that which they give their lives for
Scab Warriors, that's what they were called
Urrah which sweat and bled to protect Gaia even in the Weaver's citiesbut he's not thinking about that now
propped on one elbow on the waterbed
his head canted to the side to send long dreads tumbling down over shoulder and bicep
he's not thinking about the bigger and greater things that have recruited them outside this room
he's only thinking about the curve of black satin sheets that parabolize her lower back in the absent cast across the swell of hips
forming some midnight frame around the long length of pale skin reaching towards her shoulders
allowing his fingers slow trace up the muscles that line her spine
it's just idle, this affection hidden from prying eyes
something to occupy his hands while she sleeps on
(because they were up until dawn)
dark eyes following fingers that memorize the very construction of her skeleton beneath (such perfect) skin(rune)
Sleeping, one might find her a vulnerable creature, all pale, pampered skin and serpentsleek muscle, framed by gleaming black, a chiarascuro picture worthy of some Italian fashion slag-mag, all shadows and light. Her mouth is half-open, trace remnants of lipstick from the night before living against the paler pink beneath. Each slow breath lifts her shoulders, and each quiet touch stirs her otherwise, some blind, heat-seeking sensibility.As the sun bleeds to death across the western horizon, she stirs from sleep. Whatever shreds of tainted innocence dreaming imparts to her (to anyone, in the end, curled on sheets that still smell of sweat and sex, the morning after, dreaming) coil and drift to nothing, mist parted by the dawning sun, as her lashes flutter and one dark eye opens. There's too much knowledge, there, in the slow curve of a half-visible smirk.
Her singular gaze crawls across the familiar landscape: the plains of black satin, the slow working of muscle in his arms as his fingers idle across her back, the tangle of his dreadlocks, rough on the slippery sheets.
"Morning glory." The sheets whisper beneath her as she moves, twisting her head to rest her cheek on the pillow and watch him with both eyes, grant him a view of both halves of her mouth, curled into an expression that lives in some indefineable no-man's-land halfway between a smirk and a smile. "Penny for your thoughts?"
(james)
whatever little pictures fingertips drew across her skin disappear as the muscle beneath it ripples and coils with movement like some living etch-a-sketch suddenly refreshed and wiped clean
but isn't that what happens in sleep?
(in the morning, they still smell like sweat and blood and sex)
and even though her expression is ambiguously between a smile and a smirk
that familiarly trademark easy grin (that grin, just for her) seems to find its way onto his lipsrough hand spreads
callouses against pampered skin
drummer's hands hard and worn and warm
even past the thickened skin from a lifetime of streetstyle abuse"I wasn't thinking."
fingers press into muscle
a slow, diligent, and very precise exercise in minimal massage
he knows exactly what muscles he made hurt
there are others, of course, unintentionally wounded
but he'll concentrate on her lumbar spine
and the words are laughed so softly
husky from sleep and... well... she got her hits in, too
dark gaze finally lifts from his hands to flick across those smirkingly smiling lips
lingering a moment before drawing to her eyes"Just watching you sleep."
(rune)
Shadows drift through the bedroom, long and languid. Slatted bands of red-gold sunset are already fading to silvered twilight, and cast him in distinct patterns of light and shadow. Her chin rises, it's a small gesture, following the subtle movement of his arm as his touch changes from idle play to slow precision.She laughs, or something like it. The sound catches rough in her raw throat, emerges through closed lips, half-pleasured sigh, half-grunt of effort as she arches upward into his touch and pulls her arm from beneath her torso, to prop up her head.
Another moment, then, watching him. Another moment, feeling the sure pressure of his rough fingers on the stiffened muscles of her lumbar spine before she moves. He will feel movement before he sees it, telegraphed through the flexion of the paraspinals beneath his hand.
Free hand planted between them for balance (the rolling mattress sinking beneath the shifting pressure of her weight), she leans up and forward, then plants an oddly soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Her head is mostly bowed, and her hair falls like a liquid curtain between them, obscuring the sharp line of her cheek, the slant of lashes across her eyes, though not the subtle flare of nostrils as she catches his scent, distinctly, drifting from his bare skin.
Fully balanced on her side, she lifts her hand and pulls three dreadlocks from his face, smoothing them back and away. It's a quiet gesture, odd tenderness from such capable, killing hands. She's close enough, now, that he can feel the warm, humid spill of her breath upon the curve of his cheek, though her eyes, the arrogant angles of her features remain hidden by the obscuring curtain of her hair. "You do that often?"
(james)
"Absolutely."smiled, now
it's instinctive response to that.... oddly soft kiss
it's instinctive rise towards that..... oddly tender rearranging of his hair
she told him, once, to always look at her
and there's nothing that could tear his eyes away nowthe inky curtain of oil-black waves that falls dangling short between their faces
beneath it, the smokey smudges of shadow mussed by sweat and eye-closing moans
even the smear of wicked, wicked red lipstick marred by the most aggressive of kisses
he doesn't shy from her touch even though he's seen how capably those hands kill
he seems to do quite the opposite
she's balancing perfectly upon her side
weight sinking into the giving mattress padded by water
and he's using that flexibility to his advantage
the arm that supported his weight snaking it's way beneath her flank
strength found in the slow curl that physically removes herrolling onto his back, he's dragging the Glasswalker over his chest
his physical prowess pulling her into dominance
dreads fall back and away into the pillow beneath his head
the sheets of her dark hair sudden blinders
creating this little world all his own in which her pale face suddenly becomes Luna floating in obsidian sky
... even if she's close enough his eyes almost cross"Whenever I can."
(rune)
"Mmmmm?" Half-question, the low murmur falls to silence before its much past her lips. Somewhere in the middle of the low phrase, though, sleepy acknowledgment becomes something else, entirely, electric and aware. Sizzle and spark, the first seeds of lightning sown in the depths of her eyes as he pulls her atop him. The pale full moon of her face swims closer and closer, fills the frame of his vision until his eyes are crossing, or closing. She's diving through the humid, livid shadows with the delicate precision of a kestrel, lipstick smeared-lips parting to reveal a flash of perfect(ly vicious) white teeth. "I do that too, sometimes."Each breath she draws is a slow, heavy thing lung expand, diaphragm contracts minutely and deliberately, as she drowns herself in his scent, gathering heavily on the back of her tongue. "But right now," her teeth snap together, a cruel millimeter above his mouth, and her smile crawls fractionally wider, "I don't think I'm going to let you sleep."
Her hands have settled on his shoulders, deliberate in their pressure, the slow bite of her nails into his flesh as she pushes herself upright, knees on either side of his hips, body coiled and sure. The sheets still twisted about her body and his strain against the movement, outlining the curve of her hips and breasts, casting the rest of her body into obscure shadows. The pressure of her nails deepens, and then it's a slow, deliberate drag down his arms. In their wake: five angry red trails of furrowed, though still unbroken flesh from his shoulder, over the curve of his biceps, down the long, muscled and veined length of his forearms to his hands. His hands: she twists her fingers among his own but briefly, then lifts them to settle them on her hips as she catches him beneath either elbow and drags him upward in her wake.
She was going to say something, then, something deliberate and provocative, something infinitely clever, but all that emerges is the vague, raw suggestion of profanity as his torso rises to meet hers and one hand alights from his elbow to burrow through the spilling weight of his dreadlocks until she finds the nape of his neck and splays her fingers way, a rough and demanding grip, and steers his mouth to meet hers.
There's nothing soft about the kiss, now, and nothing remotely tender. It's hard and slow and dominant and sure and as bloody fucking deliberate as the slow, serpintine twist of her hips, and that's how she's going to fuck him, in the long shadows of falling twilight, in the humid warmth of that darkened room.
Little wonder she had nothing clever to say.
(james)
her teeth snap cruelly together and his lips part in a smile"That so?"
one brow maliciously lifts
(is that a challenge?)
and that's when she suddenly unfurls above him some lanquid queen
eyes wander, redefining her within the shadows
he's memorized her body countless times
drawing and sculpting this Pygmaleon dream
having her come to life beneath his (welted) arms succubal fantasy
no matter how the glistening satin blackens and obscures her form
it does nothing but glow beneath his adoring gazehands gripping hips
it's a lecherous smile that finds its way to her lips
this deliberate and slow and raw and profane kiss
there's nothing soft about it anymore
(he knows better, he knows so much better)
the tenderness cast away to invite something far more obscene
it's in the way that his weight draws past balance and throws itself forward
powerplay brought from her demanding grip to overcompensate and suddenlylean. her. back.
leverage is on his side
even with her capably killing hands - he is stronger
and a master of suddenly twisting submission to his advantage
serpentine hips are locked against his own, and that satin sheathed torso bends to his will
the perfect symmetry with the way she arches and he curves and stretches to follow
(she is Walker, he is Gnawer, she is Beta, he is Omega - always, he supplicates before her)
softness of lips met with the harsh brutality of a kiss seething with the animal beneath their skins
it may be a dark moon in the sky above - but never will it save them completely from themselves
there's something within him that boils to the surface volcanicslow and steady and sure
(and just a little bit deadly)
because that's how her body says she's going to fuck him
because that's how his body says she's going to live up to that promising threatit's little wonder he doesn't give her time to say anything clever
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.05.29.03. - oogie boogie man [imogen-uaghaihg][north jersey]
(imogen)
The sun is only just beginning it's descent over the world, heading toward the horizon and the lives beyond. Evening has begun. Those who are more attuned to southern climates would note how the twilight lasts longer, those moments that the sun is no longer there, but light still shows, greyed and oranged and yellowed.Though south for her country, she is used to farther north than this, and to her, these moments are too short. However, the sun has been out today, and that is something to be enjoyed, considering all the rain. Even now, the earth smells of rain and the streets are stilled greyed with dampness. The sun was watery today, and now with the evening and twilight setting in, the light is watery.
Coffee cup in hand, she steps out onto the sidewalk, the cafe door jangling shut behind her, her attention flickers upward toward the sky and the street lights that have just barely turned on, pale and yellowed, doing nothing now in the evening light.
(uaghaihg)
Uaghaihg is astride a hot, sweating, pretty little piece of... metal tonight.He's on his motorcycle. He's without pack and his skin is dry, his shirt plastered against and defining the lines of his torso, a rough classical statue the sculptor never got around to finishing and time never smoothed out. With the lifting of the rain Uaghaihg's dark moon eyes are distant, in another place, maybe even another time, where rain falls on green fields instead of a tangle of dirty streets. He breathes on his chill fingers and regards the street flatly, when he remembers where it is that he is, chuffing a laughing little cough at himself.
Then he sees her. The red-haired Brit, oh so beautiful, and oh so stuck up. So he calls out, more violence behind the propulsion of his voice then he knows, "'Ey! If t'isnt th' Queen o' th' Isles 'erself. Shall I woo thee wi' more rhymes, fair ice maiden?"
Yeah... just call him Mr. Social Grace...
(imogen)
Rage. That's always her first thought upon meeting a Garou, and it will be her first thought long after she knows and recognizes them. Perhaps all Garou have their own little signature to their rage. Perhaps there's a way to recognize it, so she cannot mistake one for the other. Friend for foe. A stranger for an Eagle Packmate. Or perhaps she simply has the same hair raising, animal instinct reaction for each, and she simply learns to hide it. Each and every time.Her head turns and her eyebrow arches as she regards him. Fair ice maiden might suit her in so many ways, because there is little about her that indicates warmth. Skin paled, as if untouched by sun, porcelain. Which is, when one thinks about it, a cold way to consider skin. Cold hard and unyielding, instead of the smooth softness of flesh. Dark eyes that reveal nothing more than the barest hint of life, the merest idea of emotion. Her hair, the colours of an autumn sunset, the heart of a fire, and chaotic enough to suit such a thing, directly contrasts that. Even caught in a braid, pulled away from her face, there is a suggestion of wild. Curls brushing her cheekbone, half obscuring her peripheral vision. Strands brushing her collar.
Her response has nothing of the fire in her hair and everything of her eyes and skin. "It didn't work th'last time."
(uag)
There he sits, the embodiment of the tribe she thought she'd fled from the twisting tattoos which coil across his skin to the scars that are as likely to have been from an emotional bar fight than from fighting the wyrm. (Don't let that trivialize them.) There he sits, folding his arms across his chest, leaning back as if the distance would let him get a better look at her. This half-grin resting on his superior lips, and in the cant of his head, which he ducks, suddenly, angrily, as though to shake her stare off like dogs shake water from their coats. "Come 'pon that, I don't remember much 'bout our first meetin'. Think I was a little smashed, if'n ye take m'meanin'."And that's it. She can walk away. Right. Right?
"I do remember somethin' about bein' owed, though." His breath gusts out, ghostily.
(james)
the sun was out today
even though the streets were still watery and gray
the gleaming sunlight meant people returned to their normal events of strolling about
some, perhaps, even shop because they can walk store to store rather than jump from store to car
and who wants to carry around soggy packages, hm?the Bone Gnawer has taken advantage of this
where there are shoppers and packages
there is money
and while the GlassWalker does well to support them all
he's support himself, thank you, at least when he can
and winter brought some skinny times
the mountains of snow were not conducive to street performersbut here he is now
back on the corner, his corner
(where the hell did Tristan go?)
the urban primitive banging his tribal drum
or, at least, the raggedy man on a rather resonating paint bucket
it was enough to bring in enough cash to feed him for a week
or, someone else in the pack for a dary or two
and that's all that matters to himso eventually, he's picking up the overturned ratty, floppy tophat
spare change and various bills quickly counted before deposited in a pocket of faded BDUs
one patchwork trenchcoat shrugged over the faded (was it always gray?) t-shirt
the paintbucket is returned to it's place sitting rather stylishly by a dumpster in an alley
sticks (.... where's the rebar?) and tophat tucked neatly into the backpack that's slung over a shoulder
and now he? is just strolling down the street to enjoy the quiet twilight on the way back to the condo(imogen)
She can step away, distance herself from the tribe, but fleeing from it is out of her reach. Blood. Hair. Accent that taints her voice with every word she makes. Noah; (but he's dead) Gabriel Thunderoak (and she doesn't knwo what to happen to him). Centuries of history and a tattoo on her arm beneath the fall of her suede jacket, that sometimes she can swear she can feel, embossed on her skin."Y'were absolutely sloshed," she notes succinctly, her steady gaze unending as one hand slides into her jean pocket, the other curved around the environmentally friendly coffee cup. "And y'r wrong. I owe you nothing. Y'got y'r cigarette," a smirk, though not quite amused.
Her attention flickers past the tribal relation and beyond to where James walks, identifiable more from a glance though his features aren't quite yet visible. Dreads and patchwork trench. Height and rage.
(uag)
"Tsch," the Fianna says noncommitally. He really doesn't remember well enough to argue properly. He doesn't need to remember to argue. "If'n I recall correctly," he says in that quiet lilting voice, harsh and brash, like its owner... "If'n I recall correctly ye owed me a game as well. Where's th' harm?" His attention too flickers over his shoulder, turning to look at the tall approaching man(?). "Y'still nae got a name?"(james)
one tall Bone Gnawer, coming right up
dreads fall over his shoulders like tangled jungle vines
his trench billowing about ankles as some tribal Shaman's shawl
there's a swing in his gait that steps in time with the heartbeat of the concrete scab they call home
black moon's out tonight
where are your bets placed?distance closes... marginally
close enough to where Imogen could easily fill in the blanks of his features
the guy on the motorcycle would have to wait a few more steps
chin lifts in that patented nod up
closing the distance between he and the kin symbolically since his pace doesn't change(imogen)
Her voice lilts, too, though in a different manner. If one were to hear the two speak together, one would recognize how different their accents are. One may not guess correct from which countries both Fianna (one a former) were. But that they were not from the same one, would be obvious."I just said I wouldn't give you my name," She'll argue one thing at a time. Whether she owes him a game (I owe you nothing) whether or not she said what he thought she did. "Not that I didn't have one."
James approaches but beyond that first glance the redhead doesn't look at him. "And I don't recall you offering yours." Challenge.
[uh.... oogie fell out of the chat....]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 25, 2003.05.25.03. - 7:10 ratio [imogen][noje]
(imogen)
It wasn't work that had her out tonight, or if it had, it was a detour, somewhere between other requirements, as the mercedes finds it's way to the parking spot. Whenever she's seen, mostly, it seems to be coming or going. Home, to work. The hours she follows seem to follow no pattern, except that they are chaotic. Ever changing. And that month by month, they seem to grow longer.Quarter past ten at night, she opens the car door, shutting it behind her, her hand reaching up to tug the identification badge clipped to her jacket collar (she was working, after all), walking around to the trunk, pushing up the lid and reaching in to grab a gym back with one hand as the other hand reaches up behind her head to tug free the elastic band from her hair, letting half damp strands fall to her shoulders, tendrils still holding some of the waved shape of the bun that it had been trapped in.
It's no surprise that it rained today, though now at least it's paused, the sky almost cleared, stars peeking through gaps in the cloud cover as she walks across the parking lot toward the walkway, the condominiums beyond. Fingers comb through the flame kissed chaos of her hair, snagging in the mass, as she walks, attention flickering forward toward the buildings. Many of them are dark, all of them equiped with motion dector lights rather than anything less expensive. All for safety and all for protection, but now, when there is almost no motion in the balconies, many of the occupants having gone to bed (or in the case of some, having gone out for the hunt), most of the plaza is dark, shadows chased away only by the odd path light casting it's yellow timid glow across the walk way as she moves.
(james)
all the surrounding balconies are dark
even the one that houses the Eagle pack
maybe it's because the motion detecting light is buster
maybe it's because there's nobody on there
or maybe it's just because he knows how much movement makes the damned thing go offsometimes, you just want to sit in the dark and listen to the rain
but the glowing ember is a giveaway
especially when it's coupled with the hazy smell of pot
but that's simply a slow, mellow burn
nothing enough to catch attention
only if one was looking for it, reallyhe's stretched out, as always
boots up on the table
back of the chair tucked into the corner with the darkest shadow
dreads seem to make it even darker the way they pool around his shoulders(imogen)
She may not have even seen him, as she walks up the stairs to her own condo, the motion light turning on abruptly as she approaches, eliciting a faint wince as the light lances into unprepared eyes.Keys slide into the lock, prying the lock open, and she steps inside, the distant thump of the gym bag hitting the floor of the hallway.
Moments pass, before she steps out again, a beer bottle in each hand (because she did see him, after all, the impression, or perhaps she felt his rage), heading down the stairs, crossing the damp lawn to the path leading to Rune's own condominium. She hasn't lept the space between the balconies since the wooden aparatus that might very well be a bridge had been set up, to be left leaning against one of the walls, waiting for use that will never come. Stubborn pride.
She mounts the stairs, a step at a time, and her attention flickers toward him as she makes it to the top step, entering the Glass Walker Ahroun's domain, and the Bone Gnawer's vicinity. Silence is simpler, as she extends a hand, offering him a beer, common decency or olive branch, either or, from the smirk that traces across her lips.
(james)
when the redhead came up the walkway, he didn't really look
when she keyed the door and flicked on the lights, he still didn't really look
it's only when the halo of fire comes up the stairs and into his vicinity that the dark eyes shift their glance to lookand a brow lifts
but it seems the silence is golden, as well as simple
he doesn't break it
one hand reaches out for the beer
the beer is used to gesture towards the chair next to him
the other hand, then, is offering the joint in return
common decency, an olive branch, or perhaps just habit(imogen)
Her fingers slide through her hair again as she meets his look, and is more or less unperturbed (it's all in the set of her features, and that it is dark enough that even if there was something, her eyes would not give it away), before reaching out with her now free hand to take the joint, holding the hand wrapped toke carefully between long slender fingers.A beat passes, and she steps away from the balcony balustrade and toward the chair, folding herself in to sit, one leg sliding up to rest on the edge of the seat, the other stretching out before her. The beer bottle rests on the edge of her knee, as her other hand raises the joint to her mouth and she finally takes a hit, holding it in, as she passes it back toward him, silence still unbroken.
(james)
she brought him a beer
she accepted his offer of a seat
just because he takes the joint back without missing a beat doesn't mean he missed that
he's just.... not commenting on it
see how quickly he learns?
just. don't comment on anything.take the joint, hit it, pass it back, and don't say a fucking word
(imogen)
There are many sorts of silences, and this is not what would be considered a comfortable one. Her attention has turned toward the pathlights and the reflection of light against the rainsoaked pavement. Water has accumulated in the dips within the path, forming small pools that from time to time ripple, from a stray rain drop falling from the sky, from a droplet of water, freed by the cast of the wind.Shadows leave them both in profile, his hair an inky pool of jungle vines spilling of his shoulders, features defined by lack of light rather than light, and she with hair of flame and fire that half falls into her face as her attention drifts down to beer bottle twisting off the cap with a hiss of trapped bubbles, and had there been light on the balcony, they could have seen the escape of mist into the humid air.
Imogen is easiest in her silences, though she is never easy to understand, it is by her silences that anything can be gleaned. What she doesn't say rather than what she does. What she doesn't show, rather than what she does. The pack cannot be the first to consider her cold, and unlikely that they'll be the last. She takes the joint without drinking any of the recently opened beer, taking a hit instead. Pass it back. A beat, exhale. "Rohl gone off again?" silence only lasts so long, though it may be out of place that she was the first to speak.
(james)
as the zigzag wrapped green leaves his fingers
he's twisting off the cap of his beer
so used to the darkness by now
perhaps he gleans a little of that escaping mist into his attention
he's not watching her, by any meansquarter of the beer has found its way down his throat by the time she's passing back
and he just lets that silence linger
there's nothing but the sound of water weighing concrete
there's nothing but the sound of leaves crisping on inhale
there's nothing but the feeling of hazy smoke burning within his lungs
simply. nothing.not even a reaction to her breaking the silence first
just, after a while, a slow nod"Somewhere."
truck isn't there
should answer it well enough(imogen)
An inclination of her head an acknowledgement of his word, that is echoed somewhat in a faint sound in the back of her throat, an acknowledgement without words. And silence again, because really, there wasn't much else to say on that subject, even if she was inclined to ask more.A swallow of the beer, deep long pull of the liquid before the silence is broken again, but in a different way, in her getting up, unfolding from the chair, coming to her feet, fingers sliding through her hair, tugging through the curls and knots, casting commentary over her shoulder, "'m going in. Enjoy y'r night," spoken as she heads toward the condo stairs.
(james)
dark eyes slide over as she stands
as if he were following the miniscule noises
the plastic that flexes with lack of (slight) weight
the gentle scrape of feet across the tile
the pad of shoe soles following soon after
just as easily, his gaze swings away"Thanks for the beer." seemingly said more towards the clouds on the horizon than in her direction "Night Imogen."
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 24, 2003.05.24.03. - it's nothing [imogen][north jersey]
(imogen)
After the last week, it must be almost annoying to notice that once again it is raining. No one will comment on nice weather, now, because at the beginning of the week, all the comments made of sarcasm ('nice weather, isn't it?') wore thin and dry. It is, however, still raining. The grass and trees are quite appreciating it, however, and there might be some vague amusement, watching people race through the rain (even after a week of rain, some people still forget umbrellas. Still forget rain jackets), or the funny jackets. Or the funny umbrellas.Today, the rain is intermittant and now in late evening the rain has stopped, but there are still no stars in the skies and the clouds are still heavy. The air breathes water, and smells of worms and wet ground, soaked asphalt.
Walking down the street, she tugs lightly on the edge of her jacket, black rain slicker, with it's own acronym emblazoned, bright yellow against the black (OCME; on front and back). The only thing that is a brighter contrast of the letters against her jacket is the colour of her hair as it brushes against her colour, sliding against slippery fabric, half freed from the braid she'd carelessly wound her hair into. Her hand slides into the pocket of her jeans, careless as her attention dropping to the ground, the scrape of her feet against the pavement. Then up again. Saturday evening, most people are out to drink, out to have fun. The redheaded doctor is likely out on darker missions, tonight.
(james)
the sky is grey
the sand is grey
and the ocean (sky) is grey.... isn't that a song somewhere?
amongst all this grey, it doesn't really seem the Bone Gnawer stands out
with great reluctance the faded patchwork overcoat found its way to his shoulders once again
the BDUs aren't as stark a camoflage contrast as they may once have been
and..... no... the t-shirt beneath it all really is grey
dark brown dreads hang in shaggy jungle-vine mane framing his face
the way his head is tilted, it's sheilding the smoke clenched between his teeth from the drizzle that may just start again without warning
(you never know...)with the way the sky has washed out in the afternoon's lacadaisical rain
it just makes the buildings behind him so much blander
matching the faded colors of his coat
but that's what his Tribe does - they blend
they just fade away into the background to be forgotten or passed over
being overlooked is what they excell atwhich, with the dwindling moon in the sky, may be how he just seems to appear on the sidewalk next to the kin
there was no Rage to preceed him, even that seems dampened by the earlier rain
and the light wind carried the cigarette smoke up and away
yet, suddenly, there's this pack of Camels and zippo held within the line of her downward sight in offer(imogen)
And in this stunning monochrome, Imogen is not the type to blend. Though her jacket is black, her jeans are faded, the colour of her hair is a fire that will not die and the colour of her eyes is the colour of the sky that they would see, if not for the clouds. Dark blue. Unending.Rage is something she is used to, so the near absent perhaps startled her more than his sudden appearance from no where, the whipsnap of her attention toward him, a faint lift of her eyebrow as she glances up. Hardly an inch or two over five feet tall, Imogen looks up at everyone, and does so easily. It is the directness of her gaze that abolishes her petiteness. The power of her personality.
She says nothing, after a beat, and then glances downward to the offer of cigarette and lighter. Pause, and then reaches out to take it, tapping out a cigarette, sliding the slender cylinder between her fingers slowly. Decision, and she raises the cigarette to her mouth, speaking just as the cancer stick reaches her lips, "Ta," and the motion completes, holding the cigarette in her mouth and lighting up.
The breeze is cool and damp, sliding its moisture laden fingers through her hair, catching the stray strands that had escaped her braid, throwing curls back away from her face. As the breeze stills, she reaches up, impatiently, to push the strands back away from her eyes to tuck them behind her ears, cigarette smoke exhaling from the corner of her mouth, pluming in the air.
(james)
at the singular word of thanks, that's when dark gaze finally slides to the Kin
grin flickering across his lips that tugs the tip of the smoke upwards through the leverage around filter
when -if- she hands the pack back, he'll pocket it
but it doesn't seem like he's particularly asking for itit is a strange thing how easily these two can walk in silence
with nothing but the sounds of their steps - her almost two to his one - to accompany them
she was born to the Fianna
he was born to the Bone Gnawers
neither a particularly... non-talkative... tribe
yet here they are, rather comfortable to say nothing
until, of course, he breaks the trend"Looked like you needed it."
(imogen)
She does hand the packet back, smoothly, after a beat, after a moment. She does take two steps to his one, but she moves easily, with an economy of grace that allows for her to keep up with faster paced pedestrians. Rain magnifies all sound. Their steps ring almost hollowly off the buildings, a soft echo. A car drives past them, casting them both in headlights, violet and harsh, before it passes, the wheels audible against the pavement, the wheels audible against the rain. Windshield wipers.Her head turns vaguely to watch the path, before she looks back, and a half smirk traces her mouth. She smirks more easily than grins, a place holder, at times, some expression to form on her mouth. She gestures, fingers reaching up to the cigarette in her mouth, "S'addiction for you. I cannot understand how you voluntarily started this."
Inhale, another drag before her gesture ends, and she takes the cigarette from her mouth, ashing it with a negligent tap, attention flickering to follow the path of the fallen ashes until they're lost against the grey of the concrete beneath her feet.
"Need a drive home?"
(james)
"It wasn't the addiction I was talking about."offhand
absent
after another few silent beats
perhaps, even, another sidelong glance
but that's edged with a grin that comes far easier to his face than hers
but there's something oddly... sedate about it"I needed something to do with my hands, I guess. Snagged one from Rune and just.... never stopped."
perhaps it has become an addiction for him
perhaps it stems from exactly what night he snagged the smoke from her
something that for some strange reason, he just hangs on to
muscular shoulders shrug, adjusting the battered backpack slung over one
within it would be the coiled wraps for his fists
that, then, may explain why he's more mellow than normal"Wouldn't mind one."
(imogen)
The rain that threatens has almost begun again, droplets of rain caught in the wind, a few circular distortions in the puddles along the street, where drops disturb the surface. It's barely enough to be felt. But it begins, nonetheless.It wasn't the addiction I was talking about. A coppery eyebrow arches, smooth, "Oh?" A questioning glance toward him.
The cigarette returns to her mouth, and they've reached the car by now, and she stops now, fingers reaching out to rest on the black metal of the hood, disturbing the droplets that have formed, ovals against the black.
"No smoking in the car," she explains the pause as she takes another hit off the cigarette, inhaling it deeply into her lungs. As she pauses in her breathing pattern, her attention flickers quick and sharp across James, stance and folds of his clothing, position. Rarely, when she's felt the lack of rage, the lack of fury, has the Garou in her presence been uninjured.
(james)
there's a slight drop of his chin
he remembers the no smokage rule about the car
the Ahroun has taken the extra steps to position himself by the headlight
weight shifting in easy lean against the black hood
she's noticed, before, the way he carries himself with injured
adding to the give-away of bandages beneath his clothes
with the way the thick coat rumples about his torso
perhaps now it would be harder to see if anything's beneath the shirt
but the easy sling of flesh and muscle against steel seems.... well.... just relaxed
and if he's hiding any wounds beneath the fabric - it's just something she'd have to ask at this point
he doesn't offer the information
basic pattern between them to ask what it is one wants to know
which may be what leads up to the next collection of words framed in grey smoke
aimed towards the sky that threatens to open upon them once again
dark eyes watching the clouds as if to spot that first torrential drop with Eagle('s) eyes"You've just seemed...... more tense, lately. Like something's on your mind."
gaze tears away and swoops down (like a bird of prey) towards the Kin
shoulders rolling in another long shrug
there was a question, in his statement
but he won't force her to answer it
(but he wouldn't have asked if he didn't notice enough to be concerned)(imogen)
It's movement she watches, more than anything. She is an expert on the rip and tear of human flesh, but with a Garou, more likely it would be seen in the hitch of movements, the imperfection of the fluctuation of muscles. When she finds none she looks away and toward the street, watching the street, and the pattern of the beginning falling rain, leaning half against the hood of the car, hand sliding into her pocket, half searching for the shape of her keys.No smoking in her car, no smoking in her condominium. The rules are similar for her as for Rune, though Rune broke them at times of stress. At times of the full moon. Imogen having less visitors, the easier freedom of being able to simply step out of the condo, to smoke, has it easier that way.
His statement results in a turn of her attention back to him, the direct gaze of his eyes met by the direct gaze of her own. And she answers the question within, or at least provides some appropriate response, regardless of truth.
"Tired," she answers simply, taking the cigarette from her mouth and dropping it, the cancer stick falling end over end until it hits the ground, the ember scattering, the butt ground out beneath the heel of her boot.
Her hand leaves her jean pocket, the key ring caught on her index finger, the keys jangling softly together as her other hand reaches up, combing through some of the loosed burnished strands of hair, tucking them behind her ear once more.
(james)
".... of?"dreads tickle over his shoulders as head tilts
okay, maybe he will push it a little further
she did answer him, in a way, so it's open game
and while his gaze has rotated to continue it's focused study of the kin
he hasn't moved from the throne of the hood of her car"Seems more agitated to me."
passive aggression seems to be the method for the moment
earlier, he was hitting the bag so hard the seams gave in and split
now, he's simply sitting there, watching her
knowing she won't drive off with him as a hood ornamentcourse, she can also tell him to get the fuck off her car and he will
(imogen)
She stares in dead silence, for a beat. Three. Four. She has a dark look to go with her dark eyes, and for all her inexpression and lack of emotion, it's her eyes that would betray her, if anything would. They do not betray her now, but there is a crackle to the look, a burn to colour of her eyes, mostly lost in the darkness. It's the weight that can be felt. It is not something that would have startled him as much as it had the first time. He's seen it since, though often directed at others."You know," she says finally, "I've been psycho-analyzed once this year, already. And he had a degree. I don't particularly care to repeat the experience." There's something to be said about Englishmen (and women) and distance. Cold responses. The crisp framework her accent gives her voice a particular edge that would not be as potent, had it been any other accent. Any other origin.
(james)
yes, he's seen that look several times before
he's even felt it, when directed at others
and while it doesn't startle him as it did the first time
it still garners something of a response
(things are so goddamned raw when you're flesh has been peeled away)"You're my friend. I was concerned." so. very. fucking. softly. "I'm sorry."
his voice is nothing near as sharp as hers
it's quiet the opposite - low and smooth
(he really is sorry, but not because of the reaction one thinks)
he got the hint, and he'll shut up about it
the car shifts on it's leafsprings a little as his weight lifts from the hood
his own smoke flicked to sizzle in the gutter unfinished
quietly walking around her to stand at the passenger door
partially wondering if she'll even unlock it
(and it wouldn't suprise or offend him if she didn't)(imogen)
She watches him, silently as he gets up from the hood of the car and walks to the passenger door. A moment passes, and then she stands up, with decision, walking toward the driver's side. The driver's door clicks as she thumbs the button on the key chain, and then the other doors unlock as well, as she thumbs it again. Permitting him entrance to the Benz.In silence, she opens her own door, and gets inside. The key slides into the ignition, and the engine starts, the well kept purr of an expensive engine. The sound of the radio turning on eclipses the contented rumble, even at it's low, barely heard volume. It's commercials, and she reaches out, changing the station until she finds another with music playing. Generica music, it's Avril Lavigne (I'm standing in the rain...), but it's sound, and perhaps she doesn't care. She buckles up only when he's gotten in, flicking on the mercedes' signal, head turning to check her blind spot, before she pulls out into the nearly deserted street.
(james)
she watches him
he doesn't look at her anymore
watching instead the curl of strong fingers around the door's handle
the way backpack is carefully settled so not to drip too much on the floormats
the sure and decisive snikt! of the belt buckle safely protecting him within fine German engineering
the slow pull of the sidewalk across the diagonal of his window
then the steady parade of sights on the side of the roadhe's not sure if this is an uneasy silence
he sure as hell isn't searching for something to say
but it's not exactly something they both just settled comfortably into
it just sorta.... happened
it's just sorta filled with the words of a pop-punk princess he wouldn't recognize if he fell over
the hiss of grippy tires on the slick asphalt
the content purr of the engine rumbling across the milesif he had anymore questions, concerns, or curiosites
the Bone Gnawer is definitely not voicing them(imogen)
Silence but for the music, generica music, some pop princess he's never heard, and someone she's heard because she listens to all sorts of music at all sorts of times. She has music in her condo, music in her car, all of it low enough to catch only impressions. It's a sort of mindset.Down the rain slicked streets to the rain slicked highway, connecting cities and states, with it's drivers coming home on a late night, mostly from a night on the town. Some are, for sure, going to work, or like her, coming home. She's a fast driver, though the weather has resulted in her showing some restraint as she changes lanes, holding back behind some driver in a chevy who is talking on a cell phone and unable to remain in their lane.
It's half way home before she speaks, barely a mutter, "Sorry." Annoyance, herself, him, the road, the damned driver she's caught behind, the one she would have expect to see crash into one of the sidings.
(james)
he's driven with her before
and is used to the assertive aggression the kin holds behind the wheel
he's driven with Rune and Decker - he can survive just about anything, really
and even give the slickened conditions on the streets, he's relaxed back into the seat
lumbar spine curving against the expensive upholstry
feet planted wide and easy on the floor
simply because he knows she'd rather examin the victims than be one"Why?" finally - he looks at her, and the response is just as quiet as his earlier apology, rather than the snapped retribution for the look she gave him, it's an honest question, he's actually curious as to why she'd feel the need to say it "It's not my business."
shrugged away, it doesn't matter, really
he's learning more and more that he shouldn't be too concerned about the Fenrir
(or their mates)
and even though he has accepted them all as pack
he needs to remember they're not Family"I shouldn't have pushed."
poor Gnawers, always taking the blame
(always putting it on themselves)(imogen)
One would think that after the intense knowledge she has of death, she would show more restraint in some things. Smoking. Drinking. Driving. that she knows intimately how smoking can blacken lungs, how drinking can change the liver. How a car crash can turn someone's insides to liquid.But, then again everything is relative, and the damage a car can do is nothing compared to what a Garou has done.
"Yes, well, I shouldn't 'ave--" and she cuts off, there, an impatient movement of her hand, an exhalation of her breath that is nearly laughter, but only without any of the humour associated with that sound, "It has nothin' to do with business. Or pushing."
Now it's his turn to look at her as she looks away, eyes on the road, though she does make a gesture, some quick short movement of her hand, meaningless. Even as she doesn't answer his question.
(james)
no kidding it didn't answer his question
and the Garou looks a bit baffled as she suddenly stops
though, well, a part of him expected it
and his gaze holds her profile a moment longer"Then what did it have to do with?"
unlike those she's used to (not) talking to
the quick movement of her hand either doesn't explain enough
or simply isn't enough to satisfy once she's started
here he goes pushing again
perhaps taking advantage of the road keeping her attention off of gracing him with another look(imogen)
Brief pause. The rain has picked up, and her hand reaches down, absently to click the wind shield wipers, turning up the speed. The faint wish of wipers against the windshield. The whisper of the wheels against the concrete. The sound of rain. They fill the silence until she speaks again, "Common decency."(james)
"Fair enough."seems he appreciates that
at least, one part of it
it also seems there is more"What was it that overstepped the bounds."
if that isn't an open ended question....
(imogen)
She finally tires of the swerving chevy in front of them, and changes lanes. And changes again, providing them with a wide berth between the cell phone-addict and themselves as she speeds up, passing the american made car.She breathes in, as one would before speech, but in the end, the breath is exhaled, unused. Pop queen has been replaced by System of a Down (...my self righteous suicide...), playing low, the sounds barely disturbing the air.
It's a very long time before she answers, to the point he may have thought she'd forgotten the question, or chosen not to answer at all. It's not uncommon, and the best way to avoid communication is to not speak. The silence does break, finally, "It's nothing." Which doesn't answer the question. She does not speak often, not with the skill of her (former) tribe, but she can twist words with the best of them. "Thank you for your concern, but it's nothing."
(james)
"You wouldn't have given me that look if it was nothing, Imogen."shot back just as smoothly as she guided them around the Chevy
shot back just as smoothly as a dark brow lifts towards heavy dreads
but there's no righteousness in his words
it's simply a statementshe may have taken a long time to answer the question
to the point he thought she had forgotten (was intentionally ignoring) it
but his retort doesn't even miss a beat
completely finished even before she completes the turn into the condo's parking lot
though just like before - he takes the hint
dark gaze drains away, and looks out towards the buildings
the Ahroun firmly keeping his molars pressed together
simply reaching to gather the backpack off the floorboards(imogen)
She curses under her breath, near silently, on the heels of his retort, but in the end says nothing more to him directly. She had, perhaps, sensed that he was taking the hint, and had absolutely no desire whatsoever to risk reopening it. The car slides into it's parking spot, beside an empty one where Rohl will eventually park his Tacoma when he decides to come back. The engine cuts off, and James reaches down to gather the backpack off the floor, and Imogen unbuckles her seatbelt, starting to get out of the car.(james)
the engine cuts
the seatbelts release their charges
the backpack makes it from floor to lap
all in dead (ha!) silence
he's even lifted the handle of the door so it doesn't have to close quiet as hardthe rain's coming down steady now
in that sort of way that even when you first step out of the car
you're already feeling drenched to the bone
it doesn't seem to bother him one bit
there's a partial glance up at the sky
as if asking the clouds themselves just what was in store
and whatever answer he got seems enough
because soon enough he's looking over the roof of the Benz at Imogen"Thanks for the ride."
still so very softly
she had absolutely no desire whatsoever to reopen the topic of conversation
she had made it clear that his concern was noted
.... and really had no place
so was set to the sidebut that's what his tribe does, isn't it?
fade into the background
blend away to be forgottenthere's a rock in the level of his shoulders
right one dipping to lead the left away
home now. might as well head in out of the rain(imogen)
She glances across the roof of the car and inclines her head slightly in an abstract nod, vague and slight before she speaks, some response, though indirect. "Thanks f'r the cigarette."Rain has begun to dampen her hair, soaking it to her skull and to her cheekbones, tendrils clinging to her neck. The door is shut, and as he walks away, the doors of the car click, and several beats pass, before Imogen too begins to cross the parking lot toward the the walkway and the condominium buildings, her hands sliding into the pockets of her jacket. For all the rain, like him, she does not appear to care all that much. The hood of her jacket remains down and the rain drips down her face, from her hair, from the sky as she crosses toward home.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 23, 2003.05.23.03. - jhoath [imogen-billy bedlam] *e[noje]
(imogen)
Rain. All there is. Is rain. It's been raining for days, and it might feel like weeks. Truthfully, after the long grey of winter, perhaps the grey of spring would be a welcome change. It is, after all, warmer than freezing. But with the rain this cold, and the weather this grey, it's hard to feel grateful for this change. Go to the docks, and the only colour is the men in their bright yellow coveralls. Ignore that, and the docks are colourless, the water is grey. The sky is grey. The rain is grey.The air feels grey.
The after-math of a full moon, the presence of a guest, in her space to stay, or some design of work, the weather, the rain, the cold. Whatever the reason, she is restless and only half an hour after coming home, she's come to stand beneath the eave of the balcony, the cool air, the pounding of the rain. In this weather, even the bright flame of her hair is muted. Partly from some mindset brought on by the weather. Secondary, from the fact she had showered before coming back outside. In this air, the thickness of her hair will not dry fast, particularly not carelessly pulled back as it is. Darkened as it is, it could be almost brown, but for the true heart of red found within it all.
She is smoking, of course. She rarely comes out, without smoking; though she may come out for other reasons, it always comes back to this. Fingers curved around the filter, the orange ember flaring as she inhales, the slow exhale of grey smoke, the smell of it in the air, weighted down by the rain, by the moisture. Instead of sitting, she leans back against one of the stucco'd wall of the balcony. The porch light is on, now, when normally it's abandoned, the faded orange light casting it's own glow, catching in the rain that falls just beyond the far end of the porch. She stands just to the left of one of the mismatched chairs, a file folder sitting on the arm rest, her head tilted at an angle as if to read the pages as she smokes. Review, rememorization. Work, whatever it was.
(billy bedlam)
He's quiet as he moves through the streets. headed for the Eagle's nest(james)
it's the scent that preceeds him
not your typical trashy Bone Gnawer scent, either
among the perpetual gray of the rainslogged city
this is a bright splash of brilliant color
seductive spices and heady herbs
the sheer blistering difference of foreign foods
the sheer blistering heat of Tandoori chicken with entirely too much currythere was a momentary pause (ohmyfuckingshitthat'shot) and return to the kitchen for a second beer (just in case) before the Ahroun made it out to the balcony
it may be raining and dreary and endlessly gray
but at least it's a spring gray - and there's a difference
raised on the streets of Albany and NYC, he spent far too long cooped up this winter
twin bottles clunk on the table, long and lean body folds down into the night-chilled seat
one pack of Camel 99s slings through the air to slide home (safe!) against the beersthat's about when the scent of cigarette smoke filters in over the sinus clearing Indian take-out
bare skin of his back (crisscrossed and savaged by ashen scars) pulls away from the plastic seat
boots beneath the cuffs of tattered BDUs slide a little more towards his center of gravity
dreads fall forward and dangly wave at the tiles below during the leeeeeaaaaan to peer next door"Evenin' Imogen."
(imogen)
She turns her head to glance at the Gnawer, her eyes narrowing briefly, before clearing the expression fading away. "'Lo." She answers, a shorter version of his greeting.The rain is it's own stacatto outside, the rain against the pavement, the rain against the walkway, the rain against the grass. the rain against the trees. It's needed rain. In the last week, everything has begun to flood green. Grass revitalizes. Leaves begun to unfold. It helps to counter act the effect of the rain. At least for some.
An inhalation, this one free of cigarette smoke as she catches the smell from next door. A lift of her chin in his direction, some oblique gesture. "Indian?"
Attention flickers. Billy is walking toward the Eagle's nest, and eventually, he is seen in the parking lot.
(billy)
He stops as he looks around...quiet...memories flooding. he finally shakes his head and grunts. "It's done...forget it." and then he sees Imogen, looking up, he nods quietly.(james)
"Mmhmm." grinned around a forkfull, one polite swallow later there's a thumb hooking over his shoulder "More inside.... I'll reheat a plate if you're hungry."grass revitalizes
leaves grow
flowers begin to bloom
there's some semblance of life returning after the long, dark winter
or at least, the life that's seasonal
for those that are on the balcony witnessing this
there's no rest for the weary
and most definitely. no. vacations.that's about when her attention flickers
and dark gaze swings out over the front lawn
stretching up a little to peer over the railing
(that's th..... oh yeaaaa.)
recognition in the jerk of his chin upwards
('lo there)
that second beer is held out in blind offer to the firey Kinfolk(imogen)
"Billy." Some form of greeting, and the file folder resting on the arm rest shuts with a muted rush of air, a stirring of papers. Somewhere during the day, the wind had tossed rain onto the wood of the chair, and the dampness has warped the shape of the file folder. Her hand smooths absently across it, before she begins to move, walking to the railing. The cigarette returns to her mouth, held stable as she places one hand on the cold balustrade and reaches out with the other to take the offered beer, "Ta. No on th' food, though. I ate on th'way 'ome."A vague smirk as she twists off the cap of the bottle, a hiss of condensation. Swallow. Instead of returning to her previous leaning position, she sits on the edge of the chair's armrest, one foot perched on the chair's seat, resting the beer bottle against the bend of her knee, dark eyed attention flickering back toward the scarred Wendigo.
(billy)
He almost blends tonight...almost...he forgot to take the feather from his hair and forgot to take the apache moccasins off...but he wears blue jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger Sweat shirt. he speaks in that choked rasp of a voice as he picks at freshly cut knuckles. "How y been Imogen?" looking at James, he returnsthe nod. "James was it?"(james)
half the time she turns him down
whether it's for a place to sit, or that he'd make a plate of food for her
half the time it's negation
but that doesn't stop him anyway
taking care of his pack just seems natural for the Gnawerbefore he's settling back against the plastic chair
the yet unopened beer is held out towards Billy
silent invitation to come up the stairs and get out of the rain"Yeh, James."
seems he takes care of those that fight beside his packmates, too
(imogen)
A sudden smirk touches her mouth, amusement flashing in her eyes as she glances at James offering Billy his last beer. Her cigarette is stubbed out in the ashtray by her feet as she glances toward Billy, "Well enough," simple answer, that really means nothing at all, as her hand tugs through her hair, the strands loosened from the careless ponytail that caught her hair low on her neck.A flicker of her attention across the wendigo, a sharp dark glance over normal clothing punctuated by native trappings, moccassins, a feather. The cut knuckles, the flesh split, cracked.
(billy)
He moves up the stairs and takes the beer with a nod of thanks. grabbing the cap between 2 fingers, he pops it off easily enough...forget the fact that it's a twist top. "Hey I don't suppose rune Leftmy eyepatch laying around here somewhere did she?" thankfully thay can't see the empty scket through the thick bangs that hang down(james)
the beer - the last, what was supposed to be his own - relinquished without a second thought
though there is a partial grin there
let's see how long he survives the food before running inside for refills
though the way the Gnawer simply inhales it - seems like at least half the plate
boots pressing against the tile to make room for Billy to get past should he want a chair to go with that beer
a breif, thoughtful, frown later there's another nod of his head
dreads snaking a bit over his shoulders"S'inside."
rather Modi-esque slur given the modicrum of manners still evident in the boy
he'll share his food (well, beer, he's guarding that plate), but he won't make them see it
there's a stretch and lengthening of muscle that brings his frame out of the chair
rising into the oblique light filtering through the rain onto the balcony
without a shirt, as he turns, it's easy to see the small glyph branded onto his chest
and the (garou) claw scars that slash deep gray furrows crossing down his back
.... seems someone was upset with the boy at one timeonce inside, there's a pause just before hitting the stairs
(holyfuckingshitthat'shot)
beer first.... eyepatch second(imogen)
She gestures at James with her beer bottle as he gets up, the amused smirk coming into the foreground again, the amusement that flickers briefer this time. "Your english is going. Y've been spendin' too much time 'round Rohl." Not that the englishwoman herself can talk, the language she speaks can sometimes appear to be a language all of its own, with its own inflections and terms. Grammatically, near perfect, it has pronounciations and truncations all its own.James back is turned, so he cannot see the longer glance the redhead gives James's back. Consideration, thought. She can cut up the body of a human and trace the path of its death; she can look at someone's old wounds and trace the path of their scars.
She looks away, toward the rain, and then the dripping Wendigo. She does not sit on the same balcony, but next door, her own balcony. Another swallow of beer, before she leans down to place the beer on the balcony floor. Pick up a cigarette package, and taps out a cigarette, sliding it between her fingers. Silent now, an easy thing for her to fall into.
Finally, her head turns and she nods her head across the distance, flicking a gesture toward Billy, "Want some ice?" Careless query as she draws farther back against the chair arching an eyebrow toward the Wendigo.
(billy)
He leans on the rail of the balcony and takespull of the Beer. not a drinker normally, hmakes exceptions from time to time. the story of his life is there on his body even clothed...the way his back doesn't quite move in suynch with the rest of him, the slight bow in his right leg, the mutilated hands athe scars that run up his neck...even the way steam rises from his shoulders.. and off the mint green colored skin that just shows above the collar of the sweat shirt (Bale fire burns) Looking at Imogen, he shakes his head. "No...thank you...I don;'t think Ice goes well with beer....but i appreciate the offer.(imogen)
A brief smirk, humourless, "No, it doesn't," she answers, dryly and without any sort of ruefulness, as she sets the cigarette in her mouth and lights up, resting her wrist on her bent knee. Smoke exhales, slowly, easily, familiar, and her attention flickers from the bruised and battered and scarred Wendigo to look out toward the rain and it's pattern as it falls.(billy)
Another Pull of thbeer and he smiles politely at Imogen. "So how's business Imogen?" a loaded question? nah...Billy doesn't work that way.(imogen)
A polite smile from Billy and the pure kin turns her head to look at him again, without such trappings of politeness. Her hair is damp still, perhaps from the rain, perhaps from an earlier shower, since her clothing shows no dampness beyond where the strands brush her shoulders, and several curls and waves have come free from the pony tail to cling jealously to her cheekbones, curl against her neck.She leans back, now, half in recline, still sitting on the chair's arm rest, her one leg drawn up to sit on the chair seat, the other, carelessly straightened out before her. She is a small woman, and this is a position she manages easily.
Her head tilts back to rest against the chair back, eyes slitting through the half haze of her cigarette smoke to regard Billy. Reading his question, perhaps. Or contemplating the answer. There are, of course, many degrees of answers.
"I don't believe," she says finally, "that that sort of small talk works with medical examiners; unless they're inclined to clichés." After all, there are a multitude of horribly dated answers that can be provided.
How's business?
Dead.
It takes a whole new meaning.(billy)
He nods and half salutes with the beer. "Fair 'nuff....I actually came to pass on some information about the new bad boys in town."(james)
his gallant return is branded with a rather Walker-esque smirk"If I start saying y'all.... beat me."
the irony: a Yank developing a southern drawl
though he has picked up the pack's verbal idiosyncracies
his Frankenweiler mentor would probably pummel him
all those lessons in how to not speak like a Gnawer....somewhere, between the pitstop in the kitchen and the rummaging upstairs
the Gnawer had cleaned the plate (does he even chew?) so that was left behind
he returned with three bottles (hospitality, always, even if they're refused) and one eye-patch
the first are settled on the table with a thick rattle of glass - for whenever
the second is held out to the battle-scarred (which of them aren't?) Wendigo
brow lifted in curiosity for the last part of the conversation caught(imogen)
"Y'can hold me to that," she answers, sideways to James before her attention returns on Billy. Inhale cigarette smoke. Words spoken are framed in smoke as she speaks to Billy, gesturing with a tilt of her head toward the Gnawer, "Tell him."The last of her smoke exhales, only to be replaced by another hit on the cigarette.
(baelyn marr)
Bright. Ass. Red. 2003 Mazda Miata Speeeeeed baby, it’s all about the speed.
That, and it matches the nails, manicure and pedicure, of the driver. A driver that careens around the corner just a hair too fast, squeal of tired punctuated with the pow of a tire blowing, further squeal as the Miata is with a confident jerk of wheel and slam of breaks hits the parking lot of some condominium complex and screeches to a halt after a final sideways skid.
It’s enough to piss off the neighbors, and gather the attention of anyone sitting out on their respective balconies at 12:30am.
And if it’s not? The opening of the door and spilling of leather-clad blond from the interior might garner a bit of attention, from previously mentioned manicure seen through open toes of sandals, three inch heels adding to the 5’8” height that unfolds to stand, hands smoothing over leather covered thighs, adjusting the corset top before reaching in to grab jacket (leather, of course) to toss over it all.
The drizzle of rain is not enough to tame wild curls just yet, nor is the hand that passes through it as wry grin slides over painted lips. Door left ajar (the door is not a jar! It’s a door!) as she walks around and sings to a crouch at the rear right and surveys blown tire. Only then does voice breech barrier of lips in a muttered “Well, shit.”(billy)
Taking the eyepatch with another n of thenks, he sets the beer off to the side, then brushs his bangs back...he was a handsome boy...maybe 18 ars old...the bangs over the left side of his face gave him a roguish look...that along with the blood of past warriors made him moreso attractive...but when the left side of his face is revealed...some replace attraction with horror...4 claw scars..Garou claws run from his forehead to his jaw. the eye socket destroyed...Bone fragments stick out at sickening angles...in the middle of the destroyed socket is the remnants of his eyeball skewered by a bleached piece of bone.he fastens the eyepatch to the fragments around the socket with a series of fleshy clicks and then he settles back, grabbing the beer again. "any of you speaks any natvie Tongues?"(james)
there's a sidelong glance at the sudden pow of the miata skidding into the parking lot
(.... interesting)
but his attention flickers back towards the Wendigo
just in time to catch part of what's normally hidden beneath bangs and patch
if there's any reaction to it (and there isn't) it doesn't show
patiently waiting for the other male to go on
there's a breif frown, again, one of those thoughtful ones"Not particularly."
english (which is degenerating), slang, few choice words in spanish, and their own native tongue of beastial sounds and body language - that's about it for his repetoire
(billy)
He nods as hre goes through the translation in his mind, then nods. "Jhoath...was a wyrtm spirit that the Uktena bound into the earth many centuries ago...endon has set up a camp over it's restingplace...and Ifear they are trying to awaken it...I know that the war Wolves that attack t barrens are from that compound...and they have Banes Guarding it."(imogen)
The sound of a tyre blowing out draws her attention away from the conversation, not without a slight shake of her head. No, she does not speak any Native American language. Nor does anyone she knows. Certainly, Rohl would not be the type for such thing.Hell. He barely speaks English.
Endron is brought up, and she looks away from the Miata, her attention (for all the fact that, in the end, she doesn't want to know) turns to the Wendigo and Gnawer.
(baelyn)
Ah, well. She stands again, and grabs cell phone from her pocket, dials, and AAA is called. Hand on hip, conversation ends, phone tucked away.
Seemingly moments later, the tow truck pulls up, a greasy looking driver climbs out and changes the tire for her. Exchange of cash, and she’s folding back into the car, and the Miata resumes it’s course. Out of the parking lot, down the road. It’s all about the speed.(james)
a dark brow slowly lifts
...... peachy
but the information is quickly filed away with a nod
"How.... delightful." Whatever happened to this vacation hard workers were supposed to get? "We've been looking into that. What else do you know?"(billy)
He shrugs. "I know it ain't gonna be a walk in the park...and I know there is a village of kin not farfrom the place...a reservation even....I just wanted to ensure the information as passed on."(imogen)
She ashes her cigarette, head ducking with the motion, glancing at the ashtray and the fall of ashes like the snow long gone. She does speak up, though, and the words are directed more to James (in the end, she is affiliated with Eagle pack, and if she has loyalty, to anyone or anything, it is them), "I'll try an' look up deeds. See who owns th'land an' why. Whether or not anyone's contesting the damned thing."(billy)
finishing the beer, henods to the pair. "Thansk for the beerand your hospitalit...I should get home and do a wolf Patrol(james)
peachy.
fucking. peachy.
that's really his only response at this point
but that, in itself, is not conducive to conversation
so..."Ta." shot at Imogen, seems he's picked up her slang, as well, or that's just cutting past directive vocabulary, and back to Billy "Rune's been typing at some people, though I'm not sure what's come up. I'll make sure it gets to the rest when they get back tonight. Thanks Billy."
(billy)
He nods and places the empoty bottle with Jame'sothers then drops off the balcony an easy hjog soon has him off into the night.(imogen)
A shrug answers James's thanks, though some brief smirk lurks in the corner of her mouth, half hidden, by the subtlety of expression. The shrug is something near 'it's nothing'; dismissive."Nigh', Billy." said on his departure, a beat before another inhalation of cigarette smoke is drawn into her lungs.
(james)
maybe it's the animal in him
that he can sense something that she doesn't intend to show
perhaps it's carried on some faint scent wafting between the balconies
or shown by the unconscious tilt of her head to hide it
or.... maybe he just knows her that well
because there's a sly little look across the distance between them after the Wendigo leavesone that says that wasn't a y'all in it's brevity
he's leaning to snag his pack off the table
shaking out a smoke to grab between his teeth
dark eyes taking a much longer stroll towards the kin"Bum a light?"
(imogen)
A faint sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat as she unfolds from her perch, fingers sliding into the pockets of her jeans. Cigarette held and burning between her teeth, she pulls the lighter from her jean pocket and reaches out across the distance to offer him the battered zippo."Anything else I should look at?" Research does appear to be something the good doctor is effecient at. She has information at her fingertips that is unique to her position; and the patience without the rage to perform the tasks.
(james)
he'll meet her halfway
it's almost some wry Genesisy ballet of addiction
as Adam reached unto God
across the great divide of the eternal soul
.... the Gnawer stretches to take the lighter from the kin
even going so far as to wink a thankshis head bows, heavy curtain of dreads sheilding the light from the rain
still caught in this precarious stretch between the balconies
deeply carved gray marks glistening as they slowly soak from exposure
he's returning the Zippo before drawing back into his own space"Coordinate that with Rune, I'm not sure what they've found or need."
his body twists to sit on the ballustrade
one leg dangling into the chasm that divides them
the other bent with a toe firmly planted on the terracotta tiles
he doesn't seem to mind that his right half is getting wet
just keeping his head tilted so the Camel stays dry(imogen)
She does not sit again, instead reclining within the half alcove formed by the balcony eave and the railing, lifting the cigarette to her mouth again. Another inhalation, a slow drag of smoke. Exhale, through her nose."If she needed anything," she says, more contemplatively than anything else, "Likely, it would 'ave been asked."
She sinks to a half crouch, one final drag of the cigarette, before reaching out to extinguish it in the ashtray; on the return, her fingers catch the neck of the beer bottle, closing around it, drawing it close as she stands.
A swallow of beer, bringing the level of liquid to half empty, "But," attention returning to the Gnawer, "I'll check."
(james)
there's a slow and steady drop of his chin which results in a nod
they both know how adept the Walker is on using her resources
(.... ahem)
so if she needed Imogen to check on something, she would have already gotten the ball rollingso they lapse into silence, instead
nothing but the sound of emptying beers
nothing but the sound of crackling embers
nothing but the sound of pattering rain
it's not the dreary rain - at least to him - of winter
that desolate onslaught that just brings more ice and snow
now... this is the rain that will make the green linger a bit more
before the earthy browns of summer drought sets in
life will come out of this
no matter how much longer his may or may not last
and perhaps there's some satisfaction in the Gnawer"Night Imogen."
just as softly as the earlier salutation
dark eyes swinging over with a little bit of that trademark grin
among other things, he does actually enjoy hanging out with the Kin
even if it's just listening to the rainweight shifts off the ballustrade
empty beer bottles are gathered
that full one no one got to is contemplated
then another look at it's tossed across the divide to her
and the Bone Gnawer ambles on inside(imogen)
Silence, and she looks away, frowning, if only briefly. It's a fraction of a second before it fades, and smooths, and she's simply contemplating the rain, and the parking lot, the beer in her hand, feel of the glass, the touch of liquid to her lips as she takes another swallow. She might very well be alone, for all the attention she pays the Ahroun.He might very well be alone, for the same.
That he knows her expressions, from time to time, and that he can catch the curve of her smirk when it lurks in the corners of her mouth is nothing compared to the impenetrability of her expression now. Nothing, beyond that she might be thinking, there might be something. That there is life, and emotion, but it is beyond grasp, where she keeps it, and stores it, away from view.
It's late, it's raining, it's a good time for contemplation. Her head turns as the Ahroun speaks, tossing her the full bottle of beer. Instinct prompts her to catch it, plucking it from the air as she answers, "Nigh', James."
He goes inside, the door shuts, and for a moment, the kinfolk shuts her eyes and listens to the rain. And forces herself from her reverie. The beer is drained, the full one unopened for now, damp file folder picked up. She walks back toward the door, pulling it open, and stepping inside, shutting it behind her with barely a click, the wood of the frame creaking against the wood of the door.
The rain continues, unabated.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 22, 2003.05.22.03. - like any of them soundly slept [lexi] *e[noje]
(lexi)
The monte comes to a halt. (however after the key has been turned to off and taken out, it still makes a bit of a churn and rumble) as the beast finally is silent. The door creaks and then slams, and footsteps are heard going up the (well travelled) stairs to the condo. The blonde seemed to now the way now...and walked the steps with no uncertainty in her walk. Intimidating to any normal person, she stands at least 5'10 and her long blond hair not in its usual ponytail but in fact is a wild mane framing her fae. Her eyes the most eerie about her...are those grey? blue? green? Is that even a real color..almost that of ice...Lexi--as she was known to the pack as, just Lexi. And who was she to their alpha? No one asked, no one really knew..and actually they probably didnt really care. A pause at the door..
and she knocks(james)
deep umber eyes lift, strafing from the GT3 on the tv to the door
and a brow liiiiiftswho the hell knocks anymore?
and it sure isn't pack - he'd've felt them coming
(though that was Erik's Monte)
long body unfolds from it's comfort zone just infront of the couch
(oof.... that wound still ain't healed yet)
and meanders its way over to the door
which slowly opensrevealing one Bone Gnawer, dreads falling in some tangled disarray of jungle vines to frame his face, head tilted at some curious canid angle on shoulders set broad and strong - there's no question the moon phase he was born under - it's just a wife-beater and BDUs day, it seems, the white straps that climb over his shoulders revealing the tips of ashen scars creeping up from where they litter his back as he turns a bit and lets the door swing all the way open
"Evenin', Lexi."
that might even be a trademark easy grin inviting her inside
(lexi)
So she is female- although to many she is more looked upon as butch or tough--too tough to be feminine, although her body, toned and tight...and the way her face is chisled does have a femeinine side...she does take a once-over look at him
(she is human)
The smirk slowly spreads along those lips...but soon is gone (was it even there) and the same look of business on her face returns."Actually was lookin for you" Eyes peer over is shoulder to see who is inside at the moment. The natural incence of good THC wofts from the condo and she hears nothing to make it seem the pack was lounging and doing their daily rituals of bitching, smoking, and videogame playing.
"You got time...thought maybe we could chat"(james)
she is female
damn amazon blond bombshell
(and those eyes)
she may be shorter than he is by four inches
but that doesn't mean squat
he's well aware just who's kin she is"Sure." warm and easy, amazingly mellow for a full moon (unless. on. the full moon) "Beer?"
once she's inside the door he's waving her towards the living room in that off-handed way
seems 'make yourself at home' is unsaid around these parts
the way the living room seems to have the only lights on
the rest of the pack is either out, or passed out
there's another phrase called over the sound of the fridge sucking open"What's on your mind?"
(lexi)
"Beers great" she nods and follows him into the haven of potheads. She smoked it...not as often as the 420 squad as se called them in her head...Erik was more of a whiskey guy then a pothead...so she found herself drunk on the couch more then stoned eating twinkies...
"Necter of the Gods they say" Her voice, not soft and sweet like a delicate flower. in fact it had a raspy tone to it, Melissa Ethridge like almost...
Make yourself at home--yeah worked for her.
She sits on the couch...and takes a quick glance around..."Shit what isnt on my mind" she chuckles "Gettin myself a job thats gonna probably get me killed, thats pretty cool"
and she means that no sarcasm in her voice at all...
The more you sit with her the more you'll learn about her...
"Looks like we'll be meetin up every week to rap" she calls to him until he returns to the room..."figure we gotta get some sort of place planned, and a story straight..."
a smirk crosses her face, cheshire-like..
"I mean boss meeting employee" she looks at herself and then him...."not very convincing...Fuckin partners?" she laughs..."possibly more convincing" and with that, another quick glance at him...and a shake of the head as it slips from her mind "brother and sister...could be...the possibilities are endless...depending on where we intend to meet up"
(james)
"Nectar of the gods?" she can almost hear him blink "I thought it was simply staple"that last part is grinned as a beer (something flashy Rune stocked up with) floats out of the darkness to her left in offer
this pack goes through beer faster than they go through pot
hell, he didn't even drink before joining with Eagle's own
yet, here is he, even offering one to the kin
and that must be strange
a bloody full moon playing host to a KIN
seems the hospitality is about as natural to him as the possibilty of getting killed on the job is to her
sinking into a sprawl across one of the overstuffed recliners
he doesn't seem really surprised to hear it
in fact, seems rather pleased she can hold her own
there's a considerate suckle of his lower lip before the option of drowning any retort to that "fuck buddies" remark with beer1. she's Get kin, and they don't take kindly to some remarks, he's the bite marks from Luc to remember that one by, and she looks a lot more difficult to deal with than Eva... and pissing her off would get Eric on his tail, so not even going there
2. Rune would kill him, some things probably don't fly, even in the name of duty - not going there either"Depends on where you're wanting to meet." beer bottle tipped towards her in absent gesture, he's a drummer, he speaks with his hands "I'd change spots every time just so nobody notices a pattern. How mobile are you going to be?"
(lexi)
Masks worn to portray something completely different to the world around them. Certainly his Alphas kin (is that what she is?) would hardly be offering to be a fuck buddy--more discussing the arrangement of the mask inteneded to be worn during the meetings.
business as usual
thats how it was with her. She should have changed....she was meant to be Garou and something got fucked-up. Wanted to be on the front line--fighting and dying for Gaia.
Erik saw this--tested her--she passed over and over and over....
The beer is tipped to her lips and she takes a drink before the long (minutes) pause.First of all--nothing offended Lexi...at least not when it came to family biz, now a fucker on the street could lose a vital organ if speaking to her in a tone she didnt approve of--but Eagle pack couldnt really offend her.
unless they saw her as less worthy
But that was a whole other topic--lets not go there."Yeah...different spots works...i mean, just tryin to think about where and why...im a thinker..like to have things planned out..like the whole job rhing.Rune seemed to have gotton the paperwork all taken care of...so it looks like i can be eiter a clerk of some sort in the offices" she makes a face..."yeah me in a dress...yessiring and nosirring" she could barf
"or a janitor" she grins..."ya know, diggin for shit, got the keys to all the rooms and offices, and real good at takin out the trash" she chuckles..."im thinkin i would make a better janitor then clerk"(james)
he'd certainly hope she wasn't offering
and even though it would simply be a mask and costume to get the job done
let's just.... not go there, he'll come up with other options first"Both would work. Though clerk would give you more excuse if caught filing something in the wrong place." not that he's implying she'd make the mistake (she passed Erik's tests.... and so did Dire), but they're covering all their options here "I can meet you anywhere from AC to Jersey City, make it believable that we're clubkids or I'm just some street performer that you like listening to. Boils down to where you'll be based. I'd like to stay as far away as possible. Time consuming, but NYC's even an option. I know a lot of hideyholes up in that part if things begin to get sticky."
that part would be where his accent's from
the Jersey twang isn't all that different from a Yank's
but if you know what you're listening for you can tell he's from up North"We'll figure out a place to meet first, then alternate who chooses the next spot at that meeting. Keep things flexible."
they're statements, laying out the options that are coming to mind
but it's clear he's willing to take whatever she comes up - objection or affirmation - with into consideration
both their lives may be at stake in this
and since it seems he thinks she's worthy and with a head on her shoulders
he's giving her just as much say as he has(lexi)
yeah" she agrees (to which part?) taking another drink from the cold bottle..."New York works..makes most sense, I got the monte to do with as I please...We can make the first few meetings at a cool club..The Continental works...always good for a good band, and its really fuckin dark in there...place is filled with drunks, and i know know the bouncer...so dont gotta worry bout cover charge or buyin drinks" and thats a plusSilence now...was it an uncomfortable silence, or did some people just have the ability to shut the fuck up and enjoy silence for what it was...
either way...there was silence now.
Another opportunity to take another drink from the bottle, and a glance around.(james)
rather than the affirming nod that includes a drop of his chin
he, too, has the Eagle Pack habit of nodding up
Continental works for him
there's a little amused grin creeping over his features about what to not worry about
(at least there's something to not worry about)
and the partial wonder if she will be added to the list of people that can drink him under the tablethen there's that silence
he's actually the type that can sit comfortably in silence
he's proven that with his pack
he's proven that with the kin he already knows
at least this is one list she'll be added to
because he's quietly enjoying draining 5/8ths of his beer in said silence
and it's broken idly, not forcibly, as if he were looking for something to say and finally found it
it just took that long for the thought to work its way out of his mind
strange, for a full moon to have a voice so soothing"What kind've club?"
(lexi)
She smirks..."old school punk...now its more that trendy band shit that all the locals and nationals wanna play...ya know..the cookie cutter punk wanna bes" she shrugs..."but iggy used to play there, and the ramones...nashville pussy" she smirks..."aint pretty, smells of beer and vomit on a good night...and hotter then Vegas in August" she shrugs..She wasnt a good smalltalker--didnt bullshit, but if the topic didnt suck, she could hold up a conversation, just dont toss smalltalk at her, cause she wuldnt know what to do with it.
Another pause...
"So how man of yall actually shack up here?" she looks around..."seems like ya got like 20 of ya shoved in here like sardines"(james)
there's a thoughtful nod
old school punk he can do
no worries about blending there"Old packmate got me into the Ramones and the Clash.... I can dig it."
but the next part, that gets a laugh
that's what he thinks about it sometimes, too"Rune's technically the one that should be here.... but Decker's got a room, Luc too, I'll crash here when applicable." careful how you phrase that, Jamey-boy "but she's trying to get the majority of the pack out to the 'house and outta hers."
(lexi)
She nods and finishes the beer..settng it down on the table and leaning back..."Ramones and Clash..good shit" she nods..."frankly i tend to migrate towards the loud music bars--if i bar-hop at all which is rare. Dont toss me in a dance club" she shakes her head..."that thumping music that sounds like its all one song...I dont do 'E' and have no desire to look like a fool on any dance floor...can ya picture it, me...dancing along with the glow-stick freaks"
freak not used derrogitory...not at all, but more in the way of ~explaining the ravers~
Lots of words from the mostly quiet blode...maybe it was cause there werent a ton of them there...
or maybe she was just in the mood to chat
probably the first
"I dont mind crashing at Eriks pad...better then the fucking barrens were...i mean i can mesh into the woods, dont hate it, but would rather have the luxuries of TV, hot water, and a stereo...but im more of a social chameleon...can stick myself anywhere and get the job done"
business as usual
Always proving herself...
"Not scared of shit, not time to be...yeah im fucked cause i havent changed yet" (shes 21--obvioulsy isnt going to) "But fuck it i live life like i have, i mean I should be fighting for Gaia, i should have been given the gift" curse to some...gift to others
"just means i have to work twice as hard, use my strengths, and outthink sometimes...but i aint worried...when i go, its gonna be with a fuckin boom they can see from that fuckin statalite int he sky" she grins...."i think shit out, i watch my ass...and my mouth...and im not scared to fuck someone up first...and ask questions later...not to mention, Erik has equipped me with good fightin tools" like shed actually mention the silver bullets"So whattys do around here...is it mostly drinkin beer and smokin pot?"
(james)
there's some laughter there
easy going, downright amused"I'd personally prefer to stay away from the rave clubs. More of a dive bar kinda guy, myself."
he's a fucking Bone Gnawer
never even been inside a home this nice until he met Rune
he's used to living in, or even under, said dives
never had a roof over his head this consistently save once before in his life
but as she prattles on - proving herself, or just talkative - he maintains that easy grin
welcoming the change from the brooding Modi or chattermouthed Skald
attentively listening just as long as she chooses to talk
and if she didn't? like before? he'd be cool with that too"I think we'll get along just fine, Lexi." flat out grinned, then he's gesturing towards the paused game on the screen with the empty bottle he's climbing out of the recliner to refill "Play games, smoke, drink, fuck, and fight the Wyrm wherever it breeds."
(lexi)
She laughs...."sounds like a helluva life" Not that she could fight the wyrm like she would like to..but she keeps from letting that show on her face...."not such a bad life"
and the silence sets in again...as she looks to the paused game...video games were not her thing...unless they involved lots of killing...grand theft auto..sure, any sports game or one of the mindless cartoon animals collecting coins or lucky charms, and she was bored...
Legs pulled up to indian style...long legs..damn did they end? That was what gave her her height....
and
she remains quiet now(james)
"There's CounterStrike, if you want to blow things up."called out from the kitchen
it's almost like he knew
(hey, it's the pack's favorite game)
and the way he said it, she's welcome to turn his game off"It's not that bad a life, really." that's offered along with another beer creeping out of the darkness at her "Not like I know any other." such wry laughter "What I was born to do, and I'll do it until I die with a fuckin' boom they'll see from space." winked over another swig of beer
(lexi)
He repeats her comment on the way to go out...and she merely looks towards the floor...the room is quiet now...she doesnt reach for the controller, couldnt really care less about playing the game.
Other things on her mind.
Quiet from her lips...but her mind racing--twisting--a whirlwind of thoughts, doubts and disappointments...Hearing the fridge open...and hoping another beer is coming her way...
Not such a bad lifeYeah if she could relate...
She got to play the kinfolk..the lesser of the true warriors.
lifes not fair and forrest gumps mom lied..it was NOT like a box of chocolates...(and she got the beer, smiled, and started slammin)
(james)
his head tilts
heavy dreads spilling over muscular (scarred) shoulders
quietly regarding her for a moment
slowly sinking down into the recliner
studying the beer that's suspended between his knees
cold bottle twisted around in his hands a few revolutions"You can tell me to fuck off if you want." softly ventured "But I say something wrong?"
(lexi)
She shakes her head.."nope" simple answer
nice of him to offer to allow her to tell h im to fuck off...she makes a mental note of the permission though...in case she needs it later.Hand moves through her mane..."its all good"
not a good lier, but also not one to spill shit...at least not after 2 beers...and she was not the whiny kinfolk ~oh woe is me~ can i please be barefoot and pregnant type either...it wasnt her style...Shed go beat someone up on the way home...that would suffice...
(james)
this time, his chin drops in an affirmation
(alllllrighty then)
he's got a pretty good idea of what caused the sudden turn in conversation
but, unlike other Garou, who would suddenly assert their dominance of the kinfolk that should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitch, cooking and cleaning and carrying the next generation of warriors, suddenly demanding some explanation - he quiets down himself, and gives her space
it all isn't good
but what the hell can either of them do about it?nothing more than they have been, really
there's the slow stretch of torso
the reach of one arm that pulls the scarred skin of his shoulders a little further out from beneath the wifebeater
snatching the controller from the floor
(where'd that coffeetable they had go?)
starting up his game again
when she wants to talk again, he figures she'll talk
otherwise, he's just as comfortable in silence(lexi)
Sounds of the game now filling up the room
~good thing too~ that she could handle..and much better then chatting about the only subject she couldnt control.
Couldnt control
and she LIKED to be in control...
she would have been an ahroun without question...
Eyes flicker from the TV screen to the beer..watching it as the level begins to go down...
Now what?
Comfortable with silence, that wasnt the point...but slightly more confotable with the fact she could talk to him--
which was odd enough.
A quick glance to her watch...Erik would be wondering where his damn car was...
a shift in her weight...and another look to the game...watching him emersed in the world of fantasy...."any good at it?"
(james)
he seems fairly absorbed in the game, too
beer's settled comfortably between his thighs
dark brows have drawn together and low on concentration
darker gaze flickers to his right at her question
and it's followed by a grin that begins at the corner of his mouth and works its way across"Depends on the game. I suck at CounterStrike.... but can outdrive anyone on GT3."
there's a longer look towards her as the game loads the next level
he's using the time to swig another swallow or three from the bottle
he was assuming she was talking about the game(lexi)
Yes-
she was talking about the game.
She gets up abruptly--as if she was getting ready to go.
Long legs, jeans fit -just-right- The baby t clinging perfectly under the denim coat. Shouldnt she take it off if she is gonna hang out...maybe she just always was ready to go if needed..
Instead of heading towards the door, she rubs her face with her hand for the moment...
thinking
pondering
processing
"gotta piss...can you point the way...would hate to walk into the room where someones soundly sleeping"
like any of them soundly slept(james)
there's a faint chuckle
not a good idea to go barging into rooms in this condo
especially as the Get were the ones taking over the first floor
and his chin jerks up towards the hallway shrouded in shadows"First on the left, Decker's.... so no promises on how clean it is." he has a feeling as long as it functions, she's good to go "Hallway light's on the right wall."
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 21, 2003.05.21.03. - be gentle? [rune][noje]
(james)
suddenly, the Xanax wore off
yes, quite suddenly
one moment he's floating about in some drug induced (pain infused) slumber
and the next he's staring at her (their) ceiling
and practically levatating out of the waterbedbut since it sinks and swims beneath him
he doesn't get very far before agreeing that was a very, very bad idea
(...... ow.)
blinking away the surroundings
focusing on the hazy remnants of the nightmarewait... switch that
maybe the drugs haven't worn off yet(rune)
He won't find her in the bed, though from his lofty position, he may turn to see her, sleeping upright on the floor. Upright, of course, is a relative term. Slumped down, one leg splayed out before her, the other crooked and bent at the knee to support her elbow which supports her forehead.How long he's been there, impossible to tell. The numbers on the clock are obscured by the tall glass of water and the prescription bottle beside them. Even the scent of his blood (the wound, bound, aches and burns and claws at his gut, but it no longer seeps and it no longer weeps) is swallowed by other scents: her shampoo and her soap, the ashen underpinnings of her cigarettes, a small mound guttered in the ashtray by her hip.
His attempt at movement wakes her though. Lashes pull relucantly from the curve of her cheeks and her first full breath is a deep yawn. Her second is a deeper breath, pulled into with languid riches through flaring nostrils as she breathes and focuses. "..you okay?" Spoken before she's fully awake, or even, really half-way there. Spoken as she dashes the sleep from her eyes and resettles herself against the cool smooth wall.
(james)
there's a few deep breaths
long, and slow, and steady, and that's his hand holding his insides in
least, that's what it feels like from the sudden, brilliant tidal wave of pain that swooped towards the shores of his brain from what may have once been his abdomen
(bound - it no longer seeps nor weeps)
and by the feel of the bed beneath him
it seems that he's still out at sea
(.... make....the world.... stop....)
a few more seconds before her half-asleep sigh makes it out to his little raft"The fuck did you give me....."
blearily offered in a slurred question
the way his mouth feels like cotton candy
the way his brain feels like bubblegum
(when did we go to the fair?)
he should probably ask how much
while the prescription was taking effect
.... he really doesn't remember much
her question finally grabbing enough of his attention to glean an answer"Yea." quietly, sighed, weight settling against the stilling bed "Weird dreams."
(rune)
"Xanax." Her choice of pills to pop. How many times, really, has he seen her twitch open the prescription bottle with a flick of her thumb and down two or three or four (...or more) as bar against whatever she does not wish to experience, or blanket to keep all the rest in? Though her once-too-regular consumption has slowed, still on long black nights lit by a bright full moon, when rage is a sick sure roil in her gut and tempers are a fine frayed filament, she will take them again (two or three or four or more) and find some relief from the chafing pressure of her rage. Or his. Or another's. Or something else, darker, altogether. "Your first time?"She flicks him a wry smile as she climbs painfully to her feet, baggy jeans sliding loose on her hips. Her own breath of pain is swallowed, then hissed out a moment later in something like a laugh.
Two steps, and she's at the edge of the bed, standing over him as she fits her hands to the small of her back and leans back in a sinuous stretch. Inky strands of hair fall forward across her pale cheek as the stretch reverses and she looms somewhere above him, pale as the moon swimming in darkness. "Found some Oxycontin, too. That might do more for the pain."
(james)
"Yeh..... be gentle?"quipped and slurred all in one
he's able to lift his head a little bit off the pillow
but it seems his dreads are clinging to keep him down
(okay..... I'll stay here... no arguments, even)
not that it provides that bad of a view, really
there's quite a bit of appreciation in dark gaze at that stretch
one hand suddenly taking flight to tickle fingers gently over her belly
(he doesn't know where she's hurting, yet she's taking care of him)
waiting until she's looming over him to offer a little (loopy) grinthen something about him softens
just as visable and deliberate as the slow trail of fingers to catch in the hipslung waistband of baggy jeans
there's a gentle - requesting, not suggesting - tug"Rather have you sleeping here with me instead of the wall."
(rune)
be gentle?"I never am." There's the familiar curve of her weary smile, cresting at the corners of her red mouth as she curves her hand over his over the waistband of her jeans, staying further movement. "You should know that by now."
Absently, she tucks the strands of her dark hair behind her ear and then offers him a brief, distinct shake of her head that dislodges the locks all over again. "I gave you... a pretty good dose. More than I usually take. That might explain the dreams." In the darkness, her gaze flickers over him to the empty half of the bed, then slides back to him. "Tell you what, you take some Oxycontin or Vicodin," curving her free hand on the frame of the waterbed, she bends down, low and offers him dancing little smile. "...and I won't sleep on the floor."
(james)
the familiar curve of his smile shows up again as if to chase after hers
it's not any smile, either, it's beginning to look like that grin
there might even be the slow and sure entrance of laughter into his current repetoire of sounds
fingers tightening around denim beneath the warm curve of her hand"And I adore that about you.... you know I do.... but I think right now you'd break me."
it wouldn't be the first time, honestly
he's surprised some of her marks haven't scarred
but he isn't thinking about that right now
just as he really isn't thinking about the words that tumble of out his mouth"Combined with that look, I'm not surprised."
because that probably doesn't make sense to her
(as it's obvious he's not talking about her look)
though it does to him, and apparently that's enough to suffice
his gaze wanders away, following some distant movie of memory
then peels back to suddenly find her bent down low and even offering a dancing smile"Deal." his other hand reaches, curving over the back of her neck, pulling her down just that little bit to meet him halfway in the partial sit-up that ends in soft kiss "I don't want to sleep alone."
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.05.21.03. - you became me/patchwork [luc-rune][condo - fight scene]
(luc)
MY kin.
[..you, not from you.]Rage rattles through his body, every corrded muscle every nerve rattle snap electricity shuddering on the edge of that one moment. Wounded Ahroun. Father-Figure. Packmate. Traitor. And its like time slows down, the pores on face growing larger to emit the coarse hairs that would create grey pelt. Mouth stretching and distending forward into muzzle where teeth drip fang sized -- and hands form into the enormous paws of the Dire Wolf.
Guess It was the wrong thing to say.
(james)
there are times and places that one begins to hate what they are
when they're victim to the tides of the moon
when they're suddenly no longer human and simply the irrational animalthis. would be one of those times.
he can see what's in Luc's eyes (traitor) and that just kills something inside of him
he doesn't regret what he did to Eva
as much as he treats kin as equals - when they're wrong they deserve what's coming, just like any Garou
in his eyes, she was wrong, and he'd let it go after he walked out that door
(that's the way it was between him and Dire, that's the way it was between him and Decker - that's not the way anymore)
but now? but this? that it's gone beyond just them and dividing pack?
it wasn't worth it
(something in him breaks, something in him hates)a part of him figures he should just stand there and take it - let Luc just tear him to pieces rather than see the betrayal in his eyes
a part of him responds to the raging beast that's leaping for him
(I won't back down, not even from you)
shaggy brown coat replaces skin and bloody shirt
heavy lupine body slams into the Skald
(bring it)(luc init 15, james init 15)
reroll: luc 4, james 3
luc
reflexive: resist pain, 1wp, 3 rage - 1-4 bite, dex brawl = 8, 8D10 Dice Roll: 2; 1; 4; 9; 8; 10; 7; 4
reroll 10: 6
4 successes , Damage Str+1 , str 3 + 3 form modifier + 1 bite + 4 successes = 11 dice.11D10 Dice Roll: 1; 6; 7; 1; 4; 6; 2; 7; 6; 1; 4
james soak: 7D10 Dice Roll: 5; 2; 6; 10; 10; 6; 7 - no damage
luc: 2/4 Action: Bite.
Dex 4 + 2 form modifier (i forgot last time) + 4 brawl = 10 dice.
10D10 Dice Roll: 3; 5; 6; 4; 5; 1; 5; 10; 7; 10
2D10 Dice Roll: 1; 3
5 successes.Damage: str 3 + 3 FM + 5 succ. + 1 bite = 12
12D10 Dice Roll: 5; 4; 10; 6; 7; 2; 1; 10; 3; 8; 5; 8
5 damage, roll soak.james soak: 7D10 Dice Roll: 3; 2; 10; 9; 7; 5; 7
james: 1 damageluc: 3/4 Bite. Dex 4 + 2 form modifier + 4 brawl = 10 dice.
10D10 Dice Roll: 5; 7; 7; 10; 10; 4; 4; 5; 9; 1
2D10 Dice Roll: 9; 1
6 successes.Damage:
str 3 + 3 FM + 6 succ. + 1 bite = 13
13D10 Dice Roll: 5; 7; 1; 10; 10; 5; 6; 7; 10; 6; 1; 2; 4
5 succjames soak: 7D10 Dice Roll: 6; 10; 7; 4; 7; 1; 2
james: 2 damage (3 total)luc:
4/4 Guess which action.Dex 4 + 2 form modifier + 4 brawl = 10 dice.
10D10 Dice Roll: 6; 7; 8; 9; 10; 3; 3; 8; 8; 2
1D10 Dice Roll: 10
1D10 Dice Roll: 3
8 successesDamage: str 3 + 3 FM + 8 succ. + 1 bite = 15
15D10 Dice Roll: 7; 6; 7; 6; 1; 8; 6; 6; 10; 8; 8; 4; 4; 2; 9
1D10 Dice Roll: 1
9 damage --roll soak @ -1james: 6D10 Dice Roll: 5; 3; 3; 2; 3; 1
(luc)
MY KIN.Chill. Cold. James makes comment but even as he's speaking he knows the overgrown nord isn't really listening. My Kin. And you wonder why the get are feared, cause the knee-jerk reaction of hatred and loathing. What else but tribe could explain how this grinning teen, could snap so suddenly -- cold front in august - and lunge forward in razored death.
Don't fuckin tell me...
how. it. is.James is a warrior born and more than ready for him, shifting forms even as the oversized lupine charges forward. A flash of rage is nothing to battlehardened veteran and the first to blows are shrugged off. Really, James does not want to fight him, his heart simply isn't in it...
and for the boy, it is only red. It is only rage. [..her arms broken/ 'Get out of the house, now.'] his words, and flesh to rended. And rend it does--the last few bites finding purchase on some deep gory home--
Blood on mouth.
His packmate.-Click-
And the Wolf stops mid-bite. Form melting away into the lanking human albeit stained in blood. [..this is my brother--what am i DOING?] He shudder faint and wobbles a bit arm reaching out to brace his form over the sprawled body of his mentor.
I fuckin WANTED to be you.
There is no release. The pleasure of lunch coming back up through ironlined rib cage is denied as is most of the satisfactions of his too short life. "Fuck this." He grabs his coat and walks out.
(james)
MY BETA.
(my mate)most would run in fear from the fabled Get
but the Bone Gnawer doesn't back down
meeting the grinning death without pause
(never bank on tomorrow, because it may never come)
but his heart isn't in itthis is all too fucking familiar
he knows what it's like to hold betrayal in his eyes
he knows what it's like to charge at the one you looked up to
he knows what it's like to taste your mentor's blood coating your throat
somewhere in the flurry of lethal bites - he stops fighting backthis is gonna suck.
there's something in deep umber eyes, half glazed to look back at the Skald
time freezing as the rage-drive attack suddenly stops
(you wanted to be me.... you just became me....)
something in those eyes said he would have let Luc kill him(I'm sorry.)
that's when the Fenrir storms away
chrinos head thunking back to the carpet
wondering how he's gonna stop the bleeding before Rune comes back and finishes off the job(rune)
Hours later (two. three. four.) the Glass Walker returns. The Beemer had been there the whole time. Wherever they went, they walked. Wherever they went, they stalked through the dark suburban streets into the black heart of the Jersey sprawl.It wasn't that hard to find what she was looking for (Combat the Wyrm wherever it breeds), for the Wyrm breeds all around them, even in the heart of the Weaver's controlled, mindless little paradise of order. Two miles away, or five (it didn't matter. She could have walked to the ocean. She could have kept on fucking walking until she did find something to kill.) they crossed the choked and thickened barrier between worlds and emerged into a surreal landscape.
Amidst the ghostly ruin of an old development, (where once humans dreamed and still they breed like rabbits, like fleas, parasites on the mother's skin) they fought the foul chimera that feed on despair, that swallow pain and inspire hatred, apathy or indifference and dance beneath the shell of the Weaver's untouchable web.
Hours later: (how many?) she returned, battered, new wounds still smoking, old wounds (acid burns down the long length of her legs) supperating and oozing clear fluid over cracked and broken skin. Around her neck, livid red splotches from the sticky suckers of some landgoing octopus, ear to fucking ear, a blighted necklace, with matching marks on the inner knuckles, the distal ends of her fingers on either hand. Soot smudges her cheek, and blood mars the corner of her mouth: hers, her packmate's, another's.
Outside, she stands and stares at the darkened windows, reflecting the rise of morning light, silvered and golden and tainted by the ever-present pall of smog. Dawn always follows a long night, but for how long, really, now?
The city is reflected in those windows, or what they can see of it. These clipped and manicured green spaces, these falsely gabled would-be houses, these cars all parked in neat little rows, these lying little sidewalks. No one here walks anywhere. No one talks to their neighbors. No one gathers on the porch of an evening. There are no bonds. Beyond them, to the east, the vision of that from which they have fled, a tangled mass of concrete and asphalt, glass and crumbling brick, the metal snakes of the morning commute, the broken bones of half-a-dozen dying (dead) cities, marrow sucked clean out.
Wearily, she shifts her hand through her lank hair, pushing the strands away from the sharp planes of her face. Her reluctant steps are impelled by the sudden gunning of an engine, the sound too-loud, somehow, after the strange humming, chittering silences of the spirit world. It's all surreal, even the sound of her own footsteps on the concrete stairs, even the familiar creak of her door on its hinges.
(james)
he lay there for quite awhile
dammiting about what he did
dammiting for what happened after
dammiting for the fact he is continuing to bleed on Rune's carpet
it's not the gushing expulsion of new wounds
that's slowed enough now to a steady, irritating leakby the time the sun begins making the heavy curtains over the balcony glow in dawning light
he's somehow moved his mauled, aching self into the kitchen
(it's far easier to scrub the stain out of the tiled floor)
long muscles of his back pressed up against the fridge
(Gaia that feels good)
legs tucked up for boots to brace his body against supportive frigidaire
dreads spill down over his shoulders
chin's slightly lifted towards the ceiling in silent thought
dark eyes lay closed in the animalistic features of Glabro faceuntil that door creaks open
pack
he hadn't been paying attention, far too lost in his own thoughts (and healing)
the gaze drops down, looking at the towel pressed against the worst of the wounds on his belly
frown working over his lips at the pull of cotton threads against congealing blood
half wondering if the t-shirt that got caught between will now become a permanent part of his flesh
the nearly empty beer bottle complains in hollow thunk as it's picked up and drained
settled back at the edge of the small pool of dark maroon that has become his throne"If you've any peroxide I can clean the carpet."
(rune)
There's a volcanic chain of islands sketched in the carpet, the largest of the islands is closest to the door, and she almost stepped on its landmass before she looked and stepped around it.Minute movement in her face: the tightening of her jaw, the narrow flattening of her mouth, hard, which finds some echo in her exhausted eyes. Like some primitive explorer, she follows the trail - marked, not only by the seep of his wounds, but by the blood-stained scrape of his hands upon the carpet - through the living room, to the cool tiles of the kitchen where blood congeals on rather than stains the floor. Her shoulder grazes the doorframe as she watches him from beneath and behind half-hooded eyes, and her mouth purses into a strange expression, closed and tight.
"Jesus." Breathed more than spoken, the word, accompanied by another shake of her hand through her filthy hair. Two questions come to mind, and perhaps he can see the wish to ask, and the will to cut them off in the way her lips part and then close again, accompanied by a minute and weary shake of her head. Her feet are bare, and there is something oddly fastidious in the way she steps so lightly around the pools of his blood on her kitchen floor with only grazing glances down to guide her. Small humor, distant and unhurried (the absurd, here, to offer. The absurd, here, to ask.) in the hitch of the corners of her mouth, upward. "Tell me that wasn't your first thought?"
When she gains his side, she sinks into a crouch, wincing out a hissing breath as raw flesh is stretched in movement and cruelly dragged against leather. A moment to catch her breath, occupied as she picks up the beer bottle at his side and lays a cool thumb across his cheek, fingers splayed beneath his jaw. "You shouldn't be drinking."
(james)
"Was a toss-up between Hi honey, welcome home, dinner's a little late..."half laughed, half coughed
(those ribs would still be rather tenderly cracked it seems)
and that inspires a length of silence as she's making her way through the blood (his blood) on the floor
the pressure against the wound over his belly is returning, too
because he can feel the steady spread of warmth that signifies leakage
he can't help the slight grin tossed over his features as she crouches
normally so straight and perfect teeth predatory and jagged now
it melts away with the soft sound that's unconscious in his throat
the smallest sigh as head tilts into the cool touch of her fingers"I know, but some bastard put the orange juice on the top shelf."
by the wry twist of feral smile - that bastard was probably him
slowly (bones grind, flesh weeps) he reaches to mirror the gesture
thumb tracing beneath the swell of her lower lip
smearing the remnant blood
(hers, her packmate's, another's)"Have a night on the town without me?"
(rune)
"Yeah," her dark eyes sweep down, low over the ragged edges of the wound not quite concealed by the sodden towel, then dance so easily (and necessarily) away. His feral smile is returned in only half-measure as her eyes return to his face, skimming his neo-caveman features - the jutting jaw, the sloping brow - before settling, so briefly, on his eyes. "No objections, I hope?"Her head falls to the side, her hair sweeps across her shoulder and tickles the raw red welts circling her neck. The look is searching, and the movement carries her mouth almost out of his reach, though his fingers still graze the smooth, unbroken skin of her cool cheek. She smells of the city's spring night, rain and smog, and blood and ash. She smells, still, somehow, of the dark and luminous otherworld that houses the other half of their sundered souls, though all these scents but small effigies of the whole, soon drowned in the thick, clotting scent of his congealing blood.
Rising then, abruptly, she spins and flings open the cabinet, with more force than is entirely necessary. The hinges grate through their full arc of motion and the door slams against the next, then begins the journey back until it collides with her elbow: arc to arc to arc. She draws a steadying breath and grabs a glass blindly. Her fingers leave smears of ash and oil on the surface, whorled fingerprints, distinct, identity carried there, somehow. In lieu of orange juice, she offers him water: ice from the freezer opened above his head, the rush of frigid air downward, the subtle hum of the compressor, cubes clinking against the glass, and then cracking as she fills it with water at the sink.
"Drink this, instead." She does not offer this while standing above him. She crouches to offer him the cool, slick glass. Her eyes, like her mouth, unreadable as they find his again. "Better for you."
(james)
the thicker lines of his lips purse a little, almost a thoughtful frown, yet still half a grin
(not as long as you always come home to me)
but whatever he could remark to that simply isn't said
whatever questions he has on the scents that make it to him
(above and beyond the smell of his own damned blood)
those fade away, toohe's just watching her as she rises
flinching slightly at the sudden smack of cabinet and rebound
but the instinctive reaction is put to good use
body weight shifting and pivoting about his hips
legs slowly crossing, BDUs smearing through the drying blood
(he's covered in enough of it, at least then it's on him and not the floor)
torso beginning a slow fold over itself to ease the pressure on the bellywoundthere's a.... pause..... holy fuck he forgot about the nutshot
he remembers it now
and dark eyes momentarily.... close
(keeeeeriste)accepting the water from her without question
though there's a fairly severe wince at the shellshock of cold liquids hitting his insides
at least the beer had warmed a bit"Do you want to know?"
soft words break the long, thirst-quenching silence
rough and gravelly over primitive throat
(rune)
When he closes his eyes, she looks up and away. The ceiling seems appropriate. This respect, then: not to look. It's far from human respect (to witness, to know), but not animal, either. In the end, their's is a kind apart, of both and neither, and both and neither find expression in every action. There's a sky, beyond, and a morning star shrouded by the choking brown smog that captures and diffuses the early dawn light."I'm not sure if I want to know, or not."
She offers him the edge of a wry half-smile as she sinks from her haunches to the floor beside him. His blood is slick beneath her bare feet, beneath her body, and the sink is really a barely controlled slide. Later, she will strip his clothing and bind his wound more completely. Later, she will stand behind him as he struggles up the stairs to their bed. Later, she will dose him with Xanax as meager balm for the pain, and watch as he falls into a fitful slumber. Then she will return, down the bloodied steps, to find the peroxide hiding somewhere in the cabinet behind her head.
Now, she takes the glass of water from him and quenches her own thirst, then sifts an arm around his shoulders, gingerly, as she offers the glass back. She doesn't look at him, not precisely. She looks up and away, but she is beside him, now, and she isn't going anywhere.
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 16, 2003.05.16.03. - bring it [imogen-decker-kennedy-eva-dire][noje]
(james)
one thing you can't do is keep a Bone Gnawer down
even when he feels like he still has more bullets in him than organsluckily, the Theurge was somewhere to be found last night
so after he was carried in from the Tacoma in the early hours of this morning
most of said bullets were quickly removed
a round (or three) of healing later, and even the difficult ones were pulled
but he still feels like he's carrying them around
we're not even going into the agony of taking a shower
(the... upstairs... shower, since Decker's decided it was going to start leaking yesterday)
but he wasn't going to lay in a pool of crusted blood any longer
(that would be the second set of the Modi's sheets he's bled all over)that was about an hour ago
he's finally worked his way out to the front balcony
the majority of necessary bandages are hidden beneath a very, very soft t-shirt
just so he doesn't bleed through the cotton upon movement where bullets gathered to tear away chunks of skin last night
the rest of his flesh is patterned with healing bruises and still offended pink skin
long legs have been carefully tucked up in an strange Xing pattern of camoflage
this is not a time to stretch outdark eyes are watching the distant cover of clouds
watching the sun set behind the shadowing gray
the vestiges of fire remnant along the outskirts of billowing black
his chin rests on the raised knee
upon the more parallel to the ground other is settled the base of a half-full glass of orange juice
(hey... whatever helps)
it's a slow.... slow.... system of movement that drains the glass down to a quarter(imogen)
She does have, perhaps, a modicum of experience with wounds. Not just the mark of them, the pattern of them across dead bodies, the mark of them across flesh that has long lost elasticity. It is also simply the way a body holds themselves as they are injured, the way they sit, the way they breath. Whether it is from Decker, who is no stranger to wounds himself, or some other experience past in days before, or even just a doctor's intuition (thought she is not one for compassion) she has a sense for injury.So, as she walks up the walkway, another long day, though not as long as some, she does see James, and perhaps the way he holds himself draws a momentary pause, a faint flicker of an eyebrow. Garou are no stranger to injury, which may explain the lack of concern, as she walks up the steps to Rune's condo rather than her own, a brief glance of attention toward her own condo, glancing at the windows, and for some reason taking comfort that they are dark.
She pauses before the topmost step, lifting her chin, not in greeting but to gesture toward the Gnawer, as one hand slides into the pockets of her jeans, the other hand reaching up to tender back hair, pulled away from her face in some attempt to keep decorum. "Have a good night, last night?" She inquires mildly, setting one shoulder against the balcony's pillar.
(james)
there are a lot of things that would speak to the good doctor of injury
the presence of orange juice instead of the normal beer
the lack of a Camel held between his teeth
the way he's curled in on himself (protectively) instead of sprawled so easily across balcony width
the way he's so slow to react to her approach on the balcony
following her with those dark eyes, waiting until she's actually found a place of rest, before his head lifts from where it found place again upon his knee to flash that trademark grin back at her
or, at least, a wry representation thereof"Peachy."
the word is soft and harsh
several of the bullets tore a glancing path across Chrinos throat
the damage has been mostly healed, but his voice is still recovering from the insult"Something show up at work?"
he has no idea how last night ended
when he regained consciousness earlier - that wasn't exactly the topic of conversation
by the time he woke up again after a few more hours sleep, the condo was empty(imogen)
A moment and she considers him, a slow regard of dark eyes that rarely reveal anything beyond the fact there is life within. It is much like that, as she observes him, in her own detached manner, in her own way of simply gauging his injury. If a Garou is still alive, he will not die now, and perhaps the good doctor has some knowledge of this. It's only when a Garou falls and stays down, is there a problem. And then, there's no point to worrying anymore, in any case.She shakes her head briefly, "Not that I 'eard of. In this county, were you?" A tilt of her head gestures behind her, the streets beyond, meaning the county within Hibernia. Where Imogen technically covers, but appears to go much beyond that. "Or were you somewhere else?" said as her attention returns to him.
The skies are cloudy tonight, better than the rain, for some, though at least if it was raining, the clouds would have some purpose. Now, it is only that it is cloudy for the sake of, the moon and stars blotted out for no purpose.
(kennedy)
Today... was better than last night. Two hours of preening in the same bathroom at condos..(no stuff missing this time) clean, and showered after being shot, puked, and squished by a bloody 'Gnawer on the ride back to the condos, Kennedy had managed to slip away once more without a line of questions.She returns once again to the condos, lugging a big greasy bag of fastfood with her. The wide hems of baggy jnco jeans drag along the concrete, scuffing the fabric even more. The dirty, once white tops of her converse peek out every few steps. A white men's tanked undershirt, stretched across her lean, muscled torso. Small patches of red markings blistered across her upper biceps and forearms, skin rubbed raw and red (like a really bad sunburn) from putrid juices spewed in the explosion of the blob-thing... She didn't walk with quite the same bounce in her step as she normally did. Pale blond hair pulled back at the nape into a ponytail, dark fathomless eyes, like twin pools of obsidian, hold an attentive gaze on the stairwell that led up to the condos. A half-thought filling her mind if anyone would remember last night. She knew there would be a line of questioning... You just don't quite forget a Caaaawck!Blob.. screeched at you from a giant feather duster.
(eva)
Mostly empty condo.
Some days, being “protected” is much worse then being ignored. Even so, and ignoring the pregnant swell of the moon that hides behind brewing storm clouds, the bitch is still around. Where there’s Luc, there’s Eva, even if she’s suspiciously quiet. Still sleeping, of course, though now there’s a stretch and groan and search for the lanky Skald. Finding she’s got the whole bed to herself still…well this leads to the always fun game of “find articles of clothing that – even if not yours – may due until laundry can be done” as lean, limber form rolls from the bed. After the check of all piercingsof course, and then we come up with…. His socks, her jeans (he’s are too long and fall off slender hips) his wifebeater, and a bandanna to pull back the disarray of braids back from her face to fall over her shoulders and down her back. Her boots, his pack of smokes, her lighter, and a quick trip to the bathroom to reapply make-up and she’s good to go.
It’s only then that lazily thumped steps can be heard, down the hall, stop in kitchen and grab a beer, a brief search finding a box of lucky charms that is grabbed as well, before she opens the door and heads out to the balcony. Breakfast of champions – cigarette, cereal and beer. Yumyum. Arched brow at James, something of a nod to Imogen, and lean form finds a chair normally sprawled in by the gnawer to sink into and stretch out herself. “Mornin.”(james)
"Newark."said with the smallest of negating shakes of his head
half-sighed for comfort rather than the normal smooth tones
this is probably the first time he hasn't done something to offer Imogen a seat, either
but knowing she's picked out that he isn't in top form tonight
he figures she'll forgive him this tresspassdark gaze swing as far towards the door as he can look without actually turning his head
okay, not so empty, but at least quiet
the nod up greeting to her is subdued, as well"Morning Eva."
(imogen)
Imogen tends to stand, in either case, so the labsence of James's usual gallantry may not even be missed. "I'll check on Saturday," she answers simply and without inflection. "I'd not worked Newark at all, today."Her gaze flicks upward toward Eva as she steps out, with her breakfast in hand, "'Lo," single syllable answer, easily offered. Her back to the parking lot, facing the condo door and the opening of the balcony instead, Kennedy's approach is not yet noted, the girl too far away to be heard.
(eva)
“th’fuck happened to you?” dark eyes narrow slightly, studying James carefully. Not like the question is one that really needs to be answered, as there are those afore mentioned signs of injury. Perhaps she wonders instead if he got the brunt of it. If that’s why luc wasn’t in bed yet/still. Not that she’d notice if he came in last night, she was pretty wasted by the time she crawled between the sheets herself. So maybe it’s just that – an honest question, and an inquiry if he’ll be allright.
Course, he’s Garou. If he ain’t dead yet, he’ll survive.
The beer is propped between her thighs, unopened for the moment as nails slide under the flap of the cereal box, opening it, then the back inside to grab a handful of sweet crunchy goodness, offering the box to James afterwards. Yeah – fuck you too, she’s got manners. Sometimes. And he’s all right. For the most part.
Imogen’s greeting gets another nod, but no further reply. Women of few words, they are. And eva’s few tend to be cuss words. Sometimes she fits right in, don’t she?(rune)
Cloudy, cool spring night. Still, it's spring, and it's not raining again, so throughout the complex, folks are coming out onto their balconies, enjoying the night air, the last shreds of sunset in the sky.Everywhere except for Buildings 22 and 23, facing each other across the parking lot. It's instinctive, really, by now. The other residents go out back when the Garou are out front, and stay inside when the Garou are out front and back. Daylight's usually pretty safe, early mornings are the safest: remnant memory, curled possibility, the lingering darkness of the distant past that still impinges upon the human brain. Prey.
Headlights - the familiar silvered shine, too bright, a collective fuck you to the mass of commuters and everyone heading the other direction. Yeah, you. Fuck off. Headlights, and then the finish of the little Beemer, gleaming beneath the streetlights.
(james)
there's a breif drop of his chin in affirming nod
amazing, how much is contained in that simple little movement
if Imogen wasn't called to Newark for any reason
then the... issue... was wrapped up nice and neat
yet it always pays to keep an eye out for details that surface after the fact
and he appreciates she's going to check tomorrow"Felt like a gatling."
he didn't bother to ask how many bullets they pulled out of him
that's for the Galliard to know when he tells the tale later
the Ahroun doesn't care - all that matters is he's still breathing
he only remembers that the fucking thing sounded automatic
and most of that automatic firing was aimed at him
least he was able to drop the TV on the bastard
(heh.... SPLATTER)
there's a slooooooooow stretch for a handful of cereal
(they'd know something is wrong if he refused food)
and an equally slow consumption of one lucky charm after another
(he's eating slowly, there's definitely something still wrong)
he doesn't say his thanks, it's just nodded, seems he's fitting right in with thee of few words tonight
it'll be at least a few more hours before he can speak normally again
let us not push our luck(kennedy)
By the time she manages to meander her way up, the occupancy on the front porch as grown. The small figure can be made out now by anyone when it broaches the bottom of the steps. A glance upward to look at James, Imogen and Eva. Fingers of her right hand still curled around the top of the greasy bag of food. She steps up, taking one step at a time. Alittle drained, not so tired, but with sore muscles. A simple "Hey, folks." greets them from the bottom of the stairs.(imogen)
It seems the balcony has become a central again, as Imogen';s head turns to glance toward Kennedy as she speaks, shoulder rolling away from the balcony column, standing more at the point where the stairs open up into the balcony rather than actually stepping onto the balcony. It's a brief glance rather than a greeting, as her attention flickers beyond to Rune's beemer gliding into its parking space near her own benz. The greeting is belated. "'Lo," before her attention flicks upward briefly, toward the sky and it's covering clouds."Would you have," She speaks again, assumedly to James, an assumption that is answered when the redhead turns her dark eyes back and glances toward the Gnawer, "A copy o' that nazi symbol found in Newark?"
There was more than that found in Newark, of course, but this appears to be all she's intending to ask about. The faintest arch of an eyebrow lends weight to the question.
(kennedy)
After james gets his handful (s.l.o.w.l.y) she offers the box to Imogen as well, before tucking it back in her lap and glancing toward Kennedy. A nod of hello in reply “morning.” Before she’s occupied with lighting a cigarette before munching on another handful of cereal between drags, long legs stretching to brace ankles on the railing, slouching down in the chair into comfortable sprawl.(kennedy)
She reaches the top of the stairs, sliding along the banister, opposite of Imogen's position. She holds up the greasy bag of food in offering to anybody on the porch. " 'allo... Food if anybody is hungry.." a slight grin spreads at the corners of her mouth. Dark eyes flicker over to the 'Gnawer, looking him over briefly. "Nice to see you live after last night"(rune)
The Beemer pulls into the usual parking space. The lights flash - flare briefly - die. No dusk, here. The door swings open and the Glass Walker swings out: long legs, lean body, leather and silk. The usual, really, and apparently none the worse for wear after the adventure last night....apparently.
No hitch in her long stride, not even the suggestion of one. Not as she swings out of the Beemer, not as she climbs the stairs, not as she approaches the group. The Glass Walker offers a nod up to Imogen, James, Eva before settling her dark eyes on Kennedy. The nod up follows a moment later, edged by the slow quirk of a half-smirk.
"We need to talk sometime."
(james)
then there's the approach of the blond to the stairs
the blond he doesn't recognize
so a dark brow shoots up
in that "who the fuck are you?" sorta way
but since she seems familiar with the others, he doesn't speak up quite yet
not to mention the burn marks on her upper arms look freshthen dark gaze slides past
up to where the Beemer is pulling into the lot
he wouldn't have had to hear it to know she's coming
pack
but some sights are great for sore eyes (and bodies)
and there's some imperceptible relaxation through his shoulders
maybe most would take it as the sudden comfort in having pack closeby
(maybe one kin in particular would know it was for more)
then his attention swings back to Imogen with a small nod"Yeh... inside."
there's an invitation somewhere in there to retire within and they can go over it
but right now he's waiting for the wave of pain straightening to put his feet on the ground caused to pass
it's followed by a softly huffed bit of laughter, glancing up at Kennedy, the past to Rune"I concur."
(imogen)
A nod for Rune, a vague glance toward Kennedy, seeing as both packmembers need to speak with her before her head turns toward the Gnawer, completing the fractured conversation. Her hand combs through the loosened strands of red, dark and burning in the night, strands catching in stray beams from the street lights beyond, the ambient light flickering against blonde and roan, auburn and true red. She does not effect to notice much the pause of pain of the Gnawer, as her attention flickers toward Kennedy as she speaks, and the greasy food she sports, a brief flicker of what might suggest a smirk touching her mouth, before she turns to speak to James, some vague pause before she speaks, "Whenever you've a moment," she says dismissively, a slight shrug of her shoulders.(kennedy)
Dark eyes alight with humor for the moment. She remains on the steps, pressing her back into the rail to allow room for Rune to pass. Her head moves from James to Rune, speaking to her in reply. "I... had a feelin' you'd be saying that.. Kinda why I stopped back by.. heh.." a cheesy grin offered up to Rune, before her head tilts at the usual odd angle to stare at James once more.. "Does... caaawwck. Blob ring a bell." a smirk at that.The startled look on their faces was amusing, as was her beginner's luck. The ol' Manhattan watering hole was a bustle of conversation earlier this morning as Kennedy was definitly strutting and bragging to her fellow avarian cohorts. It was nice to have the big apple only a quick flight away.
(eva)
The talk goes on around her – such as it is, and she remains silent but for the poisoned breath that’s broken up with continued handfuls of sticky sweet cereal, a pause to lick sugar dust from fingers, before finally opening the beer still propped between thighs. It’s a delicate maneuver, managing her there vices at once, but it’s made to look easy as same fingers that slide around beer bottle neck also hold smoke, leaving the other free to continue the much the cereal.
Rune gets a nod in return, and a brow lifts as James and Rune both want to talk to Kennedy, and a notch higher at the blond’s comment… seems she decided to fess up after all but what the fuck does ‘cawck blob’ mean? Silence is maintained – always a good way to gather more information on what the hell’s goin on.(rune)
"Let's go." The Beta jerks her head briefly toward the interior. For the moment, her eyes don't leave Kennedy, and though there's no threat there, there's nothing particularly akin to warmth, either.There rarely is. Last night was last night, worthy of a ride back, at least. This evening is this evening, and the stranger is in her territory, at the mouth of her den, with clear view of her kin and who knows how much information about her pack.
"After you." Leaning back against the railing, she offers Kennedy some twist of her mouth meant to be a reassuring smile and sweeps her hand in a gesture toward the door. Standing there, she waits for James and Kennedy to precede her inside, dark eyes briefly flickering toward Eva. The purse of a half-thoughtful frown, awareness, recognition, nothing particularly readable beyond that, "...wanna talk to you, sometime." before her eyes flicker back toward her packmate and the...
...whatever the hell she is from the night before.
(james)
the other brow joins its partner
so that.... wasn't some hallucination
(and they do exist)
for a fleeting moment
that would be a look of fascination on the Gnawer's face
he'd only heard stories of other shifting breeds"Fancy that...."
he takes the momentary distraction of the fact to shift weight forward and stand (ouch) hand moving to press on the t-shirt covered gauze along his flank because he's more than aware that particular wound started leaking again in the movement
"C'mon."
the last shot towards Imogen
he's always time to help out the Kin
somehow, they've ended up partners in crime, as it is
she might as well join this little powwow, too
and he's heading inside to find some place softer to sit than the damned deck chair(kennedy)
A mirrored voice of the Deckmeister's "Think we oughta have a talk." echoes their same words. She was able to avoid it a night at least from the Fenrir. Though, last night was a bad night probably.. So compliance would be the smart deal when in the presence of a few full moons. No sense in ending up the stuffing for a pillow. The knowledge of her secret was slowly spreading those she wanted to be know. The wolves were cool in her book, and anything she could get out of an odd relationship with them might be beneficial to her.. Besides, they provided a perfect resource for one small delicacy she liked... eyeballs.Kennedy waits for James to stand up, moving towards the door of Rune's apartment, but she would wait to let James head in first. A quick glance over to Imogen with a curious brow raised upward. "Yea, fancy that.. I'm technicolor myth come into focus finally." some of them had been led to believe one thing about her. A partial truth hiding a bigger one, it was the reaction of the rest of the Fenrir that had her curious. One already was wary of her as it is... course the woodland pups weren't quite like this motley crew.
(imogen)
She had caught the look of surprise across James's features, perhaps the dawning realization that followed, and a singular eyebrow arches in vague question (after all, Kennedy's memory jog meant absolutely nothing to those uninvolved), the eyebrow resettles however, the only flicker of reaction across her face as Kennedy walks past her, and James tells her to join.The slender kin glances up toward the tall lanky Gnawer again, from her half recline against the pillar of the balcony. Motion finds life in her form and she straightens, easily and smoothly. She is not prone to slouching, and being her height as she is, it may not be surprising that she stands relatively straight, the kind of posture given to athletes of some of the more choreographed sports.
Technicolour myths come into focus... her flicker of a glance (only moments after Kennedy's glance toward her), is quick and untelling as she joins the exodus and goes inside.
(eva)
And it seems the little party is dispersing, and then Rune turns that caustic gaze on her as well. Thoughtful, aware, recognized, whatever. And a shoulder shrugs and lips curve into something of an answering smirk and a nod. “Ain’t got no where else to be. Just say the word.”
James gets up carefully, Imogen is invited to join.
(does a part of her wonder what the redhead did to gain such acceptance to the closed meetings of pack? Even that blond bitch ((lexi)) is sewed to the bigwig’s hip, and she? Hanging out with nothing better to do until Luc sees fit to drag his beat up ass back home. The question is unanswered, however, because it’s simply unasked. And it doesn’t look like she really gives a fuck.)
everyone adjourns inside, and this leaves the pierced bitch sitting alone on the porch. A shift of sprawl, slight, just enough to ease the press of chair against shoulder blade and there’s the continued munching of her ‘breakfast’ before box of cereal is set aside, and arm stretches up over head, hanging over the back of the chair, nails clicking against wood as dark eyes under lowered lashes watching the stormclouds gather.(decker)
Everyone heads on in.He's just coming up the stairs. Tacoma's parked in the lot, nice and shiny and black again. Those handwash places sure were nice. You sit inside and girls in wet t-shirts and soapsuds crawl all over your car for ten bucks. Which isn't a sum to yawn at for him, but he had Luc with him, and Luc just got an allowance from...whomever he gets allowances from.
Carwash. Ten bucks. Late spring sunshine.
He almost felt human for a minute there.That's since passed, though. 11pm and the moon, one day past full, is in the sky again. Coming up the stairs at his slow thuggish pace, he glances at Eva. At the door. Back.
"They havin' another fuckin' meetin' 'r somethin'?"
(rune)
Inside, the Weaver's wet dream. If, of course, the mad-web-goddess would allow something so random to happen to her (let's assume not). The Glass Walker's eyes flicker over Imogen, then Eva as she follows the trio inside, wordless for the moment, without particular comment on Kennedy's mimicry or the technicolor myth comment.Wordless, of course, until it's time to play hostess with the mostest, or at least with the fridge and the sixpack of Stoudt's Gold inside.
"Have a seat," a sweep of her head toward the leather couch, the easy chairs alongside. It's surprisingly quiet in here tonight, and she doesn't turn on the music, or the television, as is her wont. This is a little more serious.
While everyone's milling around inside, Rune cuts through the small group and heads for the kitchen. The fridge sucks open (let there be light!) and then slams closed. From behind them, the clink of bottles and creak of cardboard as she carts the whole six-pack back out to the living room and sets it down on the lacquered coffee table, a bottle opener clattering down alongside.
Rune grabs a beer and takes a seat on the couch. "So - " great opening there, tinged by the presence of her peculiarly self-deprecating, caustic little smirk as her gaze swings unerringly to Kennedy. "Let's start with this: what the fuck are you, and what do you know about us, and what the hell do you want?"
(james)
Imogen's been around for a long while
Imogen's been in the shit with them
that could be why the lanky, dreadlocked Gnawer basically considers her pack
it's a common thing among his tribe, to draw kinfolk in with the Garou
when things get sticky, sometimes doesn't matter who's at your back as long as they're on your side
the redhead is definitely one he trusts at his back
(he grows teeth and claws and she peels flesh with but a glance - it's the amazing duo!)
and as involved as she is with their other "missions" - she might as well know about this one
because he's pretty aware of the reputation those flighty, (now-not-so) mythical shifters have
(anyone taking bets on whom he's pegged for painting Decker's truck?)
if there's even any consideration of how Eva feels about the situation in the Gnawer's brain?
it doesn't show
she can earn her way in as welland never before has he appreciated the overstuffed leather of the couch SO much
there's that certain braingasm of a momentary absense of pain before everything starts aching again
dammit he'll take what he can get
(eva)
And enter the thug. An amused smirk as she takes in the shiny blackness of the once bird dropping covered Tacoma now all springtime fresh as shoulders lift in a shrug. “’parrently.” A moment, two, and then a jerk of head toward the door. Six words and he probably knows exactly what’s going on, but it’s all she knows so it’s all he gets from her. “Kennedy and Nazi something or another.” Dark painted lips wrap around filter of cigarette, inhale deep, nails lead the decent of hand to now rest against thigh, as grayish cloud is exhaled.(kennedy)
Oooh, nice interior. Lots of shiny things. Anything metal, chrome, or even the faintest bit of polish snares her attention for the briefest of seconds before she has to snap herself out of staring at it. A slight swaying bounce sneaks its way into her movements once more. The head continuously turns at all angles the neck will allow it to stretch in this homid skinsack to peer around the main room. She's been here before.. a few times. Loves what Rune does with her bathrooms...She finds a perch in one of the easy chairs, the bag of fastfood set down somewhere for anybody to access. She offered it out, wasn't going to take it back. She flops back into the chair, settling down back to get somewhat comfy.
To young to drink, the beer is forgoed for now. Her head tilts up, to look at Rune when she speaks. Eyes, attentive, curious, unblinking to small details of body language and facial expressions. A small grin plays across her mouth, before she answers. "Corvis Albius. Corax. Fenrir..." a slight pause, a soft roll of her shoulders in a shrug. "used to be anyway before I graduated into the Mile-High Club." another cheesy smile offered upon her teenage face. "What do I know... Depends on the subject. Many things and very little about Eagle's Pack. Name's been tossed around the ol'watering hole across the river. Know ya got a few kin and two fenrir that almost trashed me upon first meeting.. Ya'll hang out in the city unlike the others and have a fairly big stab of turf in the city. S'bout it for the most part.." she thinks for a moment on the last question. "I really have a hankerin' for some pickled eyeballs right about now.. You wouldn't happen to keep any in the fridge would ya?"
Well.. Rune did ask what she wanted...(rune)
"I have sushi. Will that do?" This, the Glass Walker's sardonic reply. Her expression is largely unchanged, beyond that. She doesn't respond to the cheesy grins or the tilts at humor. "Too much information and not enough, all wrapped into one. Let's start with smaller chunks. What the fuck is that? A name? Something else that's supposed to mean something to me? And how the hell are you Fenrir, too?" "There's a glance toward James, largely blank, but the dark eyes settle back on Kennedy soon enough. The girl is young, attentive, distractable and curiousp; Rune is none of this things, but she watches right back, like a fucking hawk.
(decker)
Decker frowns at the door for a moment as though it held some secret tidbit of information that he just couldn't crack. Then he shrugs. Hooks his foot around the leg of the nearest patio chair, drags it on over, drops down.Whump.
Chair joints creak.He stretches out, settling in, hands busying themselves in his search for the usual: cigarette paper, weed, matches. He'll get the important bits across totemphone. Too damn crowded in the condo, moon too high, moon too round.
Night outside's cool and quiet, though. Other than Luc's girl sharing the balcony, it's almost nice out here.
"Luc did good last night." Total non-sequitor, out of the blue. Joint all rolled, he licks and twists, inserts and lights up. Shakes the match out and flicks it down the stairs, narrow grey eyes like a lightning storm rising to follow the trajectory of the match a distance before they lance out over the parking lot to scan the line of the horizon. Left and right, back and again. Joint between his teeth, sunk back into the chair, slouched and coiled, six feet and two hundred some-odd pounds of Fenrir Full-Moon might.
That, and every other fucked-up thing that made him up.
(james)
he was distracted outside by that methodology of movement
and soon as the fascination over the Corax wears off
he's focused on that bag of fast food
snagging a burger before returing it to the middle of the lacquered table
helping himself to a beer as well
(he was doing so well with the OJ, these new damned habits)
there's a bit of a pause in the rather big first bit(pickled eyeballs?)
swallow
allright, not all those legends are legends it's seeming
he was told a bird would pluck out his eye just as soon as talk to him
..... fancy that."Not to mention." slowly, still rough when his voice is normally so smooth "What's got your curiosity all focused on us."
he sincerily doubts her appearance at the warehouse last night was total chance
(imogen)
James sinks down, Kennedy finds a perch and Imogen would likely feel more comfortable standing, which is not completely unusual, but for the fact that to do so would gain nothing. Everyone takes their seats, and after a moment, sitting in the easy chair opposite to Kennedy. Her attention is not diverted from Kennedy, as she speaks, but nor does she stare.She has little to say here, and unlike Rune and James, she has a very good chance to have never heard of the existance of other Fera. It may be that the Garou do not often inform their kin of their shames, and the War of Rage, is one of such shames. She is here, however, and for better or for worse, the slender woman does listen.
(eva)
The thuggish asshole makes himself comfortable, and there’s something of a smirk of amusement, perhaps, the barest fraction of a brow lifting. Rune wants to talk to her sometime, and Decker would just as soon toss her over the fuckin railing, and there ain’t any love lost for either of them in the flicker of dark gaze. The redheads all right, the Gnawer too. And well we all can hear on a regular basis what she thinks of Luc.
A slight smirk. Nice and cool and quiet. Cept for the Moody Modi now slung low and content on a chair.
The modi who now speaks, and it’s fair to say there’s a flicker of surprise somewhere in dark gaze at not only that simple fact, but the words chosen as well. There might be a softening of that smirk too – but mostly it’s just a trick of the light as she turns her head to study Decker. Ain’t afraid to look down at the Ahroun, this one, but for now it’s just simple….study. Finally, chin falls into something of a nod, and cigarette returns to lips, inhale, exhale breathing a sound of acknowledgement. Half a second longer, then. “Good. James looks pretty banged up. Y’alright?” Concern? Hardly. Well. Not that she’d admit – but maybe he’ll finish whatever answer given with Luc’s condition too. Ain’t seen him since, really, after all.
(kennedy)
The grins and tilts of humor disappear quickly as her body tilts forward, elbows stab down to bury into the tops of her knees. Hands presse together to let fingers curl over one another. Time to try a different approach here. She clears her throat, "Corvis Albius is the scientific name for a Pied Crow. Corax is the name of my breed." She indicates towards James and Rune. "You all are garou. Warriors of Gaia. I am Bird woman. Corax. The Eyes of Gaia." her voice drops its humor, remaining casual."I am Kennedy Krähe, or Sun-Spottin', born of a Modi of the Fenrir and Corax Kinfolk. I am Thought and Memory in the eye of a god. My.. family has come of past and present dealings with the Fenrir tribe through the ages. We serve as their messengers their scouts, their eyes..." a slight push as she sits up, glancing over at Imogen for a moment to see how she takes this and then to James.
(rune)
The Glass Walker expells a long, sure breath, and her body language changes, subtly but surely. That seems to be the answer she was looking for, or at least, a satisfying answer for the moment. "Thought your kind were all extinct." Dark eyes flicker back toward James, then return to Kennedy. Another half-smirk, a slow, singular curl like smoke on the wind. "'bout a million fucking years ago."That's as much curiousity (...weakness) as she'll exhibit for the moment. "You're gonna hafta talk to Erik." Tipping back her beer bottle, the Glass Walker takes a long, satisfying drink, and her eyes half-lid in contentment or thought as she swallows. "Now, what's this about a watering hole?"
(decker)
One eyebrow wrinkles upward. Lazy slide of eyes sideways. A snort. He says nothing for the time it takes him to take a hit off the joint, hold it, and release it.A cloud of bluegrey dissipates. The haze clears and the horizon sharpenes again, black treeshapes breaking into the blueblack bowl of the sky. A smirk. "'Course."
The arrogance (confidence: they are not one and the same) implicit in the word is all-encompassing. Of course he's all right. Six humanoids, a blob and a batboy. Of course he's all right.
He's still here, isn't he?
Ash the joint. Bite it between his teeth, the tip dancing with his words. By necessity grit-toothed, "Fuck d'you care? You wanna know 'bout Luc, you kin ask me 'bout Luc."
(james)
"Spies. And damned good ones."mused as he's tossing the wrapper back onto the table to clean up later
(where'd.... that burger go??)
and polishing it all off with a slow swallow of the beer
the way he said that, it's nothing personally aimed at Kennedy
it's more of an addition to all that he's heard rumored about the breed itself
sorta like the Sewer Rats that dealt with those leeches that made Erik look like a beauty queen
some worked with the "Eyes in the Sky" and never really answered a direct question about it
tales were spun to instill a healthy amount of respect and fear into young cubs
these supposedly extinct creatures that still keep an eye on you (or take yours)
but one thing a Gnawer can do is accept
and he seems to be taking what the Bird Woman is saying all in stride
(and probably with a grain of salt)a brow lifts, casually, as Rune's questioning continues
there's something in deep umber eyes that says what his earlier tone didn't
he may feel like one-hundred ninety pounds of swiss cheese
but should she answer that question (or any) unsatisfactorily
they'll have roast chicken for dinnerwhen he clawed his way to conciousness earlier, the story of the corax helping them out didn't make the list of things discussed during that breif interlude granting five minutes of clarity, and even if he did know about it, he'd still wonder exactly whom she was helping out there
the moon's still full in the sky above
he still feels like hell
can't really blame him for being a bit wary(imogen)
Kennedy glances at Imogen, then James, gauging reactions, and from the petite woman there is little more than a regard back and what is likely taken for veiled interest. Whatever reaction she may have had in regards to a long dead breed of shifter (should she know this to begin with) or a new breed of shifter is suppressed and controlled, though a flicker of her gaze straifs toward Rune as she speaks of dead breeds and a million years. All here are dark eyed, and in the vague light, Imogen's eyes are blue, some dark shade, remnant of starry nights, deepest oceans.(kennedy)
A slight smile curls up on her face. "The greatest trick the Devil ever played was making everyone else think He didn't exist..." her nose crinkles, leaning back in the easy chair. "The Big Apple, small island across the river from Joisey... Billion people. Too many fucking pigeons.. Wolves in the Park. Mah home town, baybee... all sorts of talk comes and goes. Gossip mostly. Heard a whisper of trouble was brewing in these here hills.." She shrugs her shoulders again. "Where there's trouble.. there's dead that like to talk..."A flicker of unblinking eyes over to James at his comment. "Spies like us. Make the KGB, CIA and British Intel look like a bunch pansies in tutus. James Bond ain't nothing on us."
(eva)
She smirks slightly, amused. Of course. Not like he’d be anything else – fuckin full moons. Ankles uncross, and long legs slide and switch positions, re-crossing the other way. “Th’fuck I don’t care.” Automatically argued, though shoulders under wifebeater lift in a shrug. “Ya might be a fuckin asshole and no better then dog shit under my shoe – but ya still better’n some out there.” Hell – that’s practically a speech for as quiet as the bitch has been lately. A final drag, and butt is ashed in nearby tray, fingers lifting to slide nails between braids, scritching lightly at her scalp before lifting further to fall back behind her head, nails a tattoo along the chair.
Finally, a nod, watching those stormclouds boil while inhaling a bit of a second hand high. Stingy fuckin bastard. “S’he allright?” not like he didn’t know the question was comin.(rune)
"You said you heard about us there." It's no suprise that a Glass Walker can keep things on track. What were the first iron horses, after all, but Old Grandmother Spider's veins? Nice and precise, forward, ordered: on track. Straight ahead, courtesy of conductor Rune. One plucked, shaped brow rises precipitously and her body language changes again: taut and humming as the strings on a well-tuned violin. "You talk about us there, too?"(decker)
Another snort. He pulls the joint out of his mouth again in a short, reined gesture; throws a look at the braid-haired teenager. Decker has two responses to compliments. One is reserved solely for comments on his combat prowess. It goes something like 'yeah. I know.'The other applies to everything and anything. It goes, "Cut the asskissin' crap."
Narrow gaze held a frozen second.
Then motion again, that slow never-quite stillness of his. Always moving somehow. A roll of a powerful shoulder. A flex of the fingers. A tilt of a head. Or even just the steady slow rise and fall of chest in breathing; just the insistent insidious wave-form of his rage ebbing and flowing just beneath his skin.
Perpetual motion, even in repose. It's a good thing. It's when he goes still and silent, cold and dead-eyed, when his rage crystallizes into a deadly spear of destruction, that you should be afraid.
"Luc's fine. Got splashed with a fomor's battery-acid pus. Burnt his fuckin' hair right off, but other 'n that he's all right." Flicker of a smirk. "Jus' too damn ugly to come home right now."
Another hit off the joint.
(james)
this is the one he was waiting for
(nice and orderly, he knows his Beta well - inside and out)
and even though his grin is still nice and easy
(damn skippy y'all make James Bond look like a kindergartener)
and his body feels like it's about to fall apart again
(isn't he supposed to have these supernatural healing powers???)
his attention is narrowed onto the Corax
(more than just a little bit deadly)(kennedy)
"Heard a passing word there was a functioning pack in the city with large turf while a few stragglers huddled up in the woods vying over land disputes. I can't talk about something I don't know about. And dirty laundry doesn't benefit me without an ounce of truth behind it." She focuses her attenions on Rune once more. The Glass Walker was good. Interesting, but good. Brows tilt upward in a slow arch at the subtle shift in Rune's body posture. "You do things worth talking about? Handle ya'selves pretty damn well last night... Wouldn't mind bragging about it to a few of the boys back home."(eva)
There’s a snort of amusement as she meets that narrowed gaze steady. “Wouldn’t kiss ya fucked up ass if ya was the last fucker on earth, asshole.” Wasn’t no compliment either, was a fucking comment for crissakes. But that’s fine. Back to the normal caustic Eva, quick as anything and just as smooth.
Stillness permeates other then the ever-present sneer, the smirks, accompanied by the tattoo of nails against plastic.
A nod as the information is passed on. And a slow smirk crawls across darkstained lips and she arches pierced brow at Decker. “At his ugliest he’s a damn sight better’n you” But there’s a nod, and finally that beer is lifted and partially drained.
(rune)
"Here's the deal we make right now," her attention remains sharp and sure on the Corax, now. She sits up, leans forward, a certain luminal intensity behind the words that never finds expression otherwise on her face. "...and these are the conditions, before you even talk to Erik. You let our seer check you out, for taint or anything like it. If he says you're okay, you talk to Erik. If Erik says you're okay, you get to hang in our turf, sometimes, if you do us favors in return. And if you gossip about us, you keep the specifics out of it. I don't want anyone to know where we are, where we live, what we look like, what cars we drive, anything that could be used to identify us, now or in the future. And you don't say a fucking word about our kin. I'll get a contract fetish to enforce that if I need to."(kennedy)
She leans foward again, resting her elbows on her knees once more, listening to Rune.. Black eyes, fathomless, knowledgeable of deep secrets, even those whispered in Death. Her thoughts mingling inward...(the skies are my playground.. and they are everywhere...) "I'll let ya shaman check me out. Ya won't find a stink of taint on my bum except a bad odor from dumpster diving. I'll leave it to your alpha's decision." her head shakes only slightly. "Ya ain't no good to me dead if I was out prattlin' to every Tom, Dick and Harry about ya'lls personal lives.That's your soap opera. I just like to play voyeur. As for personal favors, you keep me fed in eyeballs and information about the baddies in this town. I'll take you through the Umbra, pigeon ya love notes, or point ya out to the next dirty next I come across. You all fight'em.. I just dig'em out for ya. S'way I like to do things."(imogen)
Rune does all the talking. Imogen, for her part, appears to be listening, as James does, because if anything, if she's here, this deserves some form of attention. At worst, she does it simply because there is no where else to look, and she does not want to know. At best, this has caught some interest, and this is something the kinfolk will catologue in her meager mental box of information on shifters, for use at a later date.(decker)
Smirk. "Yeah, whatever." And he rolls his weight out of the chair, putting the joint out atop the balustrade. Another glance cast over the parking lot: call it sentry duty. Then he tucks the joint behind his ear and heads for the door.Hinges squeal as it opens. He turns back briefly, one hand on the edge of the door, and considers the girl. A beat. Then, "Why don'tcha wait inside fer'im." Nod up at the surroundings, flicking a glance around like a stone, like a net casting all the world into scop of his words. "Bring down the fuckin' property value, sittin' on the porch like a bum."
He's really one to talk. All those late nights smoking outside. All those late nights loitering on Imogen's porch. Neighbors probably thought he was her stalker. Neighbors probably thought she had some sort of stockholm syndrome, letting him in all the time.
His skecher-knockoffs squish wetly on the threshold as he heads on it. Been puddle(curb)stompin' again, obviously. A nudge of the heel backward keeps the door open for the kinfolk if she felt like joining the herd inside.
(ma in black)
Slowly the dark sedan drove the length of the interstate from southern jersey... specifically from the areas surrounding and embedding the entirety of Atlantic City. It wasn't by chance that the car was here, nor was it any matter of discourse that he had to come to this place...
It had been nearly a month and still the hunt was on for those of the ilk. It was time to set things straight and to settle the old score that had to be put to rest.
Pulling forth into the parking area the sedan finally came to a rest. Opening the rear passenger door a man slowly emerged from the interrior darkness. Thin rimmed, mirrored shades adorn the spanish tan of the man. Long black, raven in color hair hung loose tonight and down the length of his back. Black, thick, dark trench fell across his shoulders and down to just above the cuff of his boot. High gloss SAS jump style, shined to a high sheen and extended up his shin to where the black cargo pants were neatly tucked and cuffed.Moving toward the place where the murder happened he paused and surveyed the scene of which surrounded him.
(rune)
Rune holds Kennedy's eyes a split-second longer. "Alright. It's a fucking deal." The particulars filter through the totemphone, information packed as images, discrete thoughtlets, followed by general advisory. Keep a fucking eye on her.For a few half-moments, her eyes are unfocused, focused on the inner totem bond, as she communicates with her pack, and then she's back in the land of the living: up and across the living room to the breakfast bar, where she retrieves her cigarettes, lifts herself onto the breakfast bar, lights up. The Glass Walker's dark eyes track toward the main door, and she mutters something half-beneath her breath, through the cloud of smoke, unheard.
(eva)
Modi stands and her gaze slides back out to the parking lot. Sentry duty? Nah. Boredom most likely. Not a sound, reply, until he pauses a beat, and his gaze rests heavy on her once more. Moon just one night past full and his rage still crackles over skin, his gaze a weight of its own as it compresses the air around her and she continues to ignore it. Then he speaks again, and pierced brow lifts a touch, and dark eyes slide over to him, braids traipsing over shoulders and chair and then in a slow concert of movement, muscles flexing and relaxing, sleek in a far more careless way then the walker, less animalistic then the Modi, less…. Collie-ish then the Gnawer, but graceful non the less in the careless sling of teenage form up from the chair. Cereal box grabbed, beer bottle in the other hand, before pack and lighter are grabbed as well. “Yeah, whatever.” Mimic’d perhaps, or just agreed, as foot catches the nudged door, and she follows the Modi in.(james)
there's a simple nod up
Will do.
then eyes rove over towards the Modi making his way inside
followed by the Fenrir kin
yep, another nod up(man in black)
Looking across the scene the developments of what had transpired here. The childlike banter, the playing with the 'toy' of their fancy leading up to the eventual and untimely death of a young woman."Who would of known that she was of the ilk of the damn moon beasts. Oh well... this aught to get the bastards pointed in the right direction."
Reaching into the confines of his thick, black trench, pulling forth a thick manilla envelope he stood and looked around.
(decker)
One, and two.
Garou, and kin.He stomps the shoes off his feet, shucks his coat and steps out of the foyer area. Into the living room. Regular fuckin' pow-wow here. Nod up in return to James. Catches Rune's eye but doesn't disturb the Walker's in-depth discussion with the birdwoman.
Cawwwwck!! BLOB.
Crazy fucker. He heads for the fridge. Fishes out a Jose Cuervo. Fingers pass over the little white takeout boxes: eeny meenie miney moe. That one. Slide it out, turn around, pop it open. Kung pao chicken. It'll do. Pop it into the microwave and set it for 2 minutes. While he's waiting he pops the Jose. Rune's fridge had the crappiest selection of actual produce and meats around, but it was always crammed to the gills with alcoholic beverages and fast food.
(mib)
Looking off he saw the home from where the victim once lived. Probably her... what was the damned word... 'Mate', lover, screw toy... whatever, he didn't care much.Moving up toward the door he placed the envelope into the mail slot and slowly turned and headed back to the car. Whoever would find it would be in for a good time he was sure.
Entering the sedan once more he spoke in a gentle tone...
"It's done, get me away from this accursed place. Leave the rest to the Moon Beasts."
(eva)
Inside, and after a wipe of her boots -even if she didn’t go farther then the porch – steps head toward the kitchen. There isn’t a word, and perhaps only the slightest incline of head for the nod up from James as gaze slides over everyone there. Deep in conversation, no biggy, ain’t none of her business nohow.
In the kitchen, there’s movement around the modi, some unconscious grace that keeps her from being too near at any point in time. Cereal box put away, beer in hand slammed, and bottle tossed into the recycling bin and the door to the fridge closes, half a second later it’s opened again, another beer grabbed and opened, as the refrigerator door is hip-checked closed.
A pause now, as bottle is lifted to dark-stained lips, first couple of swallows taken as she awaits the word. Decker may have invited (in the most loose definition of the word) the kin in, however don’t mean she’s welcome at the powwow.(rune)
Decker and Eva walk in. The Glass Walker watches them through the smoke drifting from her cigarette: robin's egg blue, but darker, carribean waters, a color not found in nature, at least, not in New Jersey. Her attention drifts back to Kennedy. "Be here Monday afternoon to meet Erik, you got that?" Her attention remains long enough to be assured some response (and what the hell else does she have to do? Build a fucking nest?) before it shifts back to the Modi in the kitchen, and then the Fenrir kin grabbing another beer."Eva." Having already settled on the breakfast bar, Rune pushes herself back to lean against the framing wall. The rest of the Glass Walker's lean body is coiled, taut as a spring. Somehow, in the small space, she does not seem confined. "How old are you?"
(kennedy)
Eyes meet Rune's and she nods her head to the agreement. She settles back down into the chair once again, her head tilts up when the door opens and a smile spreads on her face..NYEOOOWWWW... There was a sudden urge to bite down on her lip, to resist making the airplane noises at the Deckmeister. Her legs begin to sway, sneakers bouncing up and down beneath the wide hems of her jnco jeans. Quiet for the most part, more interested now in shiny things to tempt the eyes on.
(*tags on to rest of post*)
"Sure thing.. High noon after Judge Judy." She nods her head looking back at Rune.
(decker)
"She ain't old 'nough," smirks Decker from the kitchen, "but then I ain't neither."BEEP. BEEEP. BEE--
--Decker's fingers slam into the microwave Open button, jetting the door out. Christ, that noise was aggravating. Taking the carton of kung pao out, he circles around to the breakfast bar, food in one hand, Cuervo tequila in the other.(imogen)
A flicker of attention toward the open door, Decker and Eva enter, both heading to the fridge, Rune stands and prowls to the breakfast bar to smoke, and conversation moves, somewhat further into the condo, leaving James, who likely would prefer not to get up, and Imogen, who at least doesn't appear to have reason enough to leave.After a moment she shifts forward in the easy chair, and after a moment, she does stand, a hand reaching into pack pocket of her jeans, pulling out a package of cigarettes, and a sheaf of papers, folded and crumpled against the framework of the packet. She discards the cigarettes, for once, on the table, leaving the crumpled packet on the edge as she opens the pages, and leafs through them, unfolding them between long slender fingers. She discards a page, two, careful to refold them, the words obscured by themselves, dropped by the abandoned cigarette package. Two papers are chosen now, carefully unfolded and flattened against the coffee table.
The incessant beeping of the microwave catches her attention, her eyes flickering up, her fingers stilling over the paper, a glance as Decker speaks, before turning her attention back to James and the papers she smoothes out before him.
A tilt of her chin, eloquent gesture subtly rendered as she notes the pages before him, "Which one was th'symbol, d'you know?"
It might even take a minute or more for him to notice there's a difference at all. The hammers are different, though the gist of the symbol is the same. One is a claw hammer, the other a war hammer.
(eva)
Hand tucks into pocket of jeans, pulling denim just a touch farther down on the curve of hip as she stretches slightly. Feet are slightly apart, weight balanced evenly. Not fighting stance – she should be so lucky really, Luc put a damper on the kin kicking ass at the ‘fight club’ after all – but easy and ready for movement. After all – Decker’s still in the kitchen. Might blow something up or some such shit.
Pierced brow lifts, and she smirks. “Old enough to know better young enough to do it anyway.” The first reply. What th’fucks coming next? ‘your underage, lets not be drinking here.’ When there’s more ‘kids’ then not around here. Sure sounds like the beginning of the same old fight though, but she actually answers not even a full beat later – just on the heels of Decker’s comment that gets a snort of amusement. Yup. Her thoughts exactly. “17.”(rune)
"Yeah?" The Glass Walker's dark eyes flicker up, down, up the kinfolk's almost ready stance, then settle back on the girl's face. The Glass Walker's own features are inscrutable as ever. Dark humor lurks somewhere in there, accompanied by a faint roll of her eyes toward the Modi and a quiet snort. Underage drinking was pretty low on her list of possible sins. In fact, it was something closer to a sacrament. "What the fuck do you do all day?"Rune takes a drag from her cigarette, exhales the smoke into the miasma of the room. Full moon again, or close enough to it that she breaks her own rules all over the fucking place. "You in school?"
(kennedy)
Eyebrows drift upward, turning to lean over the arm of the chair, staring up at those in the kitchen. "Isn't it a fact that if you stand in front of a microwave while it's runnin' it can give a guy testicular cancer.... errr. somethin'like that." the words come way out of left field, directed at nobody in particular and yet towards Decker since he was standing in front of the microwave. She surmised she was the youngin' of this group, younger than Eva even.(james)
dark gaze traveled to watch his packmates
but now that the inherant conversation seems to be over
and attention has turned to the Fenrir kinfolk
(half here aren't old enough, half here are younger than him)
he's staying the hell out of this conversation
focus swings towards the kin unfolding the papers before himit may take him a moment or more to see there's a difference
if he sees one at all
he's only seen a sketch of the symbol anyway
and by the furrow of his brows, he's not trusting his memory exactly
more than a little weight goes onto the arm of the couch as he's climbing up from the depths of the overstuffed pillows
(hold the gauze before getting up and we find the wound doesn't rip open again, whoo)
making his way into the dining room turned hacker's wet dreamfairly safe to say he's not going there to mess with the computer
he'd do well just to turn it on much less do anything productive
he is definitely not among the more technologically inclined of the pack
there's the rustling of a few papers on the low table turned desk
and ten short steps later he's flattening a piece of paper next to the two Imogen's lain down
he, himself, flopping back down onto the (blessed) couch"This one."
a little rearranging, lining up the identical clawhammer sketches
(eva)
Well then – that was a little different argument, but still ain’t one she ain’t fought before. A slow smirk as she lifts the bottle in something of a toast and downs a swallow or two. “Same thing you do all day. Fuck’n’sleep.” Now that could be taken a couple ways. Ain’t telling which way she meant it of course. But she chuckles and leans a hip against the counter, hand still tucked in pocket, ankles crossing. “Nah. Dropped out last year, got a GED.”(decker)
Decker shoots Kennedy a scowl. "Fuckin' Garou, birdbrain." Oh, clever, that. He could be a writer for a comedy club. "Don't git no cancer."A slug of Cuervo. He glances at Rune as she brings up the dread word: SCHOOL. Nah, he ain't gettin' in on that either. Back to the breakfast bar, the tequila in one hand and the takeout carton set on the stooltop between his legs, he picks at his food with his fingers. There ain't no more chopsticks since the last time Dire raided the nearest Chinese fast-food and stole about fifty of those little break-apart wooden utensils. All the forks were dirty and in the washer, too. That reminds him...
"You shit all over my fuckin' truck?"
(kennedy)
A chuckle ebbs in her throat, shaking her head slowly at Decker. "I have no idea what ya're talkin' about officer. How was I to know she was only thirteen..." A hand comes up to her chest, looking up innocently at Decker. "Nope. Not me.. Probably a couple of pigeons out to get revenge."(rune)
"Alright then," equanimity from the Glass Walker, this mild response. One elbow rests on her crooked knee, the other is curved against her side. One hand holds a beer bottle, the other a cigarette.Something about the way she holds them makes it seem like either one could be a lethal weapon. "Everyone's moving to the packhouse next week. You can stay there, have your own fucking room if you want, but there's conditions. You're gonna do something useful. That means you're getting a fucking job, or you're going to school. I don't care what for. Welding, paramedics, study fucking physics in college, whatever the hell it is. That work for you?"
(decker)
Narrowed eyes. Long silence. "Uh huh," muttered. "Saw yer fuckin' white-ringed neck flappin' 'round." He clips the box closed in a surprisingly adept turn of his hand and throws it at her. Whether it's meant to be an offensive gesture or a kindly(?) offer of grub is anyone's guess. "Next time I take the shotgun to yer ass, hear?"(eva)
Brows….lift as she watches Rune and whatever’s flickering through her gaze real quicklike is pretty unreadable. But lets just start with “Don’t need m’own room. I’ll stick with Luc until I kick his ass to the curb, after that.” Ah – feel the blush of young true love. A smirk, and lean shoulder lifts into a shrug, before that smirk slides over her lips. “Sure thing, Ma… guess it’ll haveta be a job, ain’t got no cash for school even if I had the inkling.” Not exactly clear if she’s gotta inkling or not. Course, not sure who’d hire her anyway looking like she does with the attitude she gleefully portrays. Whatever.. it’s a place t’crash that ain’t got her parents in it, Luc, beer, food, drugs… what more could possibly be needed…(imogen)
Half are younger than James, and so far all are younger than the good doctor, who glances down at the sheet of paper that James indicates, one absent hand reaching up to push back several loosened strands of hair, curls escaped from the loose braid that had barely contained it.She taps the same paper as she picks up the other one, to not be confused, "S'a neo-nazi symbol for a German chapter o' a group called The Hammer Skins. The American Chapter's been based in Newark f'r years, but they recently noticed the German symbol showing up too. For sure, since three weeks ago, but it could have been sooner, because nobody paid attention to the specifics." She speaks simply and abruptly, lays out the facts without emotion and without opinion.
"The other thing I noticed was there's a been a strange amount o' missing people in the Newark area, lately. Mostly homeless, though there was a few high profile ones, too. Heard of April Tower, have you?" she names one of the more high profile missing persons lately, who lived actually with a rather well to do family. And in case he didn't read the newspaper, since she didn't, "A girl from a fairly decent family who went missing lately. She spent a lot o' time in Newark. No bodies, though.
"And that's..." pager. Shrill. Her hand moves abruptly, immediately, her attention jerking downward as the sound silences (loud noise. Many ahrouns. Full moon. No good), her mouth forming a poignant curse, lost beneath the sound of her breath, as she pulls the pager from her hip, and finishes her sentence to James as she speaks, "... all I've got." Information's been passed. One might assume Decker had either told her, and she had taken the initiative, or he had asked her to do such a thing. The dark eyed kin apparently has no compunction on whom she should give the information.
She squints, as her steps back, one hand holding the pager, as her other hand reaches out and grabs the cigarettes and the other papers, "'scuse me."
Jacket is grabbed, reaching inside for the cell phone, as she abruptly heads for the door, some word muttered under her breath which is probably not meant for polite company (this is not polite, but still)
(decker)
(kennedy)
The smell of the food hits her nostrils as he pulled the box out and tosses it her way. Attentive eyes focusing on the box's movements through the air. Muscles coil up as she moves out of the chair with adept quickness to catch it. Best not to waste it. "Danke.." Fingers peel open the lid, looking over the food, she picks at it with her fingers, immediately popping a bit into her mouth... "Wait... this is chicken.. ah, fuck it. It's food." walks into the kitchen licking at her fingers. "Gotta fork?"(decker)
"Yeah." After tossing the food at Kennedy, he's dismounted the stool, heading over to James and Imogen. Some word or other had caught his attention. "In the washer."Well, she didn't mention clean forks. The hand that had been picking at the kung pao chicken wipes itself clean on his shirt, leaving streaks of grease. Chewing that last chunk, he looks over James' shoulder at the paper. Grunts - some sort of affirmative sound, thoughtful sound, whatever.
"Luc's been askin' 'round on the streets. Heard'a some neonazis holdin' fight clubs. Might be the same thing." Eyes on the paper, brow knit faintly, he brings his hand up and sucks his thumb clean. Wipes again. "If it's whitepower shit, though, might be good if it's jus' me 'n Luc."
Growing up down in the south, the racial lines were split clear and even. The Klan was just the most obvious manifestation. Racism breeds like a nest of vipers, insidious and insinuous. It ain't something you could nail down or avoid. It seeped into the air you breathed, became a part of you. But he ain't getting into that just now. Ancient history, fucker. A step back. Call across the room, interrupting the other conversation, "Rune. Luc 'n me's gonna go check out some nazi faggots. You in?"
(rune)
"You're kinfolk, Eva." Some small humor, dark now, and faint. "Luc's Garou. That's whyPosted by james at 12:00 AMMay 13, 2003.05.13.03. - banaman [imogen][noje]
(james)
there's a moon up there, somewhere
Luna swelling pregnant with the date
he can feel the ebb and flow beneath his blood inside his bones as if he were some living ocean of concerted flesh and fluids that offered itself tidal to the sky - sometimes, that isn't much of a stretch, but right now it's the Gnawer that's stretched out, in the drizzle, on a bench in the empty spanse of green "park" contained within the Rolling Meadows complex, empty because of the damp weather bringing the slightest of chills riding on the moistureempty save the full moon Garou
whom must be frozen if the slight dampness brings a chill
he's been here for a long time, it seems
head leaning back against the planked rest
arms stretched out like pythons in some lazy crucifixion
ankles crossed way off yonder on the sidewalk
dark eyes slid closed long ago
dreads hanging in soaked weight reaching for the ground
it seems he's rather.... enjoying the rain
(if it could only wash away sin)
or perhaps it's quiet time away from ground zero - how many Ahrouns will be in the pack if that Fang kid joins up? - at the condo on a night like this yet still remaining within bolting distance should anything develop that requires his attentions(imogen)
It's two days away from full. The thought occured to her, today, somewhere during an autopsy, her gloved hands slicked with blood, her fingers wrapping around the solid shape of an organ, seeing it in her mind's eye rather than viewing it beyond the flaps of skin and borders of fat. She had, of late, perhaps been eschewing Garou company, or at least not showing as much of a presence. Chances are, she's simply busy. The doctor is a workaholic and her employment seems to delight in exploiting that. Even now, the pager is a comforting weight against her hip.The rain drew her out, too, slicking against her skin, dampening her hair, strands that had escaped the half contained bun clinging to her cheekbones, pressing against her neck. The sky is grey and over cast, and the sun barely shows through the clouds. She knows, with the same knowledge that she knew when the full moon would be, that had there been no clouds, the moon would only be two hours risen.
Her boots brush against the pavement as she approaches the prone Gnawer, so as not to startle the lazing Ahroun. Her head ducks, fingers tugging through the loosened strands, pushing them beyond her face and behind her ears. "You're lucky y'can't catch pneumonia." She notes, perhaps not for the first time as she approches, dropping to sit on the curb of the sidewalk, glancing sideways at the Gnawer.
(james)
she knows, even with the cloudcover, that the moon would only be two hours into its climb across the sky
he knows, even with his eyes still closed, the steady approach of the purebred kin
there's something that tugs at them, both, so subconsciously that even such noticeable differences have now just become a way of life
so easily accepted without a second thoughtslowly
just like the way the moon has taken days to reach it's climatic girth
a smile creeps across his rain-shined features
the lethargic twist of amusement"Not to mention I stand a smaller chance of getting arrested this way."
dark eyes slowly open, slipsliding their way to glance at the now-seated kin
by all means he should have pneumonia
the t-shirt is sculpted around muscular torso
pulled tight over chest and lean abs by the weight of waterlogged fabric
faded BDUs have given up their cling to form and slowly attempt melting towards the sidewalk
too bad that belt stops them from completing their mission
but now, dreads waver in spidery crawl as head lifts to actually look at the kin
even if it's still a bit skewed beneath the lift of a brow"You're home early."
you don't sleep on someone's couch for collective weeks on end and fail to pick up their schedule
(imogen)
The rain is cold, and in some ways unpleasant, because of that, because the air is cold and the rain is cold and there's a bit of wind, and that, too is cold. She wears a sweater jacket against the cold, but it does nothing against the rain, falling past her hips, skimming past her thighs, protecting her jeans, if only slightly from the cold curb, the damp rain kissed cement. The fabric is black, woven and so the dampness is mostly hidden, except that it clings to her just a little bit more to her torso. A button or two done up of the sweater jacket, and the blouse beneath is barely damp, but for where her hair brushes against her collar."Well," this is smirked, vaguely, as her attention drifts upward. The nearby lamplight catches in the rain water and light fractures, following the drops on their way down. "Y'd want t'be careful; someone may think you're trespassing." The smirk fades. There is a measure of truth. Bone Gnawer or not, the one downside to rage is distrust. In this world, it is hard not to be trusted.
He speaks again, and her shoulders shrug, as her hips shift, fingers sliding beneath the fall of woven cotton, sliding into her jean pockets, pulling out a cigarette package. "Someone else decided t'work late. I didn't think I could get what I needed done."
(james)
"Never said I was free and clear."he's either doing a great understudy of the firey kin's demeanor
or his words were as dripping as the bench that cradles his weight
he knows that with the dreads, the faded clothes... he's not exactly the yuppie sales exec that lives three doors down
and no matter how much he scrubs or smiles, soon enough, anyone approaching will feel that Rage throbbing with it's own heartbeat cadent to his
then suddenly, the walls will start to thicken, no matter how familiar he looks or regularly he passes through
the downside to being what he is
the innate distrust of difference that isn't obvious
the fear instinct around an invisable predator
(you don't belong here)he could begin to wonder what side she was on
if, during the full moon, she stepped across the divide to join "them"
the ones that steered clear in the first place because something just ain't right
subconsious instinct for flight over fight
just avoid it a little longer and the monster won't be there anymore
but his gaze doesn't wander back towards Imogen as if he needed to double-check
and if the thoughts ever crossed his mind (they don't) they're pushed away as easily as he's slipping back to that comfortable sprawl
jaw stretching towards the sky as eyes fall slowly closed"Before midnight even.... this should call for celebration."
funny the things that call for celebration
even though she is home later than everyone else that works 9-5
she's trimmed several hours off her normal workday
such a strange reason for joy in this constant, dreary, chilling rain
celebrate today - because tomorrow may never come(imogen)
She must, in so many ways, seem alien to Garou and human alike. Humans cannot understand that she does not run, humans cannot understand when normal things that frighten them do not frighten her, and where their consciences speak aloud, hers is deadly silent. Garou cannot understand her, because she is more human than they can ever be. And yet, she is less human than coworkers, or the yuppy sale exec that lives three doors down.And so, she sits in the rain, in the cold and smirks about celebration. It's far enough from mirth to be humourless. It is a night, perhaps, for introspectiveness. And it's not even yet midnight.
The smirk remains as she offers him a cigarette from her package, "Like a celebratory smoke, would you?" An eyebrow arching in question as she finds the lighter in the other pocket, hand reaching across the breadth of her hips, sliding disjointedly into her pocket to pull it out.
She looks upward once more, her chin lifting slightly, gesturing toward the rain as it catches in the lamplight, "It rains like this all the time in England," she notes, nonsequetorially.
(james)
"Absolutely"still, that smirk surfaces before his trademark smile
too much time around Imogen, Decker, and Rune, most likely
that's becoming as familiar as his normal grin
..... or maybe they can just blame it on the moon
seconds stroll on by before he uncrosses his boots
feet pressing against the ground to leverage himself up to sit
elbows resting on his knees to make a little shelter from the rain
taking the offered smoke and light in turn and smoothly handing them back with a nod of thanks
it isn't until an exhale that leaves the smoke dangling between his legs that he speaks again"That's what I read.... never been any further than Kentucky from home."
he's watching the sidewalk insted of following her glance up
studying the patterns droplets make in puddles
whether they're from the sky or the heavy curtain of dreads that fell forward
creating some little cave topped by his chest as dry shelter
cigarette suspended as if some virgin sacrifice from the deadly waters below"Tell me more?"
the quiet afterthought request
(talk to me so I don't think about what's boiling inside of me)
replacing the hunger for violence with the Frankenweiler instilled craving of knowledge(imogen)
He burns with rage, and it's a curse, a gift, a hand that twists inside, grinding against bone and muscle and sinew. Rage is sometimes just too much to handle. As he hands them back, she takes a cigarette of her own, lighting up, before she ever considers speaking again. Inhalation, and exhalation, inhale deadly smoke and hold in nicotine and tar, exhale slightly less deadly smoke, head dropping briefly. Strands curl against her cheekbones and swing before her face, not a curtain, most of the strands contained at the base of her neck, some vague containment of the red. It has, in the wet, become darker, near black in shades, in edges like rusted iron.The cigarette dangles between her fingers, burning orange, a twin to his own cigarette. "'t's colder like this. Hardly ever like y'r summer. It doesn't get like y'r winters, either. S'just grey." One shoulder lifts in a shrug, as her head lifts, and she takes another drag on the cigarette, her words mixed with the smoke as she exhales. "The sun's not usually as bright, we're farther north'n you, but it's the clouds that really do it."
It wasn't to him, but she had proven once before that she could speak of her home country without thought, just stating how it is in a more lyrical fashion than she often speaks. "They aren't kidding when you can pratically time your watch in London by th'rain." A brief smirk, "I was there, once, for... about a week or so. I checked. It rains nearly every day."
(james)
it's a careful choreography of movement - keeping the water falling from his shoulder to spill across the swell of bicep and length of forarm from crossing the fence of fingers and claiming the as-of-yet dry paper of the Camel for its own
and he watches the twist and tilt of wrist
and the puddles on the ground just slightly out of focus below that
rather than glancing up at her as she speaks
perhaps, also, calming himself in the way the smoke lacadasically coils up from burning cherry to splash against his chest"I mean to get there one day." absently, as if the smoke and puddles has more of his attention, though obviously he listened to the (calming) lyrical descriptions she offered his curiosity "Least.... somewhere on that continent. Make all the things I've read in books seem real."
(imogen)
It must feel, this week, that the rain will never end. It must feel that starting Sunday until now, grey, grey, and grey, that the rain will never be over, the ground will never be dry. The grass will never stop smelling wet; the aforementioned grass, however, is quite pleased with the state of affairs and have achieved a deep shade of spring green.She isn't really looking at him, either, perhaps because he won't look at her, and her direct gaze is only good in confrontation. Dark eyes are cast about, the park lights, the ground at her feet. The trailing edge of a boot lace.
"S'different from 'ere," she answers, finally, "Different feelin'. Even th'Garou 'ave different outlooks. Th'traditions y'keep 'ere are held stricter there."
(james)
there's a long, slow draw from the Camel
crackle of tobacco and paper drowned out by the soft gray, gray, gray drizzle
he can feel the nicotein and various other toxins surging through his blood
cooling his body further as blood vessels breifly contract
then on the pluming exhale, everything returns back to normal
except the cigarette's now a half-inch shorter"When I was still a cub, couple 'Weilers.... one Winger, one Waxer.... came back from a walkabout that took them to the National Museum in London. They had the most amazing stories to tell." still just... absent "A lot of them were about how different it was over there. Especially upholding the Ban."
muscular shoulders roll in a shrug
the wet cotton pulling across the chilled and alert nerve endings throughout his torso
dragging at the weight of heavy jungle-vine dreads"Made us curious about what the world was like outside of Albany."
it seems as if he was going to say something else, but he stops
letting the thought wash away as if the rain really could cleanse things(imogen)
There's a pause, here, where she does look at him, an eyebrow lifting slightly. The paus estretches as she waits to see if he will say what he had been about to, rather than ask him about it.After a minute, she reinsterts the cigarette, and runs the wandering hand through the loosened strands of hair, pushing it away from her face. She tilts her attention upward, one hand reaching out behind her to rest on the grass, bracing her weight as she turns her attention to the sky.
It is safer for her to look at the sky than him.
"The 'Ban'?" she asks, finally, smoke spilling out of the corner of her mouth as she speaks around the filter. Water hisses against the ember, lost in the tattoo of the rain.
(james)
"Ban of Man."when she looks at him, he doesn't see it
perhaps there's a periphreal sense of it
the predator always cognizant of his surroundings
but given that it is his friend that looks at him (no matter how unsafe it is for her) he allows it to slide
or maybe it's just something he doesn't want to acknowledge so he doesn't have to answer
sometimes it's easier to talk of other things"Help not Man for his survival unless it threatens ours. Hurt not man unless he threatens us. Kill not man for food unless we might perish."
so, so quietly recited - just for her ears alone
even when you're a Hood they pound it into your brain
even when you're the one most likely to break it
(know thine enemy)
finally, the burnt out Camel is flicked away to hissing death in a puddle"The Plague was a big part of it. We'd end up carriers since it wouldn't kill us, blamed for the spread when we went around helping the poor whom were hit hardest. Watched the Squeakers get hunted down. Then the Inquisition and the Burning Times. Helping out became more trouble than it was worth. So they developed the Ban to save our own asses since there wasn't any appreciation for saving other's."
(imogen)
The Inquisition, the Burning Times, "...the Impergium." Said slowly, the word and name formed by a mouth not used to such Garou terms, though it has a mirror in the English language.She ashes the cigarette, and minutely, ashes hiss against the puddle at her feet. "They do not interfere wi' th'humans, no. But.." a smirk, vague, "They are more superstitious in Britain. Our stories are older, and they," she might mean the humans, or perhaps the Garou, "'ave a long memory. S'better not t'awaken such things, I suppose. Because, someone might remember silver, or someone might think o' it. More than one would, 'ere."
Another drag on the cigarette, and she flicks the cigarette from her, joining James's in the puddle, ember dying. "I never, not once, saw a Garou speak wi' a human when ..." her hand moves, vaguely, as she dismisses one phrase, or perhaps searches for the best one, "I was growin' up. Some took it tha' seriously."
(james)
normally, it's so easy for each of them to hold the other's gaze
rarely is there a confrontation or challenge between them
a meeting of various levels of respect
how strange it is to have barely even looked at each other
much less hold focus so casually - the way none would ever expect between a full moon and a kin
so maybe that's why he chooses now to tilt his head
though goes no further than the sideways glance"There are some that take it so seriously I'd be throated for shacking up with Geedubs and Germans." it's a soft, wry smile that joins that one, though when he nods, the gaze swings away again "It's that superstition that intrigues me, I think. Never ran into it upstate..... but I know it's a big part of what drove us here in the first place. I guess sheltering comes in all sorts of forms and I'm just getting that itch again..."
(imogen)
Normally, even if not looked at, she holds gaze. It's a bit of defiance, full moon or no full moon, that the kinfolk appears to be unable to do. It's the same instinct that a kin normally has to look away, in reverse. Tonight is different and her hands swipe across her jeans. A brief smirk. Slight amusement, internal as she does not voice it."Well. Stick t'the main cities, an' there're Gnawers there, I'm told," she shrugs her shoulders slightly, indicating a lack of knowledge.
Her hands rub against her jeans again, and she stands, "I need t'go. 'Njoy y'r night."
(james)
his chin lifts in a miniscule nod
taking the information provided into consideration
though who knows when or how he'd even leave this place
he's got too much that makes him want to stay
he doesn't want to go through what made him wander last time
yet, there's this craving....
he hasn't felt it for awhile
he's been so damned content
and maybe that's the problem"Thanks Imogen. 'Night."
she's standing
and he's rotating on that point of pivot
returning his shoulders to the rainsoaked benchback
climbing back onto his invisable cross when arms stretch back out
he doesn't look at the sky
those eyes are falling closed again
face tilted to the drops as if to wash everything away
..... the rage...... the sorrow(blame it on the moon, Jamey-boy, just blame it on the moon)
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 10, 2003.05.10.03. - monkeyspeak [imogen-decker-jody][noje]
(imogen)
That it was a Saturday and nearly midnight appears to have escaped her. That it is a day where the majority of people take their rest, do their chores and all in all spend time with their families seems to have passed her by. She must be coming home from work to be driving in this late, the mercedes sliding into the parking spot on one side of the Tacoma, one of a trio of expensive vehicles. Beemer, Tacoma, Benz. A car thief's dream.The weather has threatened rain all day, and she pulls the black rain slicker further around her form as she shuts the car door behind her, a bump of her hip as her head ducks down, fingers sweeping across the edge of her hip, finding the space of her pager, assuring it's presence. She's definitely been working. One pale hand passes over her loosely coiled hair, smoothing across kinked and curled hair, before walking toward her condo, fingers sliding into her pockets, finding cigarette lighters.
(james)
zippo CLACKS open, illuminating the figure sprawled across the porch next to the condo in question
he's got boots on the railing and shoulders against the tipped back of the chair, dreads have spilled in their haphazard disarray across the tee that speaks the fact it's been threatening to rain all day has probably escaped him - that it's nearly midnight on a Saturday and he seems to have nothing better to do than sit in the dark (didn't even bother with the outside lights) on the porch probably means as much to him as the slight kinfolk trying to beat the rain that keeps meaning to fall but just hasn't found the right time yet
the brash glow of orange flares on inhale
the sharp smoke of Camel fills the air on exhale
the trademark snap closure of the lighter bounces across the lawn between home and parkingby the time she's within decision distance of the bottom of the twinned sets of stairs
his fingers are slipping away from the unopened beer bottle placed precariously on the corner of the railing which leads from surrounding enclosure on the porch to the downward slope of decline to the sidewalk
of course it was a second bottle he brought out for himself
but he's offering it up without a second thought, pause, or even salutation
dark eyes on the flame-haired kin
the slow relaxation of muscles crunched in situp to allow his torso back to it's lazy recline(imogen)
She ceases the pull of the cigarette's from her pocket, as she walks up the pathway, apparently abandoning the nicotine need for the moment.She can feel the touch of eyes, Garou eyes, which has a different burn than the staring prying eyes of a human, as she walks up, and by the time she's reached the stairs (and walking up), she knows where James is, and catches the offer of beer. A crooked smirk curves across her mouth, as she inclines her head in a nod, walking up to save the beer bottle from it's precarious balance, picking it up by the neck. A twist of her other hand, fingers catching around the beer cap, and a soft hiss of escaping air (if there were lights, they would have seen the escape of mist, to accompany the hiss, but as it is, it is only sound), "Ta," british truncated thanks as she tips back the bottle and takes a swallow.
"How're things?" she inquires as she brings the bottle down, stepping onto the porch, facing him as she leans back against the railing, resting the butt of the bottle against the edge of one extended thigh.
(james)
"Koooooopasetic."even the word coils out lazily on the fleur de lis plume of smoke spilling from his smile
his own beer is toasted (welc'm) before a swallow drains the bottle from not half full nor half empty - but completely empty
said empty bottle settles back onto the table to his left with a resoundingly hollow sound
free hand reaching to grab the top of the plastic chair beside him and lift it up and over to settle on the side she's on
whether she takes it or not makes no difference to him
it's just the fact the offer was there
and by the way he's actually smiling genuinely and easily even with the moon swelling in the sky
must mean their hunt is over
or he's been hitting the bong and/or beer for awhile nowand his head tilts to the side
dreads falling like a beaded curtain across the broad expanse of one shoulder"How was work?"
(imogen)
Her eyebrow arches in amused question a she tilts her head back to look at him, one of the rare times where she is taller than the Garou, she standing and he sitting. A vague glance toward the chair acknowledges it's offering, but a brief shake of her head denies it. She often prefers to stand, lean against something. "'Xactly 'ow many of those 'ave you 'ad?" she inquires, tilting her chin toward his empty bottle, a vague distracted smirk. Her attention flickers toward the condo door, then back toward James.Another swallow of her own beer, the smirk fading to a half frown, as she shakes her head, "Boring. Paperwork is not particularly a stimulating way to spend a Saturday."
(james)
"Enough." comes the thickly chuckled word "That I've almost talked myself into a swim."chin lifts to gesture towards the pool across a lawn or three
he grew up in places that any collected body of water was more than a little questionable
not that it would affect him healthwise - but there were some things you just don't go for a casual soak in
but to have a maintained and clean pool only a few hundred yards from your front door
there are times when you think spring has gotten warm enough, alreadydark eyes swing from the softly illuminated water and back up to the deep blue of the kinwoman's eyes
strange, to have a fullmoon Garou looking up at another
(especially when being around the Modi who seems to look down at everyone no matter where he's situated)
stranger, probably, to suddenly be faced with a pure and outright.... child-like.... grin
cigarette scissored between two fingers pointing at her then sweeping grandly towards the fenced pool"You should join me.... sure to liven then night up." brows.... furrow "....especially if you end up catching pneumonia."
perhaps not as good an idea as it seemed, Jamey-boy
there's an apologetic cast to his grin that now suggests perhaps the ajoining spa may have been a better option(imogen)
A brief smirk, "Pneumonia's not likely. I don't get sick. Not often," perhaps her sudden slight frown was brought on by his own, though it is quickly covered by another deep swallow of beer and then she smirks again as the beer has been brought down, an eyebrow lifting, "I'd be more concerned with somebody calling the cops." Which would certainly go over well, considering that he was an Ahroun. What she says might very well be true. After all, the Garou are gifted with quick healing, and the last time James was sick was probably long before he knew he was a monster. It might stand to reason that she, with the blood of wolves, may have some benefit from it, other than the other dubious benefits one receives from being kin.The beer returns to it's precarious perch on the balcony railing as she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a package of cigarettes. Tapping one out, she lights up, battered zippo flaring open and clicking shut, and her ember joins his, as she inhales slowly. Blue grey smoke exhales out of the corner of her mouth. "If y'get caught, I'd have to bail you out." Whether that's an offer or a warning, is up to the rather... slurred Gnawer.
(james)
the Gnawer looks mortally wounded
dark eyes widening as they draw back to Imogen's
going so far as to even drop his lower lip and allow it to tremble
as his whole grande midnight plan suddenly just crumbles to kibble before his very grasp
and, to add to the drama, a heavy sigh rolls out of his chest
(someone would call the cops? on me??)crushed.
as in the time it takes to draw another drag from the Camel
the fullmoon seems to have made a full recovery
it must by that super-Garou healing, or something"You know...." offer or warning "That doesn't help quell the temptation."
seems he isn't slurred enough to neglect consideration someone would call the cops if too much noise was made
(imogen)
The absolute melodrama of the Gnawer hardly results in more than a quiet deadpan stare from the slender kinfolk. If she's amused, it doesn't show as he sighs. Then he gets over it, and she smirks.She snorts briefly, and cigarette is exchanged for a swallow of beer. The bottle is half empty now, "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was supposed to keep you out of trouble. However," the cigarette is jabbed in his direction, "Consider this: the amount of time y'must spend waiting in the jail cell waitin' f'r me t'get y'out. And the fact I'd never let y'live it down." Threat then.
(james)
it's the streetwise entertainer in him
he's learned how to grab the attention (and money) of those who could care less
and by the way he grins that she's just staring at him - no matter how deadpan - figures out that she's amused enough"Time? Days." barked in laughter "You'd let me suffer in there all night just to poke fun at me later." her cigarette jabs at him, and his is waving back in some semblance of a parry in this sword fight that's a half-balcony apart "You hardly let me forget you can outdrink me."
allright
threat then
seems we'll be moving back to the drawing board and onto plan B
even if he's really not sure what plan B... is... exactly
he had been rather set on taking a swim
and the tub just won't suffice, honestly(imogen)
A brief sound, an exhalation of laughter, cigarette half way to her mouth as she regards him, "No, it's not tha' I can out drink you, James," a pause as she inhales, of cigarette smoke and nicotine, not clean air, cigarette placed between her lips. Words are framed in smoke as she speaks, "It's that you get fall down drunk every time y'try, an' yet y'don't stop."The rest of the smoke exhales, and then she adds, "Besides. I would get y'out afore mornin', at least. I 'ave too much sympathy for the prison guards to make 'im suffer y'f'r long."
(james)
"So I'm a lightweight and insufferable?"a brow lifts slow and steady
there's been childish abandon, sheer melodrama, and now utter incredulity tossed at the kin all in the course of a single conversation
though it's the playfulness glittering in deep umber eyes that gives it all away"And here you are, drinking the beer I offered you, shooting down my ideas, and now wounding me with your rapier tongue, Dr. Slaughter, after I go so far as to fold the blankets I use when parked for the night on your couch. I'm hurt. Utterly crushed that you would say such things of your houseguest."
drunk and rambling, he is
(imogen)
"Well," deadpanned as she takes another swallow of beer, "I truly am sorry that you are a lightweight and insufferable and will endeavour not to point that out to you in the future. If you would like to go and swim in someone else's pool, go right ahead, an' I will not post your bail and let you harrass the guards as y'like."She steps forward and crosses to the door way, snuffing out the cigarette between her fingers. A few steps back, and this time she sits on the offered chair, reclining back into it. One leg extends out, the other draws up closer to the chair, resting the bottle on her knee.
An eyebrow lifts, "Better?"
(james)
he does his best to pay attention
he does his best to be respectful and look at her while she's talking
but by the end of it, the Gnawer is simply laughing
stopping for a moment and just looking at her as she sits and asks her singular question"I'm." and then it starts all over again "I'm.... not exactly sure."
and while he's muddling over that precise differentiation in his fuzzy mind
hands are occupied in the slow waltz of jumpstarting one Camel off another
the second clenched between his teeth for safe keeping and he's leaning backwards to stretch towards the coffeecan turned ashtray
it's a delicate ballet of balance, now
the weight of one Bone Gnawer in a concerted effort against the relentless pull of the harsh mistress known as Gravity
and perhaps, he would have given her something else to hold over his head
but a boot hooked beneath the balcony railing seems to save what may remain of his grace(imogen)
The pratical joke of tugging his foot free of the the balcony does not much suit the doctor's style, so James is saved from that possibility of such an ungraceful tumble. Chances are, it hadn't even occured to her, though she does lean back in her own chair, watching the inebriated Gnawer with slit eyed amusement."You know," she says conversationally, as she watches the discordant symphony of the Gnawer's broken grace, "I think you may 'ave 'ad quite enough t'drink tonight, there, James."
(james)
had the thought struck her mind to unhook his safety line on this great adventure
perhaps the thought would have crossed his own mind (perhaps more meandered...) to drag her down with him
though since neither were even considering - he flashes her that trademark eaaaasy grin"I was considering going swimming in weather below sixty in water far colder than that...." chuckled, a soft and generous croon "Whatever may have given you that idea."
the rather flippant remarks punctuated by the cigarette waved around at the end of his arm
proverbially burning the phrases into the air with some off-hand cursive
there's probably a way to wax poetic about the fluidly slippery movements
but that doesn't cross his mind either
he, instead, sinks a little further into the stable safety of the chair that has all four legs already on the ground(decker)
Click of the door opening. Eeeeeeee...hinges squeal. Click of the door shutting again, and whumpf of the Modi throwing his weight back against the wall.Schhhzzz of the match. Half-moon in the sky, waxing. Matchstick flipped burning out over the stairs, turning end over end. Extinguishing itself on the rush of air past. Bouncing on the bottom step. Scatter of sparks.
"You mackin' on my woman, James?" What could be bitter words are laced with low amusement. Anyway, he never voices his suspicions so easily, so concisely. He would never give the accused such a chance to defend himself. Uncoiling weedsmoke. Uncoiling tension across his shoulders as he lifts them, flexes them, lets them fall. Joint in his teeth, he lets his arms hang straight and loose. Shakes his fingers out lightly and tucks thumbs into the corners of his pockets. Slouches down another three inches.
That's when the heavy grey attention finally slips on over to the kinwoman. Slip down, slip up. Cataloguing her virtues, or something like that. Nod up. " 'Sup Imogen." Curl of lip, slow, like wax melting with heat. "Where you been?"
(imogen)
A brief smirk as she tips back the bottle, swallowing the last of the beer. Leaning forward, her arm extending and dropping the beer bottle with a hollow clunk of glass against the balcony floor. "Call it..." amusement, vague, as she straightens, fingers sliding through strands of hair loosened from her braid, pushing it back away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "...Intuition."Hand reaches into her pocket again, and she finds the cigarette package, pulling it out, starting to tap out a second cigarette, catching it between her two fingers to draw it the rest of the way out. The other hand quickly searches for the lighter, drawing out the battered zippo, as she sets the cigarette between her mouth and lights back up, her eyes flickering toward the opening of the door, and the appearance of the Modi.
Her eyebrow lifts faintly, at the low amusement, the thread of it caught in the low voiced words. Some brief quick look there, down, then up, the movement perhaps caught in the ember of the cigarette as she exhales smoke. "Work, mostly," she answers, wryly, because the answer was probably as obvious as the fire in her hair, the colour of flames. "And some damned meetings all week."
(james)
under such suspiscions and scrutiny from the Modi
most would turn themselves inside out and crawl away
but the Gnawer? just loooooooks up past his brows from the vantage point the veritable puddling in the chair has provided
and grins at the (to him) upside down Fenrir"Don't you know I always do that when you're not around?" since they all know if he actually was - Decker would take the forcibly turning inside out honors "But she's been commendably fending me off with lethal insults."
attractive woman, yes, his type, no
soon enough, that relaxed state reverses itself
the slow composure of muscles in preparation for skeletal lift-off
(preflight planning takes so much)
dragging himself out of the chair and diverting route towards the empty one halfway around the table
whether it be rank that hath it's privleges or giving the Modi option to sit by his woman
up to them to decide
he's amused he actually coordinated the effort successfully(decker)
"Yeah, well..." eyelashes fall. He removes the joint and studies it for a moment. Flicks ash off the tip and reinserts. Half-smirk resurfaces and lashes rise: pupils constrict against distant lights hitting his eyes again, dilates again by slight degree. "Been out too."None of 'em have seen him since the start of the week. Some of them might remember him having a serious little chitchat with Livingston one night, though, and the Theurge sketching him what looked like a nest of looping coils with a few arrows in it labeled "spiritnest" and "waterbridge". Apparently some sort of map. Unsurprisingly, they found it left behind on the kitchen counter.
And off he went to learn a new trick. Fire, I fear thee not.
Shift: he watches James get up, walk around, sit again. Might be a bit disappointed when the Gnawer doesn't fall on his ass. His eyes fall on the emptied chair now. He drags it a notch closer to himself with a hook of his foot, but doesn't sit yet. Ain't nothin' more disgusting than a still-warm seat.
"Guess I gotta be around more." Gaze is still level on James. Stays there just another beat or three, enough to make one think he wasn't joking anymore, after all. Then he smirks, shifts his weight against the wall. "Seen Erik?"
(imogen)
A faint sound in the back of her throat, "Yeah," agreement that he's been out, or simple acknowledgement as her head turns to watch James as he begins the coordinated effort to stand, and vacate the chair, and walk around the chair and walk around the table and find the other chair and sit down in it without falling on his ass. It really is quite the effort when you're raising the bar on blood alcohol levels.Her attention shifts as Decker speaks again toward James, reclining back in her chair again, resting her elbow on the arm rest, the easier to smoke her cigarette. There is interest in the answer to that question, and so, from speaker to answerer, her dark eyed gaze glides back to James.
(james)
the little journey put him out of immediate kicking range, too
drunk be the Gnawer, but the Gnawer not be stupid
though it seems this chair is just as welcoming as the other
BDUs and t-shirt have little enough purchase as it is
and finally giving in to the call of gravity (temptationous wench!) there's a slipslide down to comfortability
about two inches shy of sliding right on out, much to the further disappointment of the Modi, he's sure
perhaps in the little shake of his head against pillow of dreads, there's an aversion of his gaze - breif - as well
he knows his packmates well, but there are times one can't be too careful
only a remnant flicker of that fullforce grin emerging at the smirk"Not since before you took off."
(decker)
Grunt. "He still sendin' Lexi into the bowel of the fuckin' beast?""Fuck'd you drink, a whole keg?" This, after he watches James kinda... slither around like his arms and legs weren't quite part of the same body. Weren't quite plugged into the same brain.
Now that the chair's had some time to cool off, he kicks it out and rolls off the wall, coming over a step or two to drop down into it. Patio chairs are not all made equal. They might look almost the same, but some made you feel like you needed a chiropractor, and some moulded to the curves of your spine.
This one? It's one of the latter. There's a faint breath out. He tugs the joint out of his mouth and lets his hand hang off the side of the chair, forearm on the armrest.
(jody)
Jody trots towards the scene. She is a mangy dog, kind of undernurished too. Its obvious the only bath she gets is when it rains too, from the look and slight odor. As always, the one legged raggedy anne doll hangs from her mouth. She is in this part of the world for a reason, sniffing out the would be mentor she met quite some time ago now. Funny how all these special do... errr, wolves (whatever the hell that means) always seem to be more then willing to help for five minutes then never show up again. But thats fine by her. She enjoys her space. She eventually arrives at the building the three of them are in, including the scent she is looking for... James. She hrmmms inspecting the talking monkey cave. She lived in one of these when she was a pup... now she just has to find the doggy door...(imogen)
She watches the Gnawer perform the complexities of sitting down (if the chair would stop moving, surely he'd have an easier time of it), amusement curving her mouth, "yes, exactly 'ow much 'ave y'been drinking?" Only two beer bottles on the balcony, perhaps testimony to the fact that for once, Imogen was not drinking with the Gnawer, at least not for long.They're outside, so, Jody is saved the search for the doggy door, but she is assaulted by the smells of cigarette smoke, marijuana smoke, and likely beer (James is, after all, perhaps pickled in it), which may not be a pleasant alternative.
(james)
muscular shoulders roll in a rather disconnected shrug
there's some things the Gnawer is simply not privy to
Erik's postal itinerary with Lexi would be one of them"Give or take."
didn't the Modi notice the fridge was near empty of it's beer?
the answer tumbles and rolls on smooth, low tones
half-chuckled and half-muuuuuused
apparently he found little else to do during the course of the evening in which, yet again, he found himself holding down the fort because everyone else was.... elsewhere
this all translates to his journey outside because he couldn't even drive in Grand Turismo anymore and the couch was bucking to make a bull proud
dark gaze sliiiiiides (swims) back over to Imogen"I think there's a bottle or two left in the fridge."
it was stocked yesterday
it will be again tomorrow
once, of course, his body reconnects with his brain(decker)
"Luc musta gotten 'em." Fridge was empty when the Modi last checked. It's all good. He'll go bum liquor off the redhead.Ticking of claws on concrete below makes the Modi tiiiilt his chair back just enough to see past the balustrade to the flight of stairs and one mangy pup. The front legs of his chair slam back down, sending a jolt up along the frame of the chair into his arm, into the joint. Ash scatters. The scent of scorching marijuana becomes briefly, minutely stronger, particularly as he hits off the joint on the cool spring night. Crickets and shooting stars, and a balcony full of the beastblooded.
"Lost dog downstairs, James. Might be one o' yers."
(jody)
Jody sniffs around, picking up James's scent again and follows it, stopping short of the stairs and looking up, all wagging tails and tounges. Of course, if you called her cute, she'd maul you. She yips up, barking twice a few times. James! James it's Jody!(decker)
"Yeah," smirk, as he leans over to confiscate James' latest beer, "it's one o' yers."(imogen)
She twists her head, looking over her shoulder to follow Decker's line of sight, catching sight of the mangy mutt, finding it easier now that its barking. Her gaze flicks abruptly away from the dog, scanning the condominiums briefly. Looking for lights, movement. Chances are, their neighbours would not quite understand this latest quirk in their habits."Garou?" she inquires briefly of either Decker or James, whoever answers, taking another drag of the cigarette, inhaling deeply of the smoke.
(james)
a brow sorta..... finds a way to lift itself cause he's no particular help
(faaaaaaaaak me I gotta move)
and that process he painfully and meticulously coordinated (luck, it was all bloody luck!) into some semblance of balance.... reverses itself
boots press against the terracotta tiling
muscles through his thighs exert a slow pressure down
and he's slithering his way back up the chair to peee(gotdemmit, not high enough)eeeeeeer over the railingwhy.... yes! indeed! there is one pup down there. fancy that.
"Hi Jody." just grinned back at the little yips making their way past the dolly in her mouth "C'mon up."
cuase if he tried to go down those twisting, spiraling, dancing stairs to her he'll break his fucking neck
"Yeh.... one lost and confused pup."
(jody)
Jody snaps up her doll and moves for the stairs, quickly sprinting up the stairs. She is an adult by doggish standards, but only barely. A warriors time. Can manager to win a fight but still has all that youthful energy and speed.(decker)
Shrug. He leans back into his seat. Settles into it, a python resuming its lazy coils. A glance to the pup coming up the stairs. He didn't wanna know.Swig of beer. He sets the bottle back down on the tabletop without raising his shoulder from the chairback. It's a bit of a stretch. Then he gives it a nudge, fingers snapping forward - the bottle slides across the table. Wobbles. Threatens to tip. Doesn't.
"Bone Gnawers," he says to Imogen, like this was some sort of explanation for a Garou who looked quite like a dog. Her discerning eye would be able to pick out the differences, though. The longer snout. The lankier legs. The position of the ears on the skull. Little details like that.
(imogen)
The flamehaired woman's head turns to watch as the wolf-dog leaps up the stairs, making its way toward James, considering it as she exhales smoke, slowly, her head turning away from the gathering now. As the pup passes her, she rises to stand, walking toward the doorway, and it's can of ashes and cigarette butts, beer caps and unravelled and greyed cigarette paper.The cigarette is extinguished though only half finished as she directions her dark eyed attention toward Decker, taking what appears to be an explanation, before her attention flickers back toward the wolf and its dog features, a faint sound of acknowledgement, affirmation in the back of her throat, as if the tribe clears it all up. Out of all the tribes, perhaps Gnawer is the only one that would result in such an easy explanation. The Gnawer lupus form is often a mongrel, which might, in some ways (so say the unkind people) suit what they are meant to be.
As for the other tribes, it is unlikely anyone bothered to show her.
She straightens, hand brushing against the curve of her jeanclad thigh before reaching up to push back loosened strands of hair again, burnished curls and waves that have escaped the meager confines of her braid.
(james)
Decker settled and coiled back onto his sunning ro..... chair
James doesn't even try, this time resting elbows on knees
he's leaned forward enough to let Jody get close enough to his face to sniff a greeting
but not enough to plummet right out of the chair
(pickled in beer? you bet - note how he isn't extending a hand)the Modi knows what differences to look for in conformation
the ears are wider set, yet not as wide themselves, head boxier, muzzle longer, legs lankier, barrel broader and shorter than the typical wolf
had Imogen ever seen the pack go furry she'd realize how much James stood out like a sore thumb
(downbred. mongrel. mutt.)
he could wander the streets in lupus looking like a disheveled shepard while the others would incite newspaper articles
though if the difference in breeding occured or even mattered to him, it doesn't show
he's still got that easy grin"S'got you all the way out here?"
(jody)
Jody hops up the stairs, sniffing at James's face as its offered. When he asks her a question.... she just stares. She is gonna have to learn monkey speak one day, but no one has made much of an effort so far. She looks around at the other two, smelling the air and notcing foul, sweet, and indiffrent odors. Then again, this is a city Lupus. Its nothing she hasn't smelled before, despite their expectations, she dosn't even comment. She sniffs James's a bit more, taking in his mannerisms and movements. Did you get hit in the head fighting evil spirits? Ahhhh, Lupus.(decker)
She stands. His eyes move to follow her though he, for a moment at least, doesn't. He watches the downsweep of her lashes casting shadows onto high cheekbone, and the precise, pointed motion with which she taps her cigarette out. Her hair falling over her face; her hand pushing it back. His eyes flicker back to James in some sort of wordless confirmation - you gonna be ok with the pup? - only in not nearly so many words, not nearly so developed a thought.Just a brush on the mind. Just a hint of query.
Then he gets to his feet. He's not the tallest of the pack. Among the males, he and James are probably the shortest, what with the incredible growing Skalds, the lanky Theurge, the fanatic Viking-blooded Alpha of them all. And even Rune tops them by an inch or two when she puts on her killer stilettos: make your legs look longer and put the eye of the nearest fomor out. High fashion for Glass Walker Ahrouns.
He's not the tallest, but he's arguably the strongest: muscle thick and dense over heavy bones. The broadness of his shoulders belies his agility; the length of leg and narrowness of hip gives him an advantage of speed in combat. Ten years later, if he lived that long (and he won't.), he might have traded that speed off for sturdiness, resilience like a stone wall. Until then, he's what he is: a goddamn landshark, fast and unapolegetically deadly.
But all that's something they all already know.
His own joint put out in the same trashcan. Grinds it out. Leaving the roach where it is, he dusts his hand off on the front of his shirt. "Goin' back over?"
(imogen)
He stands, and he is not the tallest, but there is no doubt that she is smaller than he, and any one else of that pack, and chances are, smaller than the majority of the people she meets, unless you count those under the age of twelve.At five feet and some odd inches, even Miriam at sixteen tops the good doctor. Her head tilts up to glance at him, and in some ways, the sheer breadth of the Garou, the sheer strength beneath skin and bones in comparison to slender frame and petite form, diminuates her that much more.
She tilts her head back to look at him, dark eyes holding true to her nature with the constance of an unerring gaze. "Yeah, I am." The gaze breaks as she steps away from the doorway toward the chair she had so recently vacated, picking up the cigarettes from the armrest, shoving them into the pocket of her rainjacket, before she glances across toward James and his... friend, and back toward the modi once more. Pause. A lift of her chin, a gesture toward him, "Coming?" The lilt at the end making it more of a question than it could have been.
(james)
there's a blink from the Ahroun as the pup just stares at him
ah yes, monkeyspeak, it dawns on him (sloooowly) that she still doesn't understand it (gotta work on that)
probably somewhere in the middle of the softly barked laughter at her question
so he resorts back to the more natural body language of his kind
.... even if it is a bit more liquified and sloppy in his far far FAR from sober state"Yes." easier than explaining alcohol "And I need to go back inside." before the tiles reach up and smack me "But you can come in if you want to."
during this, there's been a drop of his chin in affirmation, the sweep of his hand that points to the door, the tilt of his head in invitation that sends dreadlocks sprawling across a dropped shoulder
sure enough, he's prying himself out of the chair
and there's an upward strafe of his dark gaze to(....the hell did you go man....)wards the Modi
something of a nod up - Long as I don't have to move again once I'm inside - something of an answer to the almost question
Imogen gets a smile rather than an uncoordinated wave
Gaia knows what that would do to what's left of his balance
and soon enough he's found his way inside and to the couch
quietly meandering his way back to sobriety through conversation with the pup(jody)
Jody follows him inside, laying down on the floor and... well no, she dosn't even pretend to understand, but she does listen to the gibberish and occasionaly change the subject with a quick question or comment with a yip.((welp guys the Dave Chippel special is on, so I'm out. Night))
Posted by james at 12:00 AMMay 05, 2003.05.05.03. - home improvement [rune][noje]
(james)
the entire damned pack is at the condo (Rune's condo... his condo)
the singular Bone Gnawer is at the pack warehouse (their warehouse)
isn't there some sort of wickedy irony here?
it doesn't exactly escape him, sprawled on the couch as he is, arms sloppily flung across the back in some urban crucifixion straight out of the latest Better Homes and Gardens magazine (you, too, can have a Bone Gnawer display right in your living room for just $19.95, a little ingenuity, and these tips from Martha Stewart....), dreadlocks splayed every which way because his skulls leaned back on the framework and those eyes aren't even open, one boot kicked up on the coffeetable the other lost somewhere between knee and carpet in those shadows therein - because he hasn't bothered with more than one light, either, and that's off far to the side somewheremake that one seething Bone Gnawer display right in your very living room
the stereo's landed on some classic rock station, Tom Petty crooning out of the speakers in vague attempt at calm
the moon's nothing but a sliver in the sky
some cheshire cat grin snickering down in silent mockery
and it's just been eating at him, this waiting
normally he's mellow, and can wait, and chill, and just bide his time until the leash is unhooked
normally he's got the patience of a fucking saint
but not with this
it's hitting far too close to homethe weed isn't working anymore, so he's trying distance this time, cause the rest of them are just as agitated
maybe this'll get him to relax(rune)
The shipping bay doors swing up and open and the loud sound clatters throughout the empty first story of the warehouse: echoing, echoing. In the vast space, littered with only a few remnants of machinery or long-unclaimed products (a whole flat of Brazilian Wheaties featuring Pele, the only thing that hasn't been completely and thoroughly looted during the years the place stood vacant), the singular purr of the Beemer's engine sounds like the starting line at the Indy 500: a low, dull roar, though soon extinguished.Even if one doesn't drive, it's almost impossible to get upstairs without making noise. There's an obstacle course of iron beams and bales of chicken wire to navigate before one finds the steps, and a couple of dead ends, just in case. No traps, or anything (watch some visiting kinfolk wander the wrong way and spring one. That'd be lovely) but a lot of ground to cover, and a security system the Glass Walker is in the process of installing with helpful guidance from a kinfolk on the other coast via the miracle of cell phones.
The squeaky door at the bottom of the concrete staircase swings open, and her footsteps clatter on the risers. Then, another squeaky door at the top of the staircase, and the familiar feeling of pack. Maybe he can even scent her across the room: her peculiar scent of high-priced moisturizer, shampoo, leather all undercut by the dull, ashen taste of cigarettes. She walks across the open space (the bunk beds have been assembled, the lighting installed, and the sink as well. The place is pretty much ready for habitation by more than the escaping pair.) and grabs a pair of bottles from the fridge, then sinks to the floor in front of the couch, holding a bottle up for him in a casual, offhand manner.
(james)
lightning crashes - it's just the bay doors
thunder rolls - it's just the beemer
rain pours - it's just the sound of wire bales shuddering against each other
storm enters - it's just the feeling of pack suddenly penetrating that sphere of Rage that's built up around him, his own private little electrical storm setting off little sparks and lightshows
at least, to those with allegorical imaginationhe doesn't even open his eyes when she enters
(he can smell her, he can feel her, he can hear her - it all forms an image in his mind anyway)
waiting quietly in that irate sprawl on the couch even as she sinks to the floor infront of him
that boot lost on the shadows swims from the oceanic depths to the island that is the coffeetable
legs forming a loose embrace around the Walker's sleek form
right arm slithers sleepy python off the back of the couch, and his hand finds her shoulder, fingers lazily melting up her arm like some gravity defying lavalamp to find the bottle he heard her take from the fridgeit's raised in a little toast of thanks
and when it's tipped to take that first, long sip
that's the first time dark eyes actually find her
and still, not a word
he's been strangely quiet lately(rune)
Rune is stretched in a long, easy slouch. Her sleek spine is curved into a deep c-shape, and the nape of her neck rests against the edge of the cushions. Inky strands of fine black hair spread out over the cushions like raw silk threads, scintillating in the dim light. She loops one arm up and over his leg, resting her open hand on his calf, her elbow against his knee and pops open her beer, listening to the distinctive hiss of carbonation filtering over Tom Petty's singular croon.Her body moves, then, shoulders curving this way and that as she shifts to kick off her shoes and plant her bare feet flat upon the freshly laid carpet. Despite the reaching shadows encompassing the room, her dark eyes are half-lidded, almost lazy, when she tips her head and casts him a glance back, lifting her own bottle in toast.
The silence is easy and thoughtless. Thought-less, that's how she remains, as she finds some core of half-peace as bulwark against the enveloping sense of his rage.
(james)
the beer is hal..... mostly gone
and he's stretching forward to hunt down the pack of Camels that were flung onto the coffeetable at some point in time minutes/hours/days ago
there's a smooth arch and stretch in some mirroring alphabet of bodies to place the bottle on the table and free up both hands
but then something..... distracts himboots find their way onto to the ground once again
pushing his weight further towards the back of the couch cushions to pivot the axis of his fold
and, with a tip of his head to pull the weight of dreads off to the side
hands drawing some lazy pattern along her knee, thigh, and settling at hips
twisting to look at the Walker halfway upside down, with a rogue little grin wandering in reverse
he can smell the expensive lotions and shampoo and conditioner and pampering and....."..... enjoy Julio's?"
hey... he is a Gnawer
(rune)
Reversal of fortune: James is guzzling his beer, while Rune is half-way sipping her own. Of course, she started earlier than he did, so maybe he's entitled to some futile attempt to catch up. Caught mid-swig, she tips the bottle away from her (ever-)smirking mouth and casts him a brief, amused glance. "Yeah, wasn't bad."The bottle tips forward in indication, a vague gesture toward the kitchen area and the white bag, darkened here and there with smeared grease, resting on the counter. "Brought you back something. Burritos and tacos, half a fajita, if you want 'em." The smoking edge of a grin, falling away to nothing. "Met with a couple from the Atlantic City pack, and we got a sketch of the tattoo that one fomor had etched into his forehead. We thought you and Luc could keep an ear to the ground, see if you've heard of it anywhere else. I'll do a search, see what I can find on the web."
(james)
there's a sound that begins in his throat, thickening, rolling, tumbling over itself like echoing hoofbeats of some blazing stampede of angry horses .... but it's only laughter
it's the kind of laughter that's backed by the proposition of a sledgehammer about to fall
it's the kind of laugther that suddenly changes and purrs because it's ended with a soft, low, light gasp and far more than the smoking edge of a grin that wanders and spreads elated on his upsidedown and sideways face"Ohoo.... so you do love me."
gotta find the little things to quell the acidburn because everything else seems to be collapsing in on itself
(too. close. to. home.)
and because he's already up and moving towards the blessed food (fooood!), she doesn't see the nasty little grimace that works its way to where that smile was at the mention of the fomor
(he should have been there)
but she can probably feel it in the feather light ripple that washes out from him, butting up against that half-peace bulwark she's comfortably settled in
it's replaced quickly, there are some things that do easily and quickly pacify even the most pissy Gnawers
and she knows him well enough, it seems, to find the things that hit the spot
even if he's always bringing food home for the rest of them, it's the little things that she brought something for himforty-five seconds in the microwave later he's rounding the edge of the couch again
one step to hike a leg over and return to that straddling embrace
he'd settle in and act as a pillow right behind her
but that's gooey cheese from the burrito and half-fajita way too close to inky black hair
(though he wouldn't mind the excuse to drag her into the shower)"What's the tattoo look like?"
(rune)
She watches him cross the room with a faint expression, half-way between a smirk and a grin, then scoots forward as he returns to the couch, long enough for him to settle in, before falling back against the edge. "It's a fucked up swastika thing. Sort of..." Some mild shrug, then, half-dismissive. "Well, I can't really describe it, but it's in there on the napkin."Rune falls to silence, then, a silence punctuated only by the hiss of her beer and his inhalation of the fragrant Mexican food in his hands, for the CD ended at some, unnoticed point some time ago. She didn't notice the absence of music, but rather the presence of other sounds: traffic, the hum of electricity, the fridge, the sound of their breath, breathed in almost-tandem.
Five minutes later: a glance back and up. Her dark eyes have fallen to half-mast, and she watches him for a moment from behind the feathered shadows of her black lashes. Nothing's charged, yet - that'll come later - but something has certainly changed in her regard, something that curves her mouth into an expectant smirk and sparks in the shadowed circles of her irises, dilating her pupils, all hungry darkness.
"You done with that?" Her voice has fallen a minor third: another register altogether, and an intimately familiar one at that. Her arms curl beneath his trapping legs, and just like that she throws them off and rises, tall and lean and confident.
"You ready for some home improvement?" One finely arched brow rises, and the smirk widens, utterly confident. "There's still that fucking wall to deal with."
Posted by james at 12:00 AM