June 27, 2003.06.27.03. - home again [decker-imogen-uaghaihg][12th street diner]
(imogen)
Such things like this, twenty four hours, are rather convenient for quite a few people. Those people who do not fit the mould of eight to five, monday to friday for which most places are designed. So these places that serve coffee or food twenty four hours a day can be havens for some. Truck drivers on a stop over, night crew workers coming in before work.It's not quite so late, only edging toward eight pm when she stops in, so she likely chose this place out of habit. Everything she uses is twenty four hours. If she had to wait for the convenience of more conventional places she'd never eat, buy groceries or do anything else.
She tugs the medical examiner's shield from her belt, shoving it into her pocket as the door swings close behind her as she walks toward the counter. She may very well have gotten used to the startled glance over the dark bruising across her face, enough so to time her cold look to halt any questions while she makes an order.
(james)
there's a lanky body safely tucked away into the corner of the diner
almost out of sight and edging towards out of mind of the other evening patrons
both Cochran's are pulled up onto the vinyl slab bench
one knee propped up to support an outflung arm
the other still remaining in it's place below the tabletop
that in itself supports the other elbow, connected to a hand rolling toothpick between his teeth
dreads - filthy, even more tangled that usual - act as some sort of pillow against the wall
the boy is in fair need of a shower
he's tiredbut more importantly
he's hungryhe ate at the Port Authority terminal before hopping the 'Hound
there's an empty plate sitting next to the half-full coke (no ice) on the table
more than likely, before he leaves, something else will sacrifice itself to the endless hunger of the Gnawerdark eyes slit open, gazing through the fringed curtain of darker lashes
that lilted accent tends to stand out amongst the nasal Jersey twang
it draws his attention towards the sunset halo of fire red
the almost profile her attendance at the counter affords
but he doesn't get up, doesn't move, doesn't even call outnot like they don't live next door to each other if he misses her here
(decker)
"James."The Modi claps his packmate on the shoulder before sliding into the booth across from him, burger-and-fry-laden plate clonking down a beat before he drops as well. These feet have been beating the pavement lately because lo and behold, when you drive over twenty miles of deer trails through gullies and streams, something or other tends to break.
Car's in the shop.
He's in here.And, after a moment, follows James' glance over to the roan and red near the counter. A shade falls over his eyes. He turns back.
"Good trip?" He lifts the burger and starts in on it.
(imogen)
A flick of her attention over her shoulder, the feeling she'd had at the back of her neck (it's easy to ignore, until its justified; like a toothache you never knew was there until its pointed out) solidified before she looks back at the cashier at the register, "'Ow much?" she asks finally, reaching into her jacket for her wallet, her free hand sliding through the flames of her red hair.(james)
his chin draws up in a decisive nod
there's even something of a fond grin when his packmate slides into the booth
it's enough to tear his gaze away from the redhead kin
he catches that shading sheild
though doesn't say anything of ithe caught the distressed signal even if he couldn't respond
he knows his concern is appreciated and not warranted"Yeh."
(decker)
Nod up. New moon. Subdued. Somewhat.
"Stayin' long?"(imogen)
Money handed back and she waits as he fumbles. He's new, he apologizes, though absently, as if this was an excuse to use for his inaccuracies. A brief crook of her mouth, unmeant and meaningless acknowledges and would stand for some motion of sympathy or understanding in most people as she waits for him to finally get her change.It'll just be a moment. At eight o'clock, really, the cooks aren't as fast. This isn't a rush, it's not as important. She nods slightly, her attention flicking behind the worker to the no smoking sign, and is left with little else to do, but wait.
(james)
the new moon in the sky helps
even if it's covered by the endless clouds of storm
which may somewhat be reflected in his packmate's eyes
but the Gnawer is just as mellow as can be
(fuckin. tired)"Been upstate enough past few weeks." it shows even in the renewed clip to his words, the refurbished accent that unerringly emerges yet again "Not planning on going back for a long time."
(uaghaihg)
Door opens. Bells ring. Enter Uaghaigh, dressed as befits his station in life in scruffy jeans and a scruffier shirt. Tan trench thrown over. Not leather. Tan. Usual accessories remain: the glint where light touches on a torc around his neck, a chord from which hangs a fang, a crucifix. One eye is puffy, blackened and half-closed. His fiery red hair is still tousled -- and he's wet. Sodden. Absolutely damp.The guy's alone, and he's a presence on any day. Working-class-tough with a dash of magnetism.
Yeah. And something more primal.
(...Poor diner.)(decker)
"Levelin' up, right?" Oh, Decker. Too many video games. A glance for the newcomer; hold a minute. Hm. Maybe...? Nah, fuckit. Let James deal with it. "Git it yet?"(imogen)
Feel pity for the diner. Feel pity for the dining room staff. The amount of rage in this room is enough to make Imogen's skin crawl and she can only imagine how someone unaccustomed, or at least unwitting of such things could feel. No fucking wonder the cashier fumbled with her money, and it's about to get a sight worse now.The worker at the register can barely stay where he is to look at Uaghaigh to take his order. The customary meet'n'greet? yeah, forgotten. Just hope he remembers how to order the food.
She turns her head to glance in the direction of the gaze, a frown flickering across her features at the sight of the hulking Irishman. A scrape of a glance that takes in the dishevelled appearance of the latest occupant of the diner, her eyes flickering beyond to the pair in the corner.
The patrons are leaving faster now. Places to be, people to see, you know.
Someone might notice some irony in that Uaghaihg's eyes swollen shut, the wrong end of a fight, where Imogen may be bruised, too. The flare of a dark mottle across her cheekbones, greening where it's begun to heal and darker black and blue toward the centre of it, made more obvious because of the half healed gash that still aches red.
"how much longer?" she inquires suddenly of the cashier who hasn't quite gotten to the point of asking the newcomer for his order. He doesn't know...he's got... he's got to... And finally some memory kicks in and he asks of the Ahroun exactly how can he help him?
(james)
once more, his skull speaks the words that the full moon Gnawer does not
it drops and lifts into a semblance of a syntaxically structured nod"Yeh."
sufficing as an answer to both
once his packmate's attention had wandered
safe to say James' dark eyes were soon alighting on the battered Irishman
(love in an elevator...)
and they hold for a few moments longer than the Modi's
the diner's clearing, slowly but surely
the Gnawer's straightening in the booth - very slowly, very surely
but it's all in the name of comfortably chatting with his packmate
right?(oogie)
Uaghaihg drags his fingers through wet-wild hair -- and let's just say he's the portrait of disrepute. "Yih, y'can fookin' 'elp me -- I'd like sommat th' french onion soup, if y'please." Beat. He's looking at the menu on the wall, but beer is not served here, because this is an American diner -- and American diners suck. He sighs, quietly. "...n' a pint o' sprite. Wait." Spotting something more to his liking. "Cider."Then he hunkers down to wait, already taking out his wallet -- half-glance slidingslipping sideways to.
"Brit." Terse nod.
(decker)
Decker smirks. Tosses his burger down and reaches for his coke. "Shit. All grown up." Somehow it doesn't come off as condescending. He's weary, if anything, and James is bone-tired. "Hell you wanna do now? Be an astronaut?"And at the slow but steady change in his packmate's posture, the Modi casts a glance over his shoulder. Misinterprets James' motion. Exhales through his nose, a brief compression of nostrils.
Y' see her face?
(imogen)
There's a brief snort as he orders a 'pint' of sprite, finding some latent amusement in his words. It was nothing compared to the absolutely blank look the cashier gave the Fianna until it he switched to cider, and the look cleared because at least he had direction now.Everything is rung up, and written up and paid for, and the cashier places the order on the counter between the front and the kitchen. And... promptly finds something for him to do in the back, and walks away.
She is, at the very least ironic toward his terse greeting. "Noticed, did you?" that she was british, an exhale of her breath as her attention flickers impatiently toward the kitchen as her hands slide into her jean pockets, one hand shifting to avoid the shape of the pager at her waist.
(oogie)
"Brit's squeak louder, comes o' havin' a stick jammed 'tween their buttocks," he replies, quiet flare of the usual heat when accompanying discussion of the hated oppressors. Gathering his food, he eyes (...and it looks sinister, considering the state of his rough/fine features) her bruises. Jerk of head, towards -- James."Yer vikin' lover d' that t'ye?"
(james)
to that, the Ahroun actually quirks a grin
another may find the comment from one nearly three years his junior condescending
but James is about as offended by is as likely as he is to go bragging about what he did"Thought about it. Considered a night at the Ritz, too."
the idea dismissed with a wave of his hand over the glass of Coke
it's the long sip of that which covers the partial frown
facing the Modi, yes, but his attention hasn't completely diverted
No. he hadn't looked, she's been facing mostly away. But I heard you.(decker)
"Fuck." Edge of mouth twitches as he picks his burger up again to polish it off. "'M down fer that."...and smirk fades. He tosses a glance at James - penetrating, harsh - like he was probing for insincerity or mockery. A moment passes. Then he shrugs his shoulders and leans back, head against the padded booth-top. He doesn't seem to have anything to say about it. A fat blob of ketchup lands on his white jersey. He wipes it up with a curse, wads the napkin into his fist. Open fingers: he tosses it out on the tabletop and finishes his burger.
Yeah. Well. Another shrug.
Pushes the plate of fries forward, porcelain grating over formica. Aloud, "Help yerself."
(imogen)
Ironically, he's served first. It's one of those things that happens from time to time. It's not some sort of odd courtesy thing. They want him to leave sooner. The slender woman doesn't appear to be that much of a threat in comparison. She hardly comes off as a threat at the best of times.Her eyebrow lifts in a slow arch, staring at him briefly (brazen) before her attention flickers toward the finality of getting the sandwich and coffee she'd asked for. "Take that attitude to Northern Ireland, go help the revolution or somethin'. You're wastin' it 'ere."
Her gaze darkens and narrows at the question, her free hand sliding through her hair once more, pushing it back away from her face, as she glances toward James and then back to the Irishman, "Does he look viking to you?" Certainly with dreads in worse disarray than usual and looking tired as hell, James probably doesn't look the part for which Uaghaihg has pegged him.
(james)
no insincerity, no mockery, no judgement
nothing but the open honesty he's always offered
he meant nothing more than what he saidWhat'd you expect me to say about it?
the Modi doesn't have to offer the fries twice
(decker)
That it's all right.
That it ain't all right.
That he's a fuckin monster.
That he's just (say it with him now) misunderstood.Fuck if I know. Nursing his coke like Erik nursed his Jack Daniels, the Modi slouched in the booth watches his packmate devour his fries out of the bottom of his eyes. The coke level bottoms out and he slurps up the last of it loudly before setting the empty glass down with a clank. Free refills, supposedly, but damned if he's ever gotten one.
There a reason you keep glancin' over my shoulder?
(oogie)
Snort. Uaghaihg takes a sip of his cider (let's it burn...) dark gaze drifts to the windows, and the rain. (In the rain, in the rain, in the rain...) "Home o' th'free, there's plenty o' intolerance t'go 'round." He eyes James sommore -- tilts his head (bone pops, cracks) to get a look at the other guy. "Y'never know with vikings," is his sole concession to just-maybe James doesn't look that viking. "But 'twas your viking that 'it yeh, no?" Snort, again. The snort says it all: what a big f'ing surprise, a Get went beatin' on his woman. Worse then racism -- tribism. "'Ave a lovely day, ma'am." Polite, another nod of his head. Boots carrying him to a booth.(james)
there's a bit of soft - wry - laughter
somewhere interspersed between the sheer inhalation of the fries
the Modi gave them up, fair fuckin' game
(does.... he even chew?)
it's like the fries hit his tongue, liquify instantly, and are simply swallowed
oddly, he doesn't look like a half-starved pig doing it, eitherYou ever hear Jenna's story? muscular shoulders, scarred deep, roll in a shrug Doesn't give me much room to say anything
strange, how they had it out over Decker giving a child nightmares
but James doesn't say a thing about this one
least the Modi's mate is still breathing
Garou with her..... not a favorite.(imogen)
She snorts and doesn't bother answering him, flickering her narrowed glance to his back before walking to a table (a random one) and pouring sugar into her coffee to drown out the taste. It's not a particularly good diner, this one. Maybe it's the later hour or the miasma of rage, but the coffee tastes particularly harsh, like it was cut with vitriole.(oogie)
He bears the weight of dislike rather well, in that he doesn't seem conscious of it. So what if he's rude? She's just a traitor. Uaghaihg stomps over to his seat, shaking last lingering vestiges of rain from his coat -- then he starts in on the soup.Yeah. He can eat without making a pig of himself. He can.
(decker)
Shake of his head. Decker had a way of moving about him. Loosejointed. Lazyish. And conserved, somehow. From the walk to the shrug to the smirk to the shake of his head: like there was a plasma space between his bones, crackling with energy compressed to liquid, waiting for that pressure seal to pop.He reaches forward and snags a fry. Snags his packmate's eyes with a glance that might mean something, and might mean nothing at all. Don't think I wanna know. He's probably right about that.
Grey eyes flicker up, then. He glances at the dim reflection in the window, superimposed with the OPEN ALL NIGHT sign. He studies Uaghaihg's image for a second. Then he rises to his feet, tugging the tousled wifebeater back into shape: up in the back, down in the front. It's ribbed, thin cotton - probably an undershirt and strictly not ok for service in here, but who's gonna bitch about that?
Imogen kin take care o' herself. He grabs a few more fries. But why don'tcha see what he's doin' here anyway.
(james)
there's the slow scrape of the final fry through the slag of ketchup
(can't. waste. one. bit.)
easily holding that glance
I don't think you do either.
James had his reasons
he did what he needed to
he did what was right
but that still doesn't mean it doesn't kill him everytime he thinks about it
and maybe the story of her (his pack's) fall sums up into an impression that slips through the cracks and against his packmate's mind before it's all shoved away againchin jerks in a nod
(aye aye, cap'n)
soon enough he's untangling himself from the booth
even if he knows he wont' be following his packmate out the door(imogen)
It must be odd how nine times out of ten Imogen and Decker both can go entire periods of time with only a glance. It's not a forced thing, but somehow chosen or decided. Even so, the first time she actually glances at him is as the door shuts behind him, and he went without looking at her at all.James's movement catches her attention more securely, the belated departure of the Bone Gnawer who doesn't head for the door, but instead the Fianna (does she still think, before she catches herself, of him as her tribesmate?)
(oogie)
One fiery brow hikes up when the--whateverthehellheis--makes his way towrads Uaghaigh instead of Imogen, but he doesn't say a word. Jerk of chin, that's all. The Fianna isn't all charm, at least not right now -- and what charisma there is (..as always..) is a force-field.(james)
three full moons caught in a diner
luckily, one makes the swaggering, plasmatic exit
so that leaves two in a suddenly quite confined space
but rather than react to that forcefield of .....charm that's always seeming to surround the Fianna
the Gnawer simply offers an easy smile
framed delightfully in that filthy tangle of dreads draped across low set shoulders
bless that black moon overhead"Gotta minute?"
with just sitting down to his meal
any excuse for going anywhere soon won't exactly fly(oogie)
"...Surely." If he ain't cordial, he ain't Uaghaihg. The question remains: where the fuck is the REAL Uaghaigh? The beat-up twenty-somethin' nods to seat opposite.
(imogen)
And with the taste of her coffee effectively killed by the sugar and the door closed for a few moments behind the third Ahroun, the no smoking signs placed in very obvious places throughout the coffee shop, she picks up the sandwich, still wrapped in its paper to go foil, and her coffee and heads toward the door to clean rain soaked air and the ability to smoke without breaking various by-laws.
(james)
"You've got me curious" slipsliding past that grin, punctuated with a nod of thanks at the offer - the Bone Gnawer is wary, he remembers that wash of Rage last time they met, but it doesn't show even a smidge past that mellow demeanor "I keep seeing you around my digs.... yet you never call, never write, never ask how the kids are doing."no exactly the 'you're tresspassing' throwdown
but it could be taken that way"Makes me wonder why you hang around...."
(oogie)
Uaghaigh rips (savage, baby) open a pack of saltine crackers and starts crumbling them bit by bit into the remainder of his soup. He's definately not mellow, and through his good eye he eyes James; he smirks, faintly, easily amused. "Y'know," glance flickers after the british bitch, as she exits, then return to James, "I like t'play 'ard t'get."(imogen)
Outside and beneath the overhang, she lights a cigarette, her eyes narrowing against the fall of the rain watching a car cut through the downpour as she inhales deeply on the filter, shifting the cigarette slightly to one corner of her mouth. She steps slightly to the side away from the door, and smoke spills past her lips as her hand slides through her hair.(james)
and now would be the highlight of just why the Gnawer tends to be the PR guy for the pack
a response like that to the just-present Modi would.... well.... RAR
dark eyes strafe after the exiting Kin, sorta, then focus right back on the Fianna proper"I've noticed." still - he just.... smiles. "Remember you from AC. Though since you're in the middle of my stomping grounds maybe you should consider being a little more forthcoming."
he'll hint nicely
once(oogie)
...which is a pity. Uaghaigh likes ...well... RAR. "I remember you too," he acknowledges. "J'st where are yer stompin' grounds, mate? AC or 'ere?" S'friendly enough. "'Cause I don't exactly remember gettin' a name from ye."(imogen)
The coffee cup is balanced on the ledge of the window, and after a moment, the sandwich is balanced on top of it, abandoned in favour of nicotine.She breathes cigarette smoke like air and perhaps prefers this punch to her lung to the more tranquil inhale exhale of true night air, tasting of rain and city, car exhaust fumes and something cleaner, found beneath, if you just looked. If you actually wanted to search for the purity beneath.
Her freed hand brushes slightly against her temples, the motion of an impending headache, or perhaps an existing one. The side she touches is unbruised, and after a moment, her hand falls away.
Rather than taking a dash through the rain slicked night to her car while trying to finish her cigarette she opts for a slightly drier occupation beneath the overhang.
(james)
fingers tap on the formica tabletop
then hands spread evenly"Hit Trenton, walk a line East, and look North til you hit stateline. You're right in the middle of Eagle's ground." a little more clear now, since the last patron lingering in the section has suddenly decided it's time to get to the movies - and it's a fact that states clearly who's expected to give an introduction first "And you didn't hang around long enough last time to get friendly. But since we're sittin' awhile, why not tell me a little bit about yourself, mate."
that would be a request of name, rank, and serial number if there's ever been one
(ugh)
"So ye'd be with th' bird, then?" Uaghaihg says, though the question seems, for the most part, rhetorical. He leans back, fingers cupping the hot paper-cup cider's been poured into, leaving his soup behind."Last time, figured y'd want t'be with yer girl." Who he doesn't like. Uaghaihg wears his emotions on his sleeve -- there's his heart, right there, red and passionate and fiercely devoted to his own cause. Lips twitch goodnaturedly--almost tugging into an amused grin, but not quite there yet, the solemn weight of past broods weighing him down.
"I am Uaghaihg son o' Aghbh son o' Aillil son o' Bodduewen (distant kin t' the Dryn a drowd yn flaidd, ye ken), daughter o' Caoiseach on me father's side n' son o' Uiseach great grand daughter o' Tchearlach who traces 'is 'eritage all th' way ta Cuchulain 'imself. Ahroun of th' mighty tribe o' th' Fianna, fra th' Isle o' Innisfree by th' county o' Siobhaibhon which, as ye should ken, 'twas once fair Connaicht ruled by th' wolf-king Hiaoumhnoubn Mac Cumhail, and member o' the Grandchildren o' Fionn."
Beat. "N' me pack, t'wanders. We're in this smog-for-cursed state huntin' down th' en'a personal matter. N' you?"
[Twinkle of eyes.
...likable.](james)
there's a slow, thoughtful nod
it's absolutely true that he wanted to be with his girl that night
which Uaghaihg doesn't even know
though probably wouldn't like
if the Fianna feels this openly about Imogen.....
course James is also wondering just how he's going to repeat this to his packmates"James Branson, otherwise known as Jukebox, Drums-on-Skulls, BeeGee Fostern son of Griselle, outta Albany, daughter of Shakes-the-Bricks, daughter of Momma Ruggs, full moon of Eagle's own in Jersey."
not quite as.... lengthy (or unpronouncable) as the Fianna's
the low words pass just between them, below the range of prying ears
fair enough, they're introduced all politely"Boss is wanting to know what's your business here, specifically, not to mention." thumb hooks towards the window and Imogen just outside "why it makes you keep appearing around the kin."
(imogen)
She's smoking her second cigarette now, as the rain begins to pour harder, the beginning rumblings of the promised thunderstorm crackling across the sky.A flicker of her attention toward the shop, catching the gesture of the Gnawer out of the corner of her eye, the bruise and distortion over her cheekbone caught briefly in profile, before she turns away. If there'd been doubt that she'd been a part of the subject of conversation before, there was none, now. Smoke exhales through her nose as she ashes the cigarette, attention dropping down to her feet, watching the white of ash disappearing against the sea of grey of the concrete beneath her feet.
(oogie)
"Nice t'meet'cha official-like, James Branson," Uaghaigh says with a grin as easy as his brogue. His glance flickers back out the window. Imogen just outside. He shrugs with athletic ease. "I'm 'ungry, n' wanted t'get out o' th' rain, n' this place was open. Didnae know tha' woman'd be 'ere. Besides," a sudden frown, "I don't mess with Fenrir kin."(james)
another slow nod seems to say fair 'nuff
now James may be fairly naieve in some of the finer and deeper aspects of life
he is still a young man, after all
barely on his journey into his twenties
and Gaia knows if he'll ever see thirty
he doesn't even worry about it
instead, he's focusing on Mr. Fianna here"Good." accompanied with a wide. smile. "Doubt Fenrir kin, or their counterparts, like to be messed with. You know how touchy they can be."
(oogie)
Uaghaigh shrugs, again, at this. "Looks like some one touched 'er, alright."
(james)
"Oh?" slipslide of glance towards the window "Hadn't seen. Been gone awhile and only heard about it. Her boy isn't pleased."fingers drum on the table
figure the multiple meanings in that one out
though the Gnawer does little more than smile"Enjoy the rest of your meal, mate" he's not attempting that name "You know where to howl next time ya come through, and make sure you do."
with that, the lanky Gnawer moves again
this time reaching over the back of the benchseat to grab his pack
and move on out towards the door(oogie)
He chuckles, Uaghaihg does. "Yeh, well... seems opinionated. Most red'eads are."...and, with that, Uaghaigh will finish his cider, and torment the kitchen-staff for a raw slab of meat for his eye.
They'll be gone before he leaves.
(imogen)
The door opens and he steps out as she exhales smoke, dropping the cigarette, to the asphalt, grinding it beneath her booted foot, "D'yeh need a drive?" she inquires as her fingers flick through her hair, her other hand reaching for her coffee, balancing the sandwich until her hand frees up from the strands of hair, and she lifts the sandwich free and sips the bitter coffee, made only marginally sweeter by the sugar. And made somewhat worse by the time it had had to settle.The shadows smooth out the bruises and keep them from easy view. It's dark enough now it would be harder to see them as anything but a shadow across her cheekbone and the outline formed by swelling.
"I can drop yer off before going back t'work."
(james)
there's another sidelong glance
this time deep umber finds and studies the kin
the Fianna inside is stored away to memory
and little other attention paid
so the lanky Gnawer pausesthen reaches out
lifting a heavy gathering of firey hair away from her cheek
revealing the healing bruise beneath
those eyes linger on the damage
barely a second
and he lets go"'Preciate that."
one bone weary Bone Gnawer, comin' right up
(imogen)
Imogen does not like to be touched. Particularly not when she does not expect it, and particularly not when her skin is bruised still dark enough that a touch hurts and the swelling hasn't quite gone down. She'll be touched on her own terms (and there are almost no terms), or not at all.Her own terms: as she catches his wrist, deviating the motion and letting go. It's impossible not to catch the intention behind the action, and after a moment, she pushes back to the thick titian hair herself, a brief smirk, brittle edged that does not particularly extinguish the tightened clench of her jaw. Her own terms, this.
Silence, until he speaks, and she lets the hair fall. Imogen's hair is often held back by anything that might be appropriate, from pencils to rubber bands to the appropriate covered elastic bands. Loose, it falls over her shoulders and is easily falling into her face, a chaos that will not be tamed at the best of times and worse in the rain and freed as it is.
"Com'on, then," as she steps away from the overhang and into the rain, which has actually slowed some, in spite of the thunder that mutters overhead. "I'm not parked too far away."
(james)
she catches his wrist
and the movement stops
his hand opening in a way that signifies backing off
just as easily drawing away
he wouldn't have grazed the skin
he may be Garou - but bruises are bruises, and bruises hurt
he's harboring a few of his own beneath the clothing
there's a bit of a nod as she shows him
(... her terms, he can dig that ...)she and her mate aren't the only ones that can exist with the minimal amount of communication
hands slide into his pockets, pack readjusts over his shoulder
and he's following the kin out into the drawing rain(imogen)
She'd said it wasn't far and it wasn't really, down the same city block to where the fine german machinery was parked. If she was out to work, apparently this was not a bad enough area of town to warrant a switch to the behemouth that is considered a state vehicle. Or she was out for other reasons, as she unlocks the doors from a button on the keychain, the alarm chirping as it disarms and steps around to the driver's side, a glance over her shoulder before she pulls the driver's side open, and getting inside.As he gets in himself, she's putting the key in the ignition, as the car interior light begins to dim as his door shuts.
The radio always seems to be on for her, a dim mutter of sound as one of the many overplayed songs (...bid my blood to rise, sings Evanescence, a song played over and over again until many want to scream), and the fading interior light grants a glance of smoother skin because its her left side that's bruised.
The car started, the Gnawer inside and she half turns to toss the wrapped sandwich in the back, as her other hand puts the coffee in the cupholder, before throwing the car into gear and starting to pull out into minimal traffic, the windshield wipers hissing against the glass.
(james)
not that far at all
it's a strange cadence they create
her shorter stature and stride putting almost two steps to his one
something of a counterbeat to the lanky stroll
all of it harmonized by the steady patter of rain
a new aria begins with each roll of thunderhe doesn't waste much time getting into the fine German machinery
not that he minds the rain, of course, but those are leather seats
and with as much dirt and grime that have clung to him on interstate-import from New York
he'll probably leave something of an imprint behindthe windsheild wipers hiss to compliment the sear of expensive tires on slick asphalt
cutting the water to the sides and away to afford the best grip
the ensuing darkness would provide a glimpse of cleaner, smoother, lighter skin
the perfection of pale ivory across porceline curve of cheekbone
a reminder that maybe it's not as bad as it seemsit would be if he looked at her
but his eyes strayed outside the car
and, for once, he's taking a liberty
fiddling with the side handle until the seat leans back just a little more
letting him stretch out the bruises and cracks and splits
dark pupils are hidden when lids slide to half-mast
he learned not to speak or ask
so he lets the music fill in the muttered conversation(imogen)
It's humid out, too, and after a moment, she turns on the air conditioning fiddling with the temperature until it isn't quite frigid air of a hot summer. The thunderstorm will break some of the heat. She wants to keep the windows from fogging.Her head turns slightly a gesture of slight attention at perhaps the slight hitch in movements as the bruises pull at his own skin before she turns back to the road.
To the freeway, now, the mercedes benz picking up speed as it hits the on-ramp and faster still as she changes lanes heading somewhat farther south on the interstate, heading toward the small township of Hibernia.
A few more minutes of another generic song, the words and meaning lost, only remember its a song heard a dozen times before, she reaches out, starting to fiddle with the radio, the static hissing as she goes from station to station in aimless search for something else.
(james)
the slabs of concrete forming the freeway create their own rhythm
intensifying when crossing an overpass bridge
mellowing once again in the long miles of asphalt smoothed roadway
the concrete scab, stifling and cracking Gaia's natural growth
most would cringe to think of such horrors they endure to navigate home
but he's too tired to careanother generic song fiddled from the radio
three later and they're veering to an offramp
one more and it's a familiar stoplight
the gentle list and bank into a left turn
four more wet blocks and it's a right
the slow, snaking patrol towards the condos they call homestill there's not a spoken word
even the radio announcer seems to mumble to himself instead of break the silence
it's not an uneasy one, at least to him
it may have been a week ago
but now he's gotten used to it
and only breaks it when he's flicking the automatic lock
(all for safety, clampdown above fifteen mph)
and unlatching the seatbelt to set himself free(imogen)
Down to the condominiums, and whatever the silence is, she has no desire to break it as she unbuckles her own seatbelt. James leaves faster. She has to reach into the back to grab the sandwich, pick up the coffee (cold by now), before stepping out into the rain, shutting the door behind her and starting to walk in James's wake, though in the end breaking off to the split in the paths. Her own condominium, hand reaching into her pocket for her keys, head ducking with the motion as she awkwardly holds both packaged sandwich and coffee in one hand.
(james)
he leaves faster
by the time she's shut the door and hit the key fob to lock it he's halfway down the sidewalk
his walk isn't as fast though
this is just an easy stroll
letting nature's shower remove most of the grime before he gets indoors and tracks on Rune's carpet
jaw tilts towards one shoulder, looking back"Thanks for the ride."
(decker)
Rising up from his comfortable sprawl on the balcony chair as James tromps his way up, Decker fishes his half-finished Heineken off the ground before getting to his feet. One finger around the green neck of the bottle, the other hand hitching his ultrabaggies up an inch at the waist, he watches Imogen from the safety of his own balcony for a second or three. They seem longer; not long enough. You know the cliche. His attention rends away and he nods up at the Gnawer.Sip of beer. It's sweating. The night's wet, but warm. Thunder rumbles ominous in the distance.
"Well?" He doesn't offer the beer. They're packmates and he'll share his joint, but beerbottle lips are another matter entirely.
(imogen)
She raises her hand in vague acknowledgement of the thanks, mostly dismission of the words as unnecessary.Steps up the balcony, a second or three when Decker looks at her, but she doesn't look back, as she finds the key by rote, opening the door and stepping inside.
Throw out the coffee. Drop off the sandwich.
(james)
"I think the most amusing part...."started as he first reaches for the joint
wouldn't ask for the beer anyway
long slow drag finds itself ending in a grin
....now.... he'll believe he's home
Jansport is literally dumped onto the terracotta tiling
joint handed back in hold. hold. hold. hold. exhale
nod up of thanks in the plume of gray that only adds to the heavy air
glance straying to the kin that simply. passes. them. by.
(.... ooooouch)".... is that he thought she was mine. Uaghaihg" mangled "with a mile long introduction I couldn't stumble through with a keg in me. Old World. Wandering with his pack through this smog-infested country for personal shit he did not care to expound upon. Told him he was in our turf and shouldn't play so hard to get next time cause the locals were itchy." a pause. just how to phrase this. "'Nother Fianna none too pleased about Fenrir kin."
(decker)
"Ooaa-what?" muttered around the lip of the bottle as his gaze strays again, just in time to catch the woman slipping inside without a word.Uh-huh.
(...least the door didn't slam.)Swinging back around, leaning back against the balustrade, the Modi balances the edge of the bottle on the edge of his belt buckle. Lowslung, of course, cinched around his loins rather than his waist. Plain buckle, too, a rectangle of brushed steel, just thick enough to hook into the textured bottom of the beer bottle.
"'Nother Fianna?" he repeats, a wrinkle in brow turning into a frown. Then a scowl as black as the thunderheads lining the sky. "Wait 'til he hears 'bout Noah."
Swig of beer. Lower it. He looks down, angling the bottle to peer into it, one eye gently shut. Then he snorts out a breath and straightens up. "Whatever."
(james)
to that, the Gnawer smirks"Not something I brought up in conversation."
in fact, if anything concerning the Skald never came up again
count him a happy Garou
though perhaps said topic may also include the neighboring kin
the Modi moves to sling himself against the railing
the Gnawer all but literally flops into one of the abused patio chairs
(bit of a wince, forgot about those bruises and cracks and splits and..... oh yea... bleeds)
digging into the ample spaces of BDU cargo pockets for his pack of smokesthe pack is easily found
but his lighter is soaked
the few sparkless flicks slightly sour his expression for but a moment
...... allright then
so the pack is winged onto the table
at this point, he doesn't care(imogen)
The door wasn't slammed and wasn't even quite closed, left open a crack to allow the night air to seep in, heat and humidty the air shuddering with lightning.Which flickers on the horizon, followed be a mutter of thunder moments later.
It's because chances are, she had planned to come out again anyway, having disposed of the coffee and dropped the sandwich in the fridge for Miriam, or herself. An elastic is found in the medicine cabinet, the charge in the hair, the dampness of the mane making it that much worse as she starts to the hair back, charged strands clinging to her hands she pushes her hair back, clinging to her cheekbones, both bruised and not, before finally being pulled back into a half resemblance of something between a pony tail and a bun at the base of her neck. The brief glance in the mirror is certainly not for vanity, as she steps out of the bathroom and walks back down the hallway to the still half open front door, pulling her shoes on once more, and stepping back outside.
(decker)
One bare shoulder drops: wifebeater. The shirt, that is. He digs around in his pockets. Finds his matches. Tosses the box at James."Find out soon 'nough anyway." A last sip before he twists around he chuck the empty bottle in the vague direction of the dumpsters. They're about three hundred feet away. Decker ain't no football star, and the bottle isn't aerodynamic on its best day.
CRASH.
"Shit gits 'round." He straightens up. Winds his fingers together, palms inverted out, and pushes to pop the knuckles all at once. Shakes 'em out. Sinks back.
The change in him is hard to pinpoint. Imogen steps back out and a cord draws tighter inside him. The definition of musculature from shoulder to the other, one palm to each shoulder, tightens just a notch. He circles one wrist with the opposite fingers, head down, and reaches into his pocket.
James'll feel it. The tingle of silver. The unpleasant chill, like being too near a vat of liquid nitrogen that could spill over any second. The Modi jingles around in his pockets a second. Straightens up again.
"Rune missed ya." Look, he's learning subtlety. Sort of.
(james)
matchbox rattles when it's snatched out of the air
he doesn't even flinch to the bottles shattering crash
calm as can be gathering his pack once again and lighting on up
black moon in the sky = no smoking in the condoDidn't like him when I met him, like him less now.
the change int he Modi is hard to pinpoint
but it's the animal in James that reacts
the predator that suddenly alerts itself when another draws taught
the Garou that will always have his packmate's back
that decidedly gets a glance up
(and over, when the door reopens)
but it's covered in the toss of matches back
he'll dutifully ignore that chill the silver's sending up his spine, too
... sorta. by the way he shifts in his seat the reaction is clear as day
he's good at this covering shit... mostly
the slight level of surprise helps
not exactly the news he expected to get from Decker
so he can't help the warm smile that wanders over deadbeat tired features"Missed her too."
(imogen)
She comes out at approximately the same time as the bottle crashes, her dark eyed attention flickering where the shattered glass has scattered over the pavement, several feet from the dumpster. Being Gaia's warrior never meant being able to hit a target from 300 feet. The ability to play football would never help you against the wyrm.Her attention flickers only now toward the two Garou, as she draws the jacket over her shoulders, shrugging properly inside it, as her other hand reaches into her pocket.
As mentioned, she was dropping off James, and going back to work, regardless of time. Evidently, she was going to smoke a cigarette before she did so.
(decker)
Kchh. The rattling box caught back, slipped into his pocket. When his hand emerges, he's got a bracelet in hand - a cheap, flimsy thing, probably easy enough to pull apart to shreds if he felt like it.Except it's silver.
It doesn't burn his hand in this form, but it still sapped his spirit. His wrist beneath starts chafing immediately. Last night, when he took them off, he felt sunburnt, his skin red with silver-allergy. He lays it around his wrist casually, hands held low so his body blocked almost all of it. But when he snaps the flimsy clasp shut, a shudder steals up his back.
Like snapping manacles on when the other end's attached to a nuke.
Same procedure goes for the other wrist. Then he pushes his hands into his pockets, nods toward the door. "So why don'tcha go visit her."
Not a question. And so much for subtlety.
(james)
dark eyes drift away when the silver all but screams into the night
Decker's body may block most of it
but that's something James doesn't need eyes to see
he's studying the puddling of rain out in the parking lot yonder
lungs fill slowly with the coils of brownblack smoke
and then the not so subtle suggestion from his packmate
and that draws earthen gaze back over
calm as can bebrow lifts
he could protest that he just lit up the fucking cigarette, thank you for the matches
he could protest the Beemer ain't in the lot and Rune ain't in and Decker knows it and could have come up with something better
he could.....
but he doesn't
it's not worth it
instead there's the slow unfolding of one lanky Gnawer from the chair
watching the Modi carefully through what is apparently now his last drag
as seems to be the running theme in all conversations tonight
not a word passes his lips
but this time it's all in his eyes
something lurking behind the dark umber
(he can't say anything about what's done)
the deepest brown - just like the earth at the bottom of a grave(...... don't earn the stories I have, just because our reasons differed at base, blood is still on our hands, stop it before it stains)
the Camel - not even one-third smoked - is deliberately flicked away
lost in the thunderstorm night beyond the balcony
just a bit of a nod up
backpack gathered
and the door sighs closed behind him(imogen)
The door shuts, and Imogen's eyes shift, flickering toward Decker and his silver manacles. Many people build chains of their own making and Charles Dickenson isn't the only author to have incorporated something like that into a story. She doesn't particularly have much of a reason to find anything poetic in this at all.She had lifted a cigarette to her mouth to light up, but stops mid-motion instead, her chin lifting in his direction, "Exactly 'ow long d'yeh intend t'wear those?"
(decker)
He watches James go. When she speaks to him he doesn't turn for a minute. A snort, though, eventually, and then he does. Hands pocketed. Slouch hip-centered, shoulders back. A long, frank stare. New-mooned, and as far as she is, his rage is almost undetectable. Almost.Still, though, the sheer confidence of strength. The animal quality of assurance about him. And the tension twisting his spine taut.
He shrugs. "'Til ya leave."
(imogen)
Sometimes, with so many Garou around, in so many different situations, she feels almost like she's been hardwired to sense the rage and catch it with every nuance, every shift that goes with the moon and every mood.His rage is almost undetectable, but it still prickles across her skin. She sometimes feels rage like he feels silver, something that coils deep in her bones, jarring them out of synch with the rest of her, and setting everything awry.
The tension that twists his spine taut is the same sort of tension that tightens into her jaw and muscles, causing her attention to flick downward, the unlit cigarette sliding between her fingers, the porch light shining across the paleness of her long hands and all the intracies of them. The fine length of bone, the equisiteness of artistry made into flesh, hands made for delicate motions. The slash of a scar across her index finger. The nearly healed indentations of her palm.
"I meant in general. Not just tonight," she answers finally, her attention flicking back up toward him. The lighting here, refracted by rain casts her half in shadow, leaving the profiles, stark outlines and deeper shadows. Lack of light, of course, softens the bruises, mutes the colour. Obscures it.
(decker)
He looks at her, unsmiling. It's dark. It's raining. The sound of water rushing down the raingutters, pouring out the drainpipes, nearly obscures his voice. His nod is only visible as the slightest inclination of his chin up, and in the shifting of shadows and lights across his cheek and jaw."Know that."
(imogen)
The play of shadows, the dimness that rain casts (always rains in Jersey. She said before it rains more in England, she likes the rain. In all the reasons she chose Jersey, she never once considered the rain and docks and harbours, the ocean and all the things that were similar to her home), all of it makes reaction almost impossible to gauge in either. As if it were easier to do in the first place."Well, I'm going to work. So it's not so long, tonight," she says finally, stiffly, frustration finding its way around the edges as she pulls out the cigarette packet again, and does the reverse of moments again, shoving the cigarette back inside, returning it and the lighter into her pocket.
(decker)
"Yeah. Alright." Eyes like a blank wall. Sometimes he walls up like this. Shuts off. It's impossible to tell wtf he's thinking. It's his only defense, because he's an shit-rotten liar.She's stiff, he's stiff, she's frustrated, he watches her moving off. She turns away and his hand steals up thoughtlessly, thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. A moment passes; he realizes it and he drops it, or perhaps he doesn't, because his attention's caught elsewhere.
"Imogen." A quiet, strange stress on the name.
She knows damn well where.[and the rest of the scene would be in decker's journal]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMJune 16, 2003.06.16.03. - father's day/shut up and let me prove it [rune][noje]
(rune)
Twilight: nothing seems real. The security lights shine bright and white and arrogant over the black parking light. In the glare, shadows lose their dimension. The sky is merely gray, the light on the horizon failing without distinction or definition. The edges of things are lost in the grayed mists and the heavy humid air, except where cast in sharp relief by the too-bright security lights.The front back balcony is fortunately cast in crazy bands of indistinct shadow, the whole spectrum of grays, though the farthest edge is bathed in the too bright light. Moths flutter and fling themselves against the bulb, invisible in the glare, their paper-thin bodies, their gray wings fluttering furiously.
Rune watches them, some vague and sullen attention, distracted. It's not that she cares, particularly, for whatever she sees. The night might not even register beyond the weight of the humid air on her skin, the futile game in front of her is merely a distraction, someplace to rest her eyes as she soaks up the surprisingly pleasant heat while smoking. Her feet rest on the wrought-iron balustrade, long bare legs crossed at the ankles. Resting on her thighs, the ashtray. She has a beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, and the pleasant distance from Xanax to dull the rest. Her hair - fine as it is - falls limp in the humidity, sticks damply to her skin. It isn't hot yet, not particularly, but the summer is already oppressive.
(james)
well fancy that, the Cochran's got a shine
leather slick and black as oil with the waxy waterproofing
boots are weaving their way around the puddles laying in wait for the next rainfall that would turn the parking lot into a shallow, dirty, little lake
the ties on the cuffs of camoflaged pants reach for the moisture with lanky step
as if parched from the long journeydark eyes are down, contemplating the worn asphalt
hands have slipped into the pockets of his pants
wifebeater's getting a little sticky from the already oppressive summer
of course, the close quarters on the bus didn't particularly help either
public transporation may be good, and all
but sometimes they need to improve the air circulation a bit
from said bus stop, he approaches the condo from the side
having cut through the back way and angled off across the tertiary lots towards the main that held the Beemer, Benz, and Tacoma like prized steedsfrom the ground, deep umber sweeps up towards the moon filling the sky
even half-hazed by the murky twilight, he can feel that silvered shine
not exactly the phase he wanted for this weekend
but at least it improved the air circulation on the bus by emptying several seats around him(rune)
He's soundless, enough. Or rather, his footfalls are swallowed by the ambient noise, high as ever. Perhaps higher, with the puddles adding another noisy obstacle through with traffic must speed. In the middle of a downpour, the rest of the city's sounds recede and the storm creates its own world of sound. In the aftermath, the city reasserts itself: white noise. Televisions, radios, cell phones, engines of cars and trucks and SUVs and eighteen-wheelers and public buses and garbage trucks and delivery vans, the relentless hum of air conditioners, the constant background buzz of electricity: marching monsters and single poles all joined by a vast web of wires that become all but invisible, so ubiquitous are they.She does not need to hear him walking up the asphalt, cutting through the back lots or green spaces, the narrow strips of controlled plantings meant to soothe the eye and make the residents feel like they have more room out here than they'd have elsewhere, justifying the expense and aggravation of their daily commute. She doesn't need to see him, either. She can feel him, some vaguely presence in the back of her mind.
Dark eyes flicker away from the lambent flame of the security light, with its rainbow halo and thousand winged admirerrs, lifting to through the gloom to seek out his profile among the vague shadows. The beer bottle falls from her mouth, the base clanks dully against the arm of her plastic chair. As she swallows the mouthful of beer, she considers whistling for him. The corners of her mouth slide upward in a vague smirk as she discards the idea, and reaches for him with her mind, instead.
Up here. The vague sensation of her mind against his, familiar and alien at once. Round back.
(james)
(Up here)
darkest brown snaps away from shining silver
(Round back)
and a smile creeps across lips that.... haven't for awhile
it's a soft smile, easy and warmly curling the skin that's more flush than tanhe's missed her, very much
it wouldn't be the first time they've spent days apart
forced by presence or circumstance or a thousand other things in the name of duty
he's even slept on the couch while she's been on the waterbed upstairs
(though... it's been awhile)
this time - the distance is what got to him
what may only have been a few hours by bus seems endless when it stretches the feeling of pack thin
to where it's just the faintest echo that affirms and asserts nothing more than it still exists
and so when he feels her, hears her, and a few steps more breaths her - that smile remains
he may only be a vague shadow among those growing long across the lawn
but she? she's statuesque on the balcony abovelike some bloody pilgrim finally reaching the epitome of his journey he's stopping just below the tier, he should probably prostrate himself and kiss the ground before venturing further into this temple, yet flagrant as it may seem, the long body stretches to slowly ascend her throne, muscle through his arms cording steel in pull-up from the lower railing until he's high enough to swing a leg over and balance for a precarious moment as weight shifts past apex to allow the other leg to join it's twin
his boldness continues
for as the Jansport is peeeeeeled from it's cling to scarred shoulders and dropped onto the tiles
the movement stretches to pluck the cigarette from her fingers
(rune)
The two front legs of the plastic patio chair come down, ragged feet scritching against the smooth tiles. Her thighs fall an inch or two, the angled stretch of her legs increases by a few degrees, but otherwise her posture and position hasn't changed. If this is a throne, it's a strange one indeed - molded plastic battered by hard use of creatures who sometimes do not know their own strength, who sometimes know their own strength but need to express it, physically, in some way that will not break anyone else. Tensile and flexible as the resin chair is, it bears its share of scars: scratches from collusions with the rough brick façade, or melted little circles from a poorly aimed cigarette.Her cotton tee and old silk boxers are no more likely robes of state, and the slow crawl of her familiar smirk is hardly worthy of a queen. There's something faintly - teasingly - imperious, though, in the snap of her wrist, back from him and over her shoulder, shielding her cigarette as he reaches to steal it. Her gaze travels lazily up his body as he swings over the balcony railing until she meets his eyes, familiar humor, sardonic, in the curve of his mouth.
"Want this, do you?" Her wrist flexes, rising above the curve of her shoulder, twisting in a demonstrative circle before she concedes and holds out the cigarette as if it were more treasure than it is. "Welcome home."
(james)
the smile pulls into a payful yet ferocious (!) growl
outstretched hand swiping after the pulled back smoke
he uses it as an excuse to get closer
in fact, one boot hikes up and he's suddenly straddling her thighs
one strong hand clamping down on the arm of the chair
further abusing the resin with the addition of his weight
now the chase after the smoke is absent
he's distracted by that sardonic curve of her lipsdreads swing as his forhead comes down to greet hers - gently
just resting against her skull for a moment or three
drowning in the scent that washes from her flesh on tiny thermals
his head turns a little bit, exhale washing across her cheek in a rather canid greeting"Thanks" soooo very softly - and even softer, as dark eyes find hers in the deepend shadows "Missed you."
by then his hand has crept fingers to her wrist
slowly following the structure of fine (so strong) bone and muscle to the smoke clutched between thumb and index
gently plucking it away, rather than outwardly kiping it
weight pulls away to claim the chair next to hers(rune)
"Hey, fuck off - " Playful is too tame a word to describe the rough amusement in her voice as he straddles her thighs. There's thinly veiled aggression, some instinctive drive for dominance, shaping her voice, threaded though it is by rough affection. Her toes curl over the edge of the railing, the muscles of her calves and thighs contract, and she pushes back, lifting the two front legs of the chair a half-inch off the tiles, before his hand clamps down on the arm of the chair and his weight falls forward of the pivot point. "Fucking bastard."And again, as he bends in close and her eyes fall half-closed, long lashes sweeping lower to shade her already shadowed gaze. Quieter, though, now. "Fucking missed you too." He grasps her wrist, and her eyes flicker down from his, watching his fingers against his flesh, her cigarette in his hand. He plucks it away, and her own hand rises as if to follow his movement, then falls back to the arm of the sorely abused chair as he shifts away.
As he settles into the second chair, she pulls another smoke from the plastic table beside her, flipping the lighter into her hand a moment later. Though she slides the cigarette between her red lips, she doesn't light it, yet. It rides the movement of her mouth like a wave over hidden shoals - constant movement - as she speaks. "The hell you been, anyway?"
(james)
there's a bit of a frown
(.... shit)
and he concentrates on that expensive cigarette for a moment longer than he has to, probably"Won't get any better over the next week."
a little enigmatic, mumbled aside, from the straightforward Gnawer
(at least he came home, before going where he's planning)
though he quickle moves along to her smokeless question"Albany, had some things to take care of because of yesterday."
he's not watching her
his eyes have cast themselves out over the front lawn
blame his hesitation and tension on the moon, right?(rune)
Flint scrapes against steel. There's a faint rush of noise, the snap and crackle of expensive tobacco, as lights her cigarette and inhales deeply. By now, her eyes have narrowed, and not merely because of the cloud of smoke from the smoldering cigarette.She casts him a glance over her shoulder, then follows the path of his eyes out over the lawn. Mist is beginning to coalesce in the smooth hollows of the manicured grass, squeezed from the sopping air as it cools. There are fireflies, here and there, darting about in their mating dance, though one has to squint to see them, with the haloed glare from the security lights flooding pools of the lawn and the parking lots with artificial brightness. It's June in Jersey, even if it feels like monsoon season in Rangoon.
"What happened yesterday?"
(james)
her eyes have narrowed, and he knows it isn't from the smoke
he could tell by tone and vernacular that, well....
he just keeps watching the lawn
the almost invisable fireflies that snake erratic trails in the effervescent light
the strange, and probably imagined, glow that bounces off the exhaled smoke and growing mist
once more, he's quiet a few seconds longer than he really needs to be"Father's day."
she, of all people, could feel the flare-up that joined the answer
the way his own Rage crackled against hers as it expanded
the way a lover recognizes her partner's stress and sorrow
his jaw clenches and his head shakes
instantly regretting the tone of that answer
sharp and caustic and entirely indecent
something of an apology works into the way his voice is forced to soften"Dropped by my daughter's grave, then went up to visit my dad."
(rune)
"Oh, I - " the tobacco pops and crackles. Whatever she was going to say must not have felt right on her tongue, somehow, for she interrupts it for another drag from her cigarette. The holiday had not registered on her. Probably, it never registered on her. At least people dress things up for the traditional ones, subtle clues to the rest of the world that something's going to happen. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, pricked out of her irritation by his reply.It's harder to swallow the flare of ill-temper, though swallow it she does. It sours in her stomach, heightens her senses, and escapes in her voice for all that she would prefer it not to do so. "I hadn't realized, James." Her eyes lift from the yard and flicker over his profile again, the edges softened in the gloom of gathering night. "I'm sorry."
Whatever she says feels useless, in the way, like some poor sod's withered limb, there only to remind him of what he's lost. That, too, prickles uncomfortably beneath her skin, and the restless is expressed again in her minute shift in place, the lift of her hand to her limp hair, fingers dragging through the fine damp strands.
(james)
there's a bit of a..... nasty.... chuckle that escapes him"Could've fallen on a better weekend." not easy to deal with such things when the moon is full and raging in all her glory in the sky, there's something sharp in his smile before it pauses for another drag, and the near embered smoke is flicked - hard - out into the night hounding on the other side of the railing, just off the halo of iridescent light "Though I know that's no excuse to take off again and not tell you why."
he still owes her explanation for the last time he did so
his voice softens, and those eyes finally draw across to look for hers
her hand reaches to drag fingers through fine, limp hair
his hand reaches to run knuckles gently across her flexing bicep"I'm sorry too. I should have called, at least. Or something. Just got too wrapped up in my own shit and didn't realize how much I closed everything off until I got to my dad's." his head shakes, realizing he's rambling, it's this next part that's got him strung tight as a wire, don't let his slouch in the chair fool you "Sort've the reason I came back tonight. Need to go to the Green for a little while."
and the way his head tilts as he looks to her
a part of him telling her is the sharing of information between partners
a part of him telling her is asking permission to go
(rune)
"You don't owe me explanations, you know." Her hand stills above her head, and then beneath his hand, her bicep flexes and then extends as she swings her arm back in a stretch meant as much to work out her moon-mood-restlessness as to work out any kinks her her muscles. The rest of her lean body follows naturally, a subtle undulation of movement that lifts her torso and hips, ripples through her legs down to her toes, which curl over the railing until all the muscles in her legs are taut, and then relax by slow degree. "Not unless you want to tell me."Her dark head swings sidelong, then, forehead brushing against her forearm, chin grazing his rough knuckles. One corner of her mouth hooks upward in a familiar little half-smirk. "You should know that by now."
Then her chin rises in a subtle notch of a gesture. "So," it's hard to read her tone, though some shreds of self-mocking humor are there beneath the sardonic intonation. Her brows rise in query, "You gonna tell me why you're running off to the Green?"
(james)
dark eyes wander across the landscape of her stretch
no matter how tense or worried or stressed (or scared) he may be
that will always get the appreciative look
especially when there's only a thin t-shirt and silky boxers obstructing his view of what's beneath
his imagination and memory happily fills in the rest
fingertips trace the relaxing muscles through her arms
before quietly dropping away
they are spotlighted on the balcony, after all"I know.... and I've told you before I'll tell you everything."
there's a bit of a smile there
but that vanishes as easily as his hand dropped away
he's..... nervous.... about this
tongue darts out to run over his lips
the lower lip pulled beneath flat line of white teeth
brows lift a little in a sigh
though he nods"Long talk with pops last night, realized it's time to take a step towards moving on.... or.... moving up, anyway."
(rune)
"I know," some suggestion of a curving smile flickers in her voice, though the emotion finds no expression on her mouth beyond the half-smirk into which her crimson lips have settled. "And - oh, fucking hell." Her arm folds, fingertips lightly tracing his hand before it falls away. "I don't want everything. I just want - " lean shoulders twitch in a curving little shrug, surrender to the impossible vagaries of language.His hand falls away, and it's her turn to touch him. She stretches her arm again, and her hand settles lightly on his shoulder, long fingers tightening over the corded muscle so prominent beneath his clothing. "'Bout time. Chin up - " nails, the pressure of them, through fabric and skin. " - you'll do just fine."
(james)
"Could've done this several years ago." wryly laughed even if his shoulder lifts into those nails in partial shrug, partial handless caress "Just didn't want to."the way he says that - not sure he wants to now
but she's right, it's about time
he waited long enough
he mourned long enough
he felt he wasn't worth it for long enoughand he takes the breath to give sound to his thoughts
though instead he sighs into another silence
and a hand reaches up to close over the slender fingers across his shoulders
it wraps neatly, and squeezes gently
all in that moment of silence
then the clasped hand turns into tugging notion
weight shifts in stretch to gather the Jansport
then he's standing and begging with his eyes that she follow
once her bare feet are on the day-warmed tiles
the sliding door opens and he leads her into the hallway
the short distance after to her (their) roomit's only after the door firmly shuts that he looks to her again
for some reason he didn't want to say (admit) this outside
and now, facing her, it seems he will
his boots looking at her toes across the plush carpeting
his hands reaching and gently tracing up the muscle of her arms to elbow and back to wrist again
his dark eyes finally lifting to meet hers"Now I'm not even sure I know what to do."
he doesn't dare voice what he would do if he failed
he couldn't bring that shame back to the pack
but most of all he couldn't bring it back on her
which may be a reason he's not exactly speaking to the others he's going
but he couldn't go on a quest like this and not tell her(rune)
Rune leaves the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, but brings her half-empty beer bottle inside, neck negligently suspended between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. The cool amber class brushes against her hip as her arms swings with each step in his wake.Inside, she leans back against the door, pressing until the latch snicks home, and draws him back toward her. Her skin smells of the humid night, strange and green and damp, and cigarettes and alcohol, exhaust fumes, smog. Beneath the nose-clogging, allergy inducing effluvia of civilization, whatever is distinctly her, close to the skin, human, humid, animalsweat, sharp and quotidian and utterly physical as she is.
"You know what to do," roughly spoken, her voice thick from the humidity and the chainsmoking the full moon seems to naturally induce, odd as it is that her body, already in overdrive, would crave more stimulants. Her right arm snakes out, catching his hand and then sliding to grasp him roughly beneath the elbow, pulling him closer into her slouching orbit. "You know what to do, even if you have doubts. There's no shame in failing a challenge, even if I'm confident you won't. It happens, it's not shameful. The real shame would be failing your duty after the challenge. You know that, James.
"You know that."
(james)
her hand slithers across the muscle flexing in his forarm
taller, stronger - he doesn't resist the pull
she's leaning against the door, and his calves straddle hers
baggy camoflage canvas tickling her shaved smooth and silky legs
allowing his head to tilt down within her slouching orbit
listening, bathing in her scentbeyond the fumes and oils of the city
the strange ozone smell that falls from the overhead lights
so easily he picks out what's undeniably Rune
half pampered and spoiled bitch(rhya)
half savage and untamed animalslowly, his hands find a way to lace fingers behind her lower back
slowly, his head has fallen until it rests upon her shoulder"I know" sighed against her flesh as it curves up and out from beneath the cotton t's collar, there's the slow movement of his head and slipeslide of heavy dreads as the bridge of his nose traces the soft, soft skin along the side of her throat "I'm not worried about what failing would do to me. Rank has nothing to do with my duty or how I'd fulfill it - you know I don't care if I'm eternal Omega to the pack, I'll still fight just as hard. I'm afraid of what failing would reflect on you."
that's when his head lifts
dark eyes wandering towards her again
there's even the glimmer of a smile"Which I know is why you're about to tell me that's the reason I won't fail." one hand reaches, finding something to do in the tuck of hair behind her ear while the other spreads strong and warm across her lower back "I've gotten past the things that held me back, before.... but I'm still scared, Rune."
(rune)
"I'm a big girl, James." Her body is still beneath his touch, except for the expansion and contraction of her lungs with every breath, except for the relentless beat of her pulse through her veins. With his head on her shoulder, he can hear her heart beating, faster with him so near, and faster again as he traces the sensitive skin of her throat. There's a hitch in her breath, and her voice darkens and deepens, rising from somewhere rich in her throat and chest. "I can take care of myself. Whatever happens, it doesn't matter to me, either. You know that. I'm not - "When he lifts his head from her shoulders, she circles her arms around his neck. Her fingers slide sleekly through the chaotic mass of his dreadlocks, contracting into a firm grip as they burrow deep. "I don't fucking need you to protect me. I don't even want you to protect me, from whatever you think might happen, somehow."
The undeniable frustration in her voice is subverted and subdued, transformed into something similar, but infinitely different. She shakes her hands free from his dreadlocks. One slides down over the curve of his shoulder and the muscled planes of his chest, crimson nails scraping lightly over the cotton of his t-shirt, catching on whatever imperfections remain in the weave. The other captures his chin in a firm grip, fingers splayed along his jawline.
"I just - " her fingers slide lightly beneath the hem of his t-shirt and curve into the waistband of his BDUs, thumb twisting to undo the top button, sliding toward the next. "fucking" The buttons fall in quick succession. She doesn't even bother to look down, though. She has captured his gaze and is staring baldly back, in what would be a plain challenge were her hands - busy elsewhere - not just as clear as to her intent. She is not a gentle creature, and as the last of the fastenings give way, she wraps her hand around the hem of his t-shirt and pulls, hard. The fabric strains, the collar bites into his muscular, and then the seams begin to give way. " - want fucking you, goddamnit."
Releasing his chin, she slides her hand back across his cheek and buries her fingers in his hair again, pulling the heavy dreadlocks with more strength than perhaps she imagines. One leg hooks around his hip and pulls him closer. When there's leverage enough between his body and the door behind her, the other follows suit. She brushes her forehead against his, bares her teeth against his mouth, but doesn't quite kiss him, not yet. No, she breaths over his skin - deeper breaths, heavier now, weighted and spoiled and savage. Her nostrils flare with breath, and her mouth parts without capturing his. There's something to be said, after all, for delayed gratification.
"Isn't that remotely fucking clear yet?"
(james)
(I'm a big girl, James)
she can say that again
the way her chest heaves with breath to speak
the way every single movement of building frustration just draws. him. closer.
the way her fingers lock in dreads makes him almost completely forget about tomorrow's plansthere's a part of him which would protest
proclaiming his love and other valiant male things
explaining his rhyme and reason
but that's a very small part
(I just)
the majority of him is focused with raptor precision on the drag of nails over cotton
a sudden breath heaving in ancipation for when crimson will be drawn beneath increasing pressure
(fucking)
uncertain smile suddenly sharpens to something far beyond vicious
abs tremble and tighten as a growl rumbles and shakes against southward trail
something glitters dangerous in earthen umber eyes that hold her bald stare
(want fucking you, goddamnit)
hands settle on her hips and lift as legs wrap around his waist
her weight pulled forward then thumped back against the door"No, Rhya."
challenged - it may be the last time he ever calls her that
at least in official deference as a Cliath
(she will always be better than him)
teeth close just shy of her parted lips with the precision force of a beartrap
(wait for it, my love)
yet each breath she casts across his skin drunk as if savior wine"I don't think it's clear enough."
liar - he has no question
he can feel the seams of his shirt giving way
fists wrap in silk and boxers are soon nothing but scraps of fabric falling to the floor
she is not a gentle creature: he loves it, craves it, and returns it just as boldly
rough palms smooth along the taught lines of thigh and wander ever upwards over the swell of hip, trough of waist and slip beneath the thin cover of her tee
soon enough that gives way to this relentless journey that discovers her pale skin hidden beneath, doggedly and efficiently exposing it to the room's shadows
fingers comb through still damp inky hair, as if to hold their faces so affectionately close, then twist to draw her velvet soft and sneering mouth further from his
the thick wood of the door moans beneath the sudden jolt in shift of weight away reversing itself to allow heated skin slip and slide and lock
it causes his voice to drop into the most delightful of groaning whispers bathing her exposed throat"But why don't you shut up and let me prove it."
Posted by james at 12:00 AMJune 13, 2003.06.13.03. - long day [rune][noje]
(james)
he can't see her - but he knows she's there
even with the thick cover of thunderheads heavy overhead
transilluminated by the errant strikes of lightning
muted by the steady downpour of rain
above it all - he knows she's there
pregnant and swollen in the sky
pulling at him with the strongest of invisable leashesshe's like the ex that comes back to haunt him
whispering just behind his ear the most seditious tortures
letting absent nails tickle up his spine to whip the Ahroun into blind frenzy
there are some days he simply resents her, for what she can do to him without even trying
and others..... he just craves to see her face
twisted, isn't it, the Garou's relationship with the moontonight, he just feels her, watching him
listening, above the patter of the rain, the rhythm of wooden drumsticks on terracotta tile
he's sitting sheltered on the condo's balcony, tucked back into the far corner - the one opposite the drain, because with the gusts of wind that occassionally blow through do bring the rain to visit with them
lumbar muscles molded to the sculpted stucco of the wall
dark eyes settled on the singular tile that's become his snare
just..... drumming the rhythm of the rain to his heart's content(rune)
He can't see her either. There was a power outtage earlier - the thunder, the rain, something else, something else entirely, it could be any of them, for really it's impossible to tell - and the development in spherical bands of rainbow light that spill into the heavy rain from the few security lights that work on some redundant power system. The closest shopping mall is dark as well - the crimson stain of its gleaming sign is usually visible above the treetops, but now sits brooding and dark above an emptying parking lot. The world hasn't ended, though. There's a glow on the horizon, the roar of traffic close by, the flickers of candles or flashlights in the neighbors' windows and genuine electric lights - like stars cast to land - in the distance, winking at him through the rain.And so he cannot see her in the surprisingly rich darkness beyond the familiar territory of the balcony. Faint light shines off the water still bubbling in the fountain as rainwater spatters to augment the filtered and chlorinated supply, but elsewhere, the shadows are rich and deep. He cannot see her, but he can feel her below him, hear her footsteps on the wet grass, the thud of her weight settling onto the tall masonry fence below, the groan of the wrought-iron balstrude as she straightens and stretches and reaches for a handhold and swings herself up, then scrambles over the railing.
The night is dark, and the shadows are long, and her feet are bare on the slippery tiles. The night is vast and dark, and she is no more than a plane of shadow interrupting his view of the slumming earth-bound stars, the security light that still shines two buildings away. She smells like the rain, like the summer night, some underlying suggestion of sweat and blood and ash beneath the metallic ozone rainscent.
Curving one hand and then its twin around the balustrade, she leans back. It groans again beneath the full burden of her weight as she lounges back against it, eschewing the shelter in favor of the warm summer rain. Her head is tossed back, her half-closed eyes are turned upward to the sky, the blood and bone promise of the full moon somewhere, a great baleful eye, high above the earth.
(james)
he can't see her - but he knows she's therehe could hear the footsteps approaching
he could hear the ballustrade's creak
he could hear the subtle plop of bare, wet feet against dry tilehe could smell the warm summer rain
he could smell sweat and blood and ash
he could smell, beneath it all, herhe could FEEL her above it all
and that's what tears his eyes away
dark glimmers in the powerout shadows, catching the far off light of the distant neighboring grid, deep, liquid pools that slowly, slowly raise and trace every curve - bare ankles, leather covered calves and thighs, the swell of hips towards rain....soaked..... uh.... shirt"Solanum nigrum."
quipped with a gentle smile
the beat against tile stops
sticks swiveled between talented fingers and then set aside
two Camels pulled from a pack appearing from nowhere
zippo CLACKS it's flame to the stars
then the illumination is gone but the errant lightning
and he's holding out a lit cigarette towards her"Long night?"
(rune)
"Is that what you said the first time?" The moon is full, but her voice is surprisingly, deliciously calm - light and cool as the rain that falls and spatters against the tiles, that already stains the paper of the cigarette as moves - a subtle curve of her hips - into arm's reach and takes the cancer stick from his hands. "Long night?"He can hear the contented smile in her voice, and see it in the curve of her cheek, pale against the darkness beyond, framed by her hair, plastered against her skin. Her elbow rises as she lifts the cigarette to her mouth and takes a long, deep drag of the smoke, holding it longer than necessary, savoring the slow burn in her lung. The smoke comes tumbling out in a exhaled rush and her arm falls back, wrist resting against the flaking iron. "Not really.
"Long day and night?" Contentment: a kill, or at least a battle, some vector into which to release the excess burden and blessing of her rage. Contentment: satiation. Blood, or something like it, beneath her blood-red nails. "Yeah."
(james)
"Think I've asked you that a couple times." softly laughed, even teased "Though never called you that before."his head tilts, at the content gleam of her smile
the way it curves her cheek cheshire
the way it adds a vector gleam into her eyes
that's actually what pulls him from his seat
.... comfortable as it wasuntil he's stepping right on up to the satiated Glass Walker
he's tempted to set his hands on either side of the railing
trap her between his arms and steal that lungful of smoke tumbling past wicked lips
with the power out and the pack all gone - well, his imagination is running wild
but somehow he resists, settling for lifting a brow instead
coupling it with a wry little (provocational) smile"If I didn't know you better, I'd be jealous."
(rune)
The familiar dark eyes fall half-closed, and she studies him from behind the veil of lashes, lifting her chin to finish the quiet study. After a moment, she lifts her right hand from the balustrade - elbow curved against her torso, hand reaching for his chin. The cigarette - though guttering from dampening effects of errant raindrops, still smolders between her index and middle fingers, but still she crooks the former into a small fulcrum and lifts his chin a perceptible fraction of an inch."Called me what?"
They are inches away, but never has she seemed so opaque. Or perhaps she is always opaque - hidden somewhere behind the dark stones of her eyes - and in this moment he is reminded of it - the ease of her movement, the fluidity of the gesture, the distancing veil of her lashes, the subtle curve into which her lush mouth twists, neither a smile nor a smirk, quite something else together.
Her breathing falls into rhythm with his. She inhales as he exhales, and their bodies move in strange, tandom shadow-movement with each drawn breath.
"Somehow," he exhales, and she inhales. The smoke twists serpentine between them, and the rain falls. "I cannot imagine you jealous."
(james)
he doesn't pull away from her hand
in fact, it's a strange little dance of movement that gets his own cigarette to his mouth around and above the grip she's got on his chin
and so far, his Camel is faring a bit better than hers
but that's because he's sheltering it as a joint with his palm
he exhales, she inhales
and save the touch of their lips it's a shotgun hit if he's ever see one
still that unrepetant grin remains"Deadly Nighshade."
though the rogue edge softens
this close - he's reminded not of how opaque she is
of course she's opaque, she's a solid being
but in all the shallowness that associates itself with the spoiled Walker
it is this close that he's reminded of her depth
the layers that exist below the princess (queen) exterior
the visions he's the only allowed to witness
(nobody'd ever believe him anyway)
the memories with which he drowns himself in her eyes"I can be jealous." pouted, sulked even, with a lower lip poking out in breif tirade against the fact though the exression threatens to return to the more familiar smile "In fact I can be very envious of what's made you look so insanely satiated." and his voice drops to a (oh yes, playful) murmur "I thought that was my job."
(rune)
"Mmmmph." The sound rumbles somewhere in the hollow cave of her mouth, the cusp of her throat. It could be a sound of negation. It could be a noise of agreement. It could be nothing - clearing her throat of smoke - for all that her expression changes in the three baited breaths after he falls silent.She is moving though, he can sense more than see the subtle shift of her weight against the balustrade as she uncurls her crossed ankles, slides her toes between his braced feet. Also, the slow-growing curve of her mouth, lips pressed together, the bare corners rising enough to curve her cheek.
The subtle pressure of her knuckle beneath his chin changes. Her hand flattens, and she flicks away her cigarette, blindly. It spins to the side and dies an inelegant death on the slick tiles, hissing as the smoldering tobacco hits the wet surface of the terra cotta, as the rain falls to finish the job. Her nails are cool, though her flesh is warm, as she flattens the volar surface of her hand beneath his throat, lifting his head higher, listening to the heavy swing of dreadlocks dislodged with the movement. Her thumb twists and creeps upward, slides heavily over his jaw, his mouth, as her fingers unfurl like an oriental fan beneath, following in the wake of whatever invisible, unnecessary pattern she traces.
Just as languidly, she releases her grip on the iron railing and skims the meager space between them to settle on his lean hip. Her hand widens, and her fingers splay wide, slipping into his belt loops for a firmer grip.
Nothing has changed: not the pattern of their breathing, not the secret half-smile gracing her mouth, not the languid, half-lidded sweep of her eyes across his face. And nothing changes, not even as her grip tightens and she yanks his hips hard against her.
Her mouth finds his. Or rather: her mouth finds the fractional space above his mouth and her breath steams across his lips, ash and rain-swept-scent and blood, somewhere, some niggling suggestion of it. "Don't pout."
She lifts her chin, then, as her teeth just graze his flesh - though not quite against his mouth - and turns her cheek to him, offering him the long curve of her neck, the cotton plastered against her curving torso, the slow circular rhythm of her hips against his.
"Just show me how you do your job."
(james)
how easily he gives into her whims
he stands here, domitor by height and weight
he stands here, with boots braced and back straight
yet he instantly lifts his chin to the smallest of pressures to bare. his. throat.
in fact, he does it with something that definitely seems like a smile
dark eyes falling half mast as her fingers roam his flesh
her breathing may not have changed - but his certaintly has
oh the things she can do to him with but a touch
something in him flutters and catches then oofs as he's pulled closelightning crashes, thunder rolls, the storm rages within them
Don't pout she tells him, just before her lips almost find his
and he falls from catching to simply forgetting how to breath
her cigarette is flicked away - his is simply dropped
then a moment later his hands remember how to move and greedily pull her closethen she bears the side of her neck - he bites it
then she breaths into the cotton plastering her torso - he pulls it closer
then she rolls her hips against his - he. grinds. back."You know." sighed agaisnt the long spance of pale neck "That'll just make a long day and night longer."
but he doesn't seem to care
because he's pulling her from ballustrade recline
outright manhandling this spoiled Walker into the lavish condo
it's someplace he shouldn't belong
not with the plush carpets and leather furniture and satin covered waterbed upstairs
it's someplace he stands out like a sore thumb
yet his journey is deliberate - raggedy king through tiny kingdom
illuminated by the crashing lightning and full-moon sky unseen outsideby the time the bedroom door closes
(.... and locks)
he's forgotten about the pregnant silver light in the sky
(tidal wave fuels his Rage)
fingers splay, grips tighten, her body and breathing fall into rhythm with his: he inhales, she exhales
(he gasps, she screams)Posted by james at 12:00 AMJune 06, 2003.06.06.03. - street music and primal dreams [spots][atlantic city]
(spots)
Back at the boardwalk.
Night spent in the offered tent, next to the Children of Gaia.
He thinks he likes her, even if she i so different then the Walkers, and gnawers of the recently past years.
he brings his 5'11 form, to that slow gait, heralded by the thump of a little heavy boots. Black jeans, worn into perfection hangs from hips.
A simple white tee hanging from skinny shoulders, swaying with his walk, to reveal glimpses of tattoo's.
A pack slung over his shoulder, holding the only thing the small get treasures. his alteration gear.
A single gold hoop through his ear, dared a few years ago, after his exodus.
Reaching up, he draws a thin hand through the mop of his white striped mohican.
He is simply watching the people now. Yesterday still burning bright in his mind.
Confusion still apperant, yet, the walk is a little easier still.
Garou are not meant to run alone, and even less, they are meant to be alone.
A small comfort in finding others here as well. So now, he watches the crowd, his posture demure, subservient almost.
Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulls a half crumpled pack of marlbro's, and a bic lighter from them.
Staring at the pack for a second, before the slightest shake of his head announces a smoke beeing fished out, and lighted.
Pack, and bic vanishing back down the pocket, as he drags on the smoke, only to release a cloud of greyish mist from nostrils and lips.
A mist that struggles for a few seconds in the spring breeze, before it, is gone.(james)
they called him Jukebox because he could play anything
give him something that can hold a semi-reasonable facsimilie of sticks
combine it with something that can create a unique sound
and he's good to gohe took a little more time this afternoon, though
since the weather's been getting nicer
and the day itself clear after all that rain
he hopped the bus down to AC to earn some petty cash
and, honestly, the performer in him missed the streets
so maybe today's gunning is as much fun as it is work
(is it ever work?)it took a little bit of effort to find the proper supplies
finding the 'cans is one thing - finding clean ones is another
and he's not about to search down a hose, as well
so after about a half hour of wandering the streets
several steel trashcans were rolled out of the shadows and to the mouth of an alley
a few minutes later cardboard boxes stuffed in varying densities within to specifically damped the soundthat was three hours ago
but still the Gnawer plays on
this urban primitive drumming away in the concrete jungle
rebar wrapped in scrap strips of cloth hammering a tribal beat in offering to the city gods
muscular forarms seem to weild the heavy sticks with little to no effort
with the grin that's framed by heavy dreadlocks
he's definitely playing for the fun of it
though still tosses the gracious smile or wink at the coins dropped into his overturned ratty tophat(spots)
Beat of street drums...
Thump of boots...
That sound, that pure musical druumming.
Born mule, raised in a sept.
Raised in the umbra, he is still a city kid. 4 years in the city that never sleeps will do that to someone fresh from an enclosed life.
The walkers had their techno beats and rock and roll, blaring out from their clubs.
The Gnawers had the street music, and how unlike anything else it was.
And it draws him nearer. not long, before he spots the man drumming away.
To gracious, these beats. Spirit or man, music is the heart of the soul.
Digging into his pocket, he pulls out a few coins. not much, a bnunch of quarters and dimes, but its all he got on him.
Approaching the drumming man, head a little lowered, not looking to meet his gaze, as the coins are not only dropped, but given as an offering.
A chiminage, for allowing this unworthy to hear the music's blessing.
And the youth moves away again, with a flash of tribal tattos at one shoulder.
Moving just a little bit, he sits down on the ground, the pack shifted to rest in his lap.
The Mule listens.
Eyes half lidded, unconsciously, body rocking slowly, as if dancing in some unseen place. (his mind)
To let go of inhibitions... to raise arms in praise and honor of the earth mother, and city father.
And the skinny get suddenly misses his few gnawer friends back in new york. The moots in the park, the near endless gathering of old mcdonalds boxes for Larissa's evening meals.
Another place.
Another time.
And spots remembers.(james)
Spots remembers - but James? James creates
the rhythm thick and rolling off the steel 'cans
at the latest jingle of coinage that carried over the heavy thump against steel
deep umber eyes lifted from the make-shift kit to offer the next nod up and grin of thanksstrange, the kid doesn't look at him, so doesn't see his thanks
most people do, for some reason or another
but this one seemed to just shrink away
how odd..... hey wait, are those....?
and that's when the Ahroun takes a closer look
a closer feel - and there it is
that tiny inkling of Rage that crackles against the sphere of his own
almost non-existant, reallyand a brow.... lifts
and the beat .... changesthe tune that sings from the pseudodrums makes what he was doing before seem paltry
suddenly the rhythm seems almost. alive.
music is the heart of the soul and it pumps and thumps beneath the rebar
it's the lifeblood that flowed long before the Silver Record
it's the lifeblood that fueled the very first of their ancestors
there's something abjectly primal about the way the Gnawer plays
as if it were the animal in him, rather than the man
instinct and inspiration replacing the ideals and inhibitionsand through it all he watches the young Garou
breif glances towards the sitting form between the swift changes between the 'cans
because he knows how much the sounds will affect the other
and he waits until Spots takes the chance to look up
then finally offers that wink and easy grin of thanks before attention falls back to his playing(spots)
The beat... Changes.
And the get's smile widens just a a little.
Body reacting to that primal sound. This, is the beats of his heart.
the rythm of Gaia's power flowing through him.
And the glance comes.
But maybe, not as expected.
A dared glance up, catching that wink and grin, and the 'hawk covered head drops deep in acknowledgment, in respect.
In subservience.
He knew the player was Garou the second he saw him.
That rage burning through every pour of the player, with every beat of those drums.
Spots knows he is recognised now.
So the Mule keeps his head bowed.
The music still rolling through him, lifting him up. He knows that this, is the goodness of Gaia given sound.
His better is playing it, creating it, giving it life.
Breath of gaia in the rythm of steel cans.
And so, the godi listens, enjoy's, and waits.
All he can do really.
Except pray.(Oh great mother Gaia, please let this graceful son of yours know thy will.
Grant this dishonorable spawn, created by sin know your blessing through this, which your favoured creates.
May your spirits give me strength to do my duty.
Bless this body, for this music gives me Life.)Pack cradled gently in his lap, body still rocking with the music.
Only a wolf would understand the slow roll of shoulders.
Only Garou have heard the drums of the shamans during moots, that gives peace and frenzy, with each hammered beat.(james)
only Garou have heard the shaman's drums at moots
and James, even an Ahroun, joined the Galliards at more than one
music gives peace and provokes frenzy
it may seem exciting and exotic to the small crowd of humans gathered 'round
but to the two Garou - it means something else, it means something more
it is the breath that connects them all
this music is freedomand maybe that's why the Gnawer chose to play this particular song
the idea by the way the boy seemed to shrink as he walked past
confirmed by the way the kid ducks his head away now
to give just a few minutes freedom from whatever it is that chains them tonightand suddenly the beat stops
this is when the gathered would halt in their frenzied dance
every voice raised to Luna above in howling song
the roar that announces their loyalty to Gaiabut given this is a street corner in Atlantic City and not the ritual gathering of Garou - James opts for a little showmanship instead
"That's it for tonight folks, I'm glad we spent this quality time together." smoothly grinned on mellow, rich tones - coupled with a wiggle of brows at a very pretty young lady "I appreciate your attention, your pleasure, your sense of fashion.... oh and especially your tie, Sir... your fanmail, and, most graciously," the grin widens slyly "Your spare change. Next show is a quarter to three, this time yesterday, every third and sixth Sunday of the month."
there's a glance to the submitting Garou, hoping he'll hang around and not disperse with the crowd
(spots)
Freedom.
It is so evident in the slow rocking body, the lidded eyes.
There might be a great world out there, for anyone to see.
Can they see the world within the world?
A few minutes, that for spots might as well be a few lifetimes.
Lifetime to remember. to feel.
but every lifetime has its end.
so does this one.
And the Music stops.
It is a simple reaction to the crowd, that slight jerk of the youth's head upwards.
To James, it is a mirror of that feeling within.
time, to Howl.
But urge supressed before head is even level, only to sink back down, eyes opening slowly, to look at the pack in his lap.
The softest sigh, as the blessing of music, is replaced by the curse of reality.
And that pack is moved, slung over his shoulder, as the mule rises slowly to his feet.
To wait, head bowed, by the corner.(james)
the crowd, eventually, wanders in each separate way
now that he's not making a bunch of racket on steel 'cans - it's pretty easy for James to blend into the background on the boardwalk
there are far more exciting things to catch a tourist's eye than some 6'2 lanky white guy with dreadlocks
the change is quickly counted (.... good night) and funneled into one pocket of faded BDUs
the rebar and floppy tophat returned to their place in a backpack that had been hidden against the wallthat's when he looks to the little Garou patiently waiting
lip curls against his teeth to let a low whistle out (yo!) coupled with a nod up (c'mere) once attention is back on him
in the process of waiting for the other to get a little closer
he's tipping one of the cans over to put back into the alley like a responsible Gnawer"You like that last song?"
(spots)
Waiting, for that whistle.
How familiar that call is.
He doesnt look up, eyes on the ground as he moves slowly, approaching James.
At the question, the young man nods.
"Very much. Thank you for letting me listen."
Voice low, respectful, his gaze on james boot's.
Adjusting the pack slightly, he swallows, and waits.
(Do not speak until spoken to little spawn!)
voice from the past ringing in his ears. He knows his place.
He bears the scars to prove it.(james)
"My eyes are almost six feet North."softly
it's not a command or a threat
just a gentle suggestion to nudge that gaze at least towards his chest
don't get him wrong, his boots are pretty snazzy
better than normal quality one would find at surplus
but they do nothing for conversation
and the Gnawer waitsit's the type of wait the Metis would know better than he wants to
James will wait to continue speaking until the smaller Garou meets him at least halfway
yet, unlike previous experiences, there's no fist hurrying the Fenrir up"I'm glad you liked it, looked like you needed to hear it." still that easy grin remains, and a hand extends, slowly, open and palm up (no threat) to shake "Name's James."
(spots)
Not a command.
Not a threat.
So why does his neck look so strained, as it rises upwards, from james boot's, to his knees.
And stops.
Beads of sweat appearant on the brow of the young man.
Confusion clear on his face.
confuision turns to instict's.
His voice a whisper, low, as not to be caught by anyone, but the gnawer before him.
"i beg forgivness james-Rhya. I know my place..."
And that gaze goes down again.
But he cannot refuse the offered hand, and reaching, his skinny hand easily swallowed by the Ahroun's.
"I am Spots... My name is Spots..."
Voice still as low, as submitting as before.(james)
his grip is firm, but tempered
easy enough to see by the muscle through his arms exposed by the fitting black t-shirt and the way he handled that heavy rebar earlier - he could probably break Spots' hand without a second thought or much effort
but he doesn't
just a firm howd'ya do
though maybe there's a bit of an almost inaudible sigh
that the boy couldn't look up told him everything he needed to know
not all Metis are confident lunatics like the Skald
he's known more that have been beaten down like this one
(he can smell the instinctive fear)"Pleasure, Spots." that's a genuine remark, too, the way his tones are warm as the sun that shone just a few hours ago in the endless sky "And.... unless you're still a child.... I think it's yuff."
his brows lift automatically in question
it's habit, really, the body language of the wolves within them both
because he's pretty aware the kid can't see the expression
(damn those must be some snazzy boots)
but the gentle correction clearly states his mindset about Metis without lecturing on the streetcorner
even though they're mostly ignored by the passer's by
it never hurts to play it safe"Tell you what, help me move these 'cans back into the alley and I'll spring for dinner."
(spots)
The slightes shake of that strong hand.
James could break his hand without thought.
Could break his skull, without ever finding a hand raised in defence.
the gentle correction noted, and the slightest nod acknowledges it.
"Yes james-rhya."
Voice still low. And without another word, he slips, to grab as many steel cans, as he can lift, simply holding them, waiting for those boots to lead the way.
(they are quite snazzy.)(james)
one dark brow above deep umber eye lifts towards the hairline of tangled dreads
the nod was noted, as with the continued appelation - allrighty then
his own pack slings over a broad shoulder and the other two cans are hefted from the ground
things are always much easier with help
and while there's a part of him that wants to point out that the kid actually had a choice there
the other part of him realizes that would probably be a totally foreign concept
old habits die very, very hard
especially when they've literally been beaten into you
and for the way the kid acts like a robotic servant
he's a feeling that isn't very far from the truth
(calling a Gnawer rhya??)long, easy strides lead the way back into the alley
those (snazzy) boots setting a pace easy enough for the much smaller Metis to keep up without struggling
(that's not pity - that's simply being decent)
returning the trashcans to the exact place he borrowed them from
one, he's even replacing the Hefty bag pulled out in hopes it hadn't leaked"What're you hungry for?" and the lid that has yet to make it back to the can wiggles a bit in gestural point "And don't tell me anything or that it doesn't matter, because if it wasn't obvious I'm a BeeGee, and I'll eat things the rest of the Nation doesn't even consider food. My treat, so you pick."
the lid finally makes it home with no further flying lessons
(spots)
The trashcans placed carefully back in their place, and the lids replaced.
Robotic isnt far from the truth. not at all.
But turning back to james (Boot's), he listens.
And pauses.
"Forgive me James-rhya... I do not know what a BeeGee is."
Swallowing.
but he learned long ago, that it was better to admit not knowing.
then acting as if you did.
Acting left scars.
"I eat anything that is served up. Food is food. But I like Pizza."
ok, so it was not completely without submitting, but atleast, he said his preference.
Human preference anyway. Doubtful if they serve rabbit close by.
But he wonder's what a BeeGee is.
The way james talk's about food, it reminds him of the boneGnawers.
If only he would be so lucky.(james)
he's tempted to wiggle his toes since Spots is staring at his boots so much
but without the Walker's strappy sandals - which he would look ridiculous in even if they did fit - much less her extra-snazzy nailpolish, well, just won't go there
and there's a thoughtful grin at the preferred submission
it was the preference he was aiming for
no matter how he had to get it"I think we'll get along just fine, Spots, pizza it is."
there's a tip of his head towards the alley's mouth
and the Ahroun is strolling back towards the street
perhaps, there is something about his walk that Spots notices
everytime the Metis falls behind him to his supposed place
the Gnawer slows down until the boy catches up
it's subtle, for sure
but the message is clear: Rhya prefers you walk beside him. (As an equal.)
makes it incredibly easier to cast that sidelong glance seasoned with a lifted brow"The BeeGees were a band, actually, but it's raises a lot less questions to say you're a fan of them, or shorten the Tribe name, when in public than explain to a questioning passerby what the hell a Bone Gnawer is."
(spots)
As the ahroun turns to walk, Spots follow, moving behind james.
As James slows, so does Spots.
It wont take a rocket sceitnist, to figure out what would happen if the ahroun stops.
But as he listens, slowly, his head actually rises, to look up at james.
Not enough to meet his gaze, but he is looking at his chin atleast.
"You are BoneGnawer?"
Is that near exitment in his voice?
I tinge of surprise, blended with joy?
Could very well be.
"I am sorry james-yuf..."
And one step taken, just a abit longer then the previous.
another.
And another.
until he walks just slightly behind, and to the side of james.
"Ive just arrived from New york... from the Green."
quite a change in the young man. Still respectful (To a gnawer?)
But that fear seems to melt away.(james)
chin is better than boots
and a step behind is better than four
James will take what he can get
as much as he, and his tribe, LOATHE subjugation
he knows you can't change those that are trained to be so in the course of a single trashcan move
one step at a time, baby steps even, and lookie there - the steps are lengthening
there's that trademark, easy (kind) grin again"The dreads and drumming didn't give it away?" softly laughed, seems it was more a jab at himself than Spots' surprise, and his chin moves in a slow nod "Born and bred, come from Albany, myself, though spent some time with the Green a bit ago before I left New York." which explains his Yankee twang rather than the Joisey foible "Run with the Eagles, our territory's the Northern half of Jersey, skip down this way to take advantage of the tourists' spare change."
they're on the street now
and he's making a beeline to the Pizza Hut three blocks down
not exactly gourmet, but it's food, and close
he doesn't let the change of scenery ruin the conversation
he's just back to using slang again"Have you found the gangs that run these streets?"
(spots)
He walks almost beside the gnawer, hands going into his pockets, to feel the wrinkled pack there.
Not yet.
That grin met by a little, if genuine smile.
"Ive learned some time ago not to go by apperances..."
mother had thought him that.
The only Mother he has ever known.
Larissa.
"I cam from norway, a few years back, together with some... Family."
that would explain the trace of an accent, appearant now that voice is actually raised above a whisper.
A slight shrug, and roll of shoulders, glancing to the approaching pizza hut.
"But Mother took me in when I left them... stayed with them for nearly 4 years."
And once again, he looks to the ragefilled ahroun by his side.
Its strange, how some things can change so quickly.
"I ran into a few last night. A gypsy traveller, and a couple of others... One of them put me up for the night..."(james)
three blocks isn't that long a time when you've got strides that walk city miles with ease
and now that the Metis is keeping up, they cover the distance quickly
the reach for the door is automatic
he'd actually hold it open and shoo Spots in first
but then remembers himself and simply enters
moseying on up to the counter
and even though it's fairly late at night
this is the Boardwalk
and the pizza parlor is still fairly crowded
but for some reason, people just move out of the way when a dreadlocked Ahroun and his mohawked companion seem to have made their decisions about their order faster than anybody else - yet, James still does that little gesture/browlift silent communicado thing to ask if others would prefer to go first, but, when they decline (without truly understanding their prey instinct to step back from the predator) he doesn't fight it, just smiles and thanks them"Everything?"
head tipped in studying the menu
he doubts the kid would disagree
but it's the simple consideration of asking
and so the order is placed:
(one super humongous stuffed crust deep pan pizza with every. thing. on it, plus extra cheese, and two large drinks, for here, about how long? that's perfect, thank you.)
and he's digging in the pockets of faded BDUs
pulling out the money he just spent the last three and a half hours earning
well over half of it goes towards their dinner
and the Hood doesn't seem to think a thing about it
the little number thingie accepted, and one drink handed to Spots - those boots are leading the way to a booth with a low surrounding occupancy"I was up at the Green about a year and a half ago, surprised I didn't run into you." though not like James was the most social of Garou at the time, and even if the atmospheric music helps add to the white noise which keeps their conversation mainly contained, he's still careful about word choice "One of the groups down here's traveling, RoadRunners, in bodville at the north end of the 'Walk. Not sure if they still are. Clutch used to keep a place just off the mid-'Walk, but they had some unfortunate issues about a week ago and left. Been Northside for awhile, so not sure who else is currently hanging around."
(spots)
He follows james, to the parlor.
And in. Up to the counter, he doesnt even note the humans around them.
A nod given to James as he ask's.
Of course he agrees. he would have, even if the gnawer had asked if he wanted just the crust, no toppings.
He watches the gnawer pay, and he knows that the dinner was expensive for the man.
And they are walking again. Slipping into the booth, opposite of James, he leans back some, his drink placed on the table infront fo them, just sipped at.
"It was up there... Ruv Ra'gon was his name. Met him right outside the bodville entrance."
Reaching up, he runs a hand through the mop of hair on his head, those blue (intelligent) eyes on james chin.
"Then there were two others... They are hanging out down by the barrens. A woman named Cori even offered me to share her tent."
He sounds amazed.
After all, who would want to share their tent.
their sleeping place, with a spawn like him?
"Are there many BeeGee's here?"
well, the boy picks up quickly anyway.
and reaching, he grabs a small bunch of toothpicks from the tray beside them, and goes about breaking and bending them.
Placed out on the table, beside his drink, any passerby would find someone playing.
James would see the Garou glyph's taking form before him, as small, but skilled hands work the wood into shape, and words.
Atleast, if you know what you are reading.(james)
dinner may have been expensive in Spots' eyes
but James is used to bringing food home for the entire pack
nice to concentrate on feeding one Garou at at time
there's a nod confiming that the kid at least has found their kind
admittedly, his pack doesn't hold the RoadRunner's on the highest of pedestals
but it's better than him wandering around alone given what happened to the Clutch
though at the Fenrir's amazement, the Gnawer softly laughs"You'll find that happens at the oddest of times, Spots, not everybody shares the same beliefs the people you grew up with did. I wouldn't share my dinner with you if I did." then his head shakes a bit "Not really. Clutch had a couple, I've got some cousins and a little one Northside, but otherwise they mainly pass through."
dark eyes skim over the play with toothpicks
resourceful, this kid
and to keep the premise up of it being a simple game to pass the time
he stretches a long arm out and rearranges a few of the toothpicks
even if Spots already knows part of it
he wouldn't slight the boy by not returning in full(spots)
Watching those toothpicks, he leans back again, after scooping them up, and disposing them.
"I know... atleast, when it comes to BeeGee's, and the cityfolk..."
He shrugs a little, reaching out for his drink, to sip it slowly.
"Mother was a good teacher... Even if i mostly spent my time in the studio, putting ink on people, and piercing their skin."
Drink placed back on the table, he looks to the Ahroun.
"What's it like up north?"(james)
"Sounds like she was."you'd think a name like "Mother" would stand out in ranks
unfortunately, not in the Bone Gnawer world
but he doesn't pry for information about the Fenrir's past"There's a shop out on the 'Walk, Rosa's I think, dunno if they're hiring or not, if you're looking to keep that up, may be able to tell you who is."
Spots may be sipping
but the Gnawer's drink is half gone
old habits die very, very hard
(free refills, anyway)
and his innate wolfing food down would be one of them
scrapping for every single meal while living on the street tends to do that to people
strong shoulders roll in a slow shrug, pressed back against the benchseat"Not that bad, really, I don't mind calling it home." especially in comparison to some of the places he has called home "Don't know what you'd want to hear about it, scrap with the same nasty folks you'd find anywhere. More of your blood up there, though, half my gang's German. Coupla Gee-Dubs, too."
fingers drum on the linoeum tabletop
and when Spots looks down he's tracing out the appropriate Glyph to continue the kid's slang education
seems the cleaning staff hasn't been up to par
because the symbol lingers in.... some.... filmy.... stuff
with a little bit of a frown he smears it away with his thumb(spots)
He listens, watching attentivly.
Another sip of his drink, nodding.
But at the mention of his blood.
The little get nearly shrinks back into the backseat.
A weak nod given, as his gaze lowers some.
"I see... Ill look for the shop. Thanks."
Voice lower again.
It seems as if he is about to ask a question, but the arrival of that huge pizza onto the table set's him back.
He waits, until the ahroun has grabbed and started eating his first slice, before he reaches for one.
He might be small, but 4 years in the company of gnawer's teaches you a thing or two about eating with them.
you grab, or you dont eat.
And so, that large pizza vanishes quickly between the two garou.
but the first, and the last slice he doesnt touch.
The conversation, muted as it became by the food, seems to die down almost completely.
The young mule almost returning to the state he was in before he learned james was gnawer.
Finally, it is finished, and spots leans back, finishing the last of his drink with a deep nod of thanks to james.
"Thank you James... Best meal ive had in a while. Next turn around, its on me, ok?"
The most the Get has spoken since james mentioned the german blood up north.
"Ill drop by this Rosa's later on... with some luck, I might get some part time there. But..."
He sighs a little, glancing around.
"I should find some place to spend the night... you heading up north tonight?"(james)
he noted the little Get nearly disappearing at the mention of other Fenrir
but he'll let Spots decide on exactly why he chose to mention the fact
but there's something he does tack onto it"They judge on who you are, not what."
translation: you wouldn't be the first Metis Fenrir around
but any further explantion he was going to offer is silenced by the steaming pizzaeasiest way to get a Gnawer's attention, that's for sure
they're matching each other slice for slice throughout the entire pie
(do... either of them chew? must be a Gnawer trait)
up until that last slice: technically, with the pizza split in half, it belongs to the Fenrir
though there's the momentary consideration of how many ways it would take to convince the kid to keep it
or if it would just be better to rationalize he bought the damn thing, so has rights to it if he wants it
but one thing the Hood won't do is take from those that need
(others need, it's the Hood that provides)
so there's an absent wave at the slice and the other Garou"Stuffed." ... right, as if that's even possible. "They'd frown on me taking it onto the bus anyway." easily grinned - argue that one "My pleasure, Spots, that's a deal." then his chin drops in a nod to re-affirm the previous statement "Bus leaves...." a leaning peeeer to the wallclock across the parlor "... in an hour, and the last one an hour and a half after that." that little addition should seem strange as hell, though makes sense when the Ahroun shifts his weight to dig into the change holding pocket, various wrinkled bills and coinage clattering on the table. "There's.....twelve.... sixt.... eighteen here." a breif frown, and his wallet is dug out next, another bill - the only one in there - tossed onto the pile "Thirty-eight. That'll either buy you a bus ticket up north, or..." napkin's plucked from the little shining aluminum holder, and he's scrawling onto it as he speaks ".... get a room at this motel on 38th and Wiltern." the name and address appears on the napkin "Little hole in the wall dive of a motel, but this puts you two bucks over two nights with a bed, roof, and running water. This," scribble "is Rune's cell number, second potato, Gee-dub. If you opt to head up north tonight, tomorrow, or at anytime need anything, call it. She already knows who you are."
gotta love that totem phone
then, the entire pile is slid over to the little Metis
all the cash he earned, and all that he had on him
without. even. hesitating.
he's still got his bus ticket, so is good to go
an even if he decided to give that to the Fenrir, too
it wouldn't bother him at all
it wouldn't be the first time he's hitched from AC to Hibernia
that easy grin returns as the Ahroun snags his own pack and slides out of the booth
not leaving any room for argument, is he
he won't force Spots to go anywhere he's uncomfortable
the choice will be his own
but James will at least provide the means he can to make comfort available"Take care of yourself, Spots, I'll see you 'round."
like a damned beacon of hope and light, that easy grin flashes once more, plus one nod up, then the Ahroun is heading back out into the night and towards the bus station
Posted by james at 12:00 AMJune 05, 2003.06.05.03. - watch th-....door [rune-tucker] *e[noje]
(rune)
Evening finds Rune on the front balcony. Satiny boxers and a t-shirt, a citronella candle lit on the plastic table, against possibility that a mosquito might dare bite her. Never mind that it's not mosquito season yet, that the cool spring with the cold nights have kept them from rising from whatever horrid breeding grounds they might find.Beer bottle in one hand, resting against the black-clad curve of her hip, cigarette in another, bare feet propped on the railing before her: chilling. That's all, nothing else.
The stars are bare pinpricks of silver in the haze of pollution and clouds and light pollution that clouds the sky, but that's where her dark gaze is direction: the sky.
(tucker)
"Hey, sorry about snapping at you in the elevator last night." The voice comes from inside, closer toward the end of the sentence. Another chair pulled up the the opposite side of the table. A dolloar fifty coming to rest between to the two Ahrouns."S'Fer the beer, it's a good night for one." Ahhh alcohol, it'll make you forget, it'll make you remember. Of course it also drops one's inhibitions. A dangerous thing when rage is involved. The young fang sighs and looks out into the sky blankly, in a calmer voice than normally his style.
"The fuck you looking at?"
(james)
they'll find breeding grounds, allright
with as healthily watered as the complex's grounds will be
no doubts that standing water will soon be plentifully available once the weather is right
unless, of course, proper drainage was included in the landscaping
but given the appropriateness of the stucco and tile California theme
..... he's just not surebut it's the candlelight that drew him
the warm glow that's encompassing the balcony
casting an orange hue to the stucco that should be white
but with the amount they smoke out here, it's got the faintest yellow tinge
now it's warmed to a citronella tinged warmth flickering and crawling along the walls
especially now as he's turned off the overhead light on his way outfour beers clasped in his hands
(three in the left, one in the right)
the Gnawer is stretching over the Walker to set three on the table
just so they don't have to go inside for a second round
the fourth accompanies him to the remaining vacant chair
a nod up to the Fang
but James doesn't really say much as weight sinks into the seat(rune)
She takes another drag from her cigarette, exhaling the poisoned smoke into the dark sky beyond. The night is quiet, out here. Or at least, the night is as quiet as it ever gets in the city. In the near distance, the constant hum of traffic creates a slow, dull wall of sound she tunes out as easily as a fish tunes out the crash of waves to the shore. It's only important when it gets too close.Dark eyes, dark-lashe, set in the sharp, clear lines of a porceline complexion. These are the eyes she turns on the Silver Fang, casting him a lashed, lazy glance that lingers on his face and then falls to the money on the table between them.
Her mouth, lush crimson, crawls a fraction of an inch wider. The smirk is a lazy thing, dismissive. "The fuck do I look like?" Tipping the beer in a mocking little toast, the neck of the bottle indicating the dollar fifty. "...a fucking accountant?"
She makes a sound, somewhere in the back of her throat, and takes another drag on her cigarette as her eyes flicker over her lover, then back up to the sky. Her shoulders roll up and down, smooth-motioned, in a little shrug. "...just watching the sky."
(tucker)
"Don't say I never offered, and with the amount of shit I catch around here I just figured it was.. ya know like, protocol." Sliding muscular arm out to snatch the buck and a half he shoves it in his pocket.Turning his gaze back to the gnawer, he grunts in appreectiation for the beer giving a gratefull nod in his direction taking another long drag from the beer before grabbing his quarter-pack of marlboro reds and offering the dreadlocked ahroun one and taking one himself.
(james)
he'd been in the middle of searching the many pockets of his BDUs for his own pack
that's when the red and white flag enters the corner of deep umber focus
well... fancy that
the yet unopened bottle switches hands so he can make the easiest reach
the salutory nod up functions as a thank you nod up, as well
those that don't know the pack's mode of communication must think they all have a twitch"Thanks."
he did, however, find his zippo
and the brassy, dull thing snapCLACKfwsh's to life
the orange, speckled filter clenched between even white teeth
and it's only on exhale that he adds his two cents"Everyone catches shit 'round here." half the insults terms of endearment, by the way he's half grinning around the 'bro "You just get it worse."
(rune)
For the moment, her only response is the sharp flare of an errant snort, the rush of air from her widened nostrils, some evidence of vague frustration with such things: debts, perceived or owed. The people who perceive or owe them."You get shit because you act like a little lord of the manor who just discovered the dialogue from Debbie Does Dallas." She casts the Fang a sidelong, assessing glance, then tips her bottle back again. The muscle of her long, bare throat contract minutely as she swallows the amber liquid. Then her hand falls, and the beer comes to rest, again, on the curve of her hip. The chair is tipped precipitously back, scrapping against the fronting brick.
When James speaks, she shoots him a mild little smirk. Amusement, vague, leaks through the harder edges of that brief glance, before her eyes slide away again to the sky. "What he said," murmured, really, in a voice still rough from cigarettes or... something else. "take the chip off your shoulder and bury it. No one here wants to deal with it. It's an anchor around your fucking neck, kid."
(tuck)
A laugh. yes an honest to gaia fucking laugh eminated from the young full-moon. "You think i'll drown out here? you know sweetness i'm not your average fang if you haven't figured that out. And i don't have a damn chip on my shoulder, i'm just getting a feeling for new surroundings." He hits the cigarette and looks down to the pavement below the three ahrouns."Where the hell's Decker been? Looks like he's got more bird shit to deal with." A shrug follows this then a glance to the walker with a smile as if to say 'i'm having a good night, don't fuck with me'. And believe me good nights don't come often with this one.
(james)
oh, the third Ahroun is quite amused
he's only a handful of years older than the Fang
(what.... four or so? of course, he's a handful of years older than half the pack)
so he remembers what it was like to be that age
there's a soft chuckle to harmonize with the hiss of finally opened beer
carbonation escaping into the candle-warmed air
one or two long swallows later he speaks again"But you've yet to learn humility, there's a difference."
said in a way to definitely not provoke the kid out of his good night
just a flat statement in response ot the conversation
even with Livingston in a state of constant blaze
the Gnawer is still probably the most mellow of the pack
(unless, of course, you're a kin mouthing off on the full moon)"Kennedy been back?" smirked on ascertation of the rather... speckled.... look the Tahoma has attained in new spring fashion, then dreads flip over his shoulders a bit when his skull shakes "Walkabout spirit side."
the beer bottle makes a journey through the air infront of him
one of those all-encompassing general gestures out over the lawn and parking lot
that explains everything to the Eagles: place, agenda, timeframe
they aren't the nosiest of packs into packmate business
which, is a good thing, really, given the sprawl of the Gnawer that sets his weight a bit more towards the Walker than centered in the chair
if Tuck doesn't understand the reference, though, he'd have to ask(rune)
It's Rune's turn for silence. Another drag, another swallow, another flicker of an assessing glance cast toward the Silver Fang. Her sharp features remain as impassive as ever, set in a casual, vaguely contemptuous mask that never seems to change from day to day, moment to moment."Mmmm." For their trouble, a vague murmur of sound from someplace deep in her throat: amen to James' preacherman, or something like it. She takes her time swallowing her beer. Carbonation escapes in a low, echoing hiss that reverberates against the amber glass. After a moment, she lifts her chin without glancing at Tucker, and offers, in a wry, self-mocking tone. "...sweetness-rhya. Don't make me beat it into your head, kid."
Yeah, nicknames for the Beta are probably a no-go.
(tucker)
A chuckle, he finishes the beer and sets it down. Grabbing the other, cracking it open with the snap hiss of escaping poisons. Looking over the Walker, slowly like a predator... nope not a chance."I wouldn't take it personal babe-rhya, you may be beautiful but I make it a point not to FUCK my sisters." The curse word emphasised making it more than it is, ripping the word down it's primal meaning. Sex, not for love but for the pure lust that must come with such a litany violation(musn't it?) He takes another drink from his beer and flick his ashes over the raining, looking to james for confirmation.
(james)
the Fang looks to the Gnawer for confirmationand the Gnawer. just. grins.
the expression raking itself across his mouth
it's rogue and animal and dangerous and....... leading into some pretty healthy laughter
(were you expecting ire?)
and there's another absent gesture with the beer
ending with the bottle's open mouth pointing at the youngest Ahroun"Doesn't matter who you're fuckin', kid, you still treat your betters with respect, no matter how beautiful they are."
something of a cool glance towards the Walker
(he doesn't get away with compliments when they're alone, but dare her to correct him on it now)
sure, he could have throated the kid for the insinuation - no matter how true it is
(cause that sex is lusty and raw and primal and dangerous and. goddamned. good.)
but why give the Fang - or either of them - any cause to lose the good mood"Seems like you can get over her looks and remember the appelation just fine."
(rune)
"That's good," mildly spoken, on the cusp of a swallow, as Rune shoots Tucker a glittering, amused little look. "Inbreeding and all. Wouldn't want you to father another cross-eyed little wanker like some I can remember, would we?"Her nostrils flare with a brief, pregnant snort as she flashes a look back to James. As ever, her features are opaque, only the bare edge of a sharp little smirk hooks the corners of her lush mouth upwards. "And I agree, wholeheartedly. I make the same damn point myself."
Tipping back the rest of her beer bottle, Rune drains it in one long swallow. Her cigarette is down to the last shreds of paper and tobacco smoldering next to the filter, and she finishes it off with a chemical-flavored drag, then stubs out the smoldering remnants in the ashtray on the table between them.
That's it for the moment, thought. The chair tips forward, and the Glass Walker coils out of it, like nothing so much as a sidewinder. Long legs, lean calves, bare to the mid-point of her muscled thighs where the satin shine of the black boxers contrasts sharply against her milky skin.
"I have some work to do, you boys have a good night," she says, slipping past the pair, toward the door. There she pauses, and glances down at Tucker's hair thoughtfully before reaching out and grabbing a few of the now blonde strands. "Nice 'do, kid." Over the crown of his head, a smirk and a wink for James.
The door swings open, then, and the Glass Walker saunters inside. If there seems to be more sway in her lean prowling gait, in the smooth curve of her hips, well, it isn't their imagination.
Not by a long shot.
(tucker)
"Believe me, i'm free from worry about mules in the family." his gaze follows the beta up out of the chair. Then inwardly cringing as the urrah runs her hands through his hair."Ya know, i'm still pissed about that shit, I look like a fucking retard." Yeah it was fifth grade but hell, if one went purley by age, Tuck would only just be leaving twelfth grade so somtimes one takes the first thing one thinks of and runs with it. "Nothin' like yer friend there though" he trails off to the bak of the exiting Beta. getting a good look at her silk covered ass and doing a ragabash style rethink of his thoughts on the litany. Muttering almost under his breath...
"She certainly is a knockout though..."
(james)
the chuckle at the Walker toying with the Fang's hair is rather subdued
James can't really say anything about hairstyles
not with the way dreads hang jungle-vine heavy on his shoulders
so instead he offers a return smile to her smirk
one of those grins that are meant just for her
(sly and playful and absofuckinglutely adoring)
it must be in regards to her little jibe... of course it is
because that's really all he can get away with right now
"Night Rune."well.... all he could get away with at the moment
because then she's sauntering on past and swiveling her way through the doors
(.... yow)
and since she's sort've providing a show
what kind of man would he be not to look??
the way he slouched in the chair allows a fairly unobstructed view
(good Gaia almighty)
whistling just as low as Tuck's almost under his breath remark
because they must'nt let the Beta know they say this
of....course.... yea... that's it
respecting your betters and all that"You can say that agian."
(tucker)
Lighting up another smoke before beginning to stare out into the sky again, Tuck begins to fidget in an almost palapable uncomfort."We never really talked man, I mean pack meetings and shit but outside of that... nothin'." Pausing to drink a little drink of his beer (it's his third and believe it or not the seventeen year old kid can't hold his alcohol very well.) he begins again, "I just mean, I really haven't gotten to know you that well. I mean Decker beat my ass and we had a little pow wow the next night, and quite a few since actually he's one of the people I respect most around here cause he gave me a fucking chance. Dire insulted my fucking dad, and I almost killed the little mule fucker for it. Luc and I had... words last night and Rune and erik are always somwhere to give me orders. But you, (words slurring just the slightest.) i never get a chance to talk to you, so tell me where ya from man?"
(james)
Tucker seems to fidgit from a palpable discomfort
James simply eases his weight back into the comfortable sprawl
all six feet two of him stretched out on that little plastic patio chair
Cochran IIs crossed at the ankle
fourth-hand BDUs wrinkling into their own fluctuating form of camoflage
wifebeater clinging to the easy curve of his lean torso
one tanned, muscular arm moving to stub out the last of that 'bro
the other lazily dangling that beer bottle from his fingertips
and from beneath the thin white cotton, the ashed scars of some near fatal battle long ago creeping over the tops of his shoulders from where they run a jagged pattern down his back
other than the disarray of dreads - it's actually his eyes that stand out most about him
deep umber, the color of rich soil liquid and depthless in the hollows beneath his brows
and even though they hold the righteous fury of a born, bred, trained, and battlehardened Full Moon
they're so easy going and mellow it's downright surprising
it's one of those quiet gazes that casts itself over at the Fang"I think it's the first time we've been around each other that it's not a meeting." and the soft grin widens a bit (they've always said he's too damned kind for his own good) matching the soft shine in those dark eyes "Decker's a good guy, he gave me a chance, too, I've never regretted packing up with him. He deserves every ounce of respect we both give him. Luc's a Skald." which, apparently, explains everything, apparently James has had words (bloodshed) with the boy, too "Livingston's a riot when he stops smoking enough to get out of his little spirit powwows and back into this world. Erik and Rune are the best Alpha and Beta I've had, I trust them implicitly and wouldn't question an order they gave me. Dire...."
the words drift off
and as mellow as the Gnawer is
hackles slowly work their way up his ritually scarred spine
and that easy (trademark) smile hardens around the edges".... is an untrustworthy coward that's a disgrace to the Nation and this pack."
and that's.... not a recent opinion, either
he doesn't say it, but it's pretty obvious he never wanted the Metis in the pack in the first place
but he wasn't going to argue with the decision of his Alpha
and while the Skald may have fought valiantly beside them in more than one battle
James, it seems, would be very happy if the Fenrir didn't return from his lesson
(he. hates. that. Garou)
but just as quickly as it came, the tension passes"I'm from Albany." which would explain why his accent seems to blend so well with the locals, save a few differences in the carry of certain sounds "Raised by a Sept up there, did the things our kind does," and lost so bitterly "...hit NYC a few years ago, then came down this way last fall and was in the right place at the right time for when we packed up."
(tucker)
He chuckles and nods adamantly at the rip into Dire. Drinking steadily through James' speech."What's eagle like?" It comes out as a blurt of a sentance. "I mean, i've never trucked with a bird sprit that wasn't Falcon, and I just wondered what the totem itself is like." A shrug, laid back like the gnawer, he could get used to this...
(james)
finally, the Gnawer reaches out to claim the remaining beer
taking a moment to add a cigarette to the ensemble
Camel 99s rather than Marlboro
the pack and zippo tossed onto the table between them
he's noted that Tucker's slurring a bit
though there's an idle thought the kid may hold liquor better than himself
so he's just taking his time through the alcohol
even if it is just beer"Not sure how to compare." offered on a plume of smoke "My last pack was accepted by Mother Rat, she was gritty and tough like the city she lived in. Eagle's more etherial, stronger in a different way, almost seems omnipotent.... the day he accepted us was like he took over and became the sky."
no Galliard is he
even with the level of unexpected education he has from Frankenweiler upbringing
sometimes the Hood falls short of words
but it's the tone that creates the imagery
the wistfulness of the musician that allegorizes the sheer awe and power of their totem(tucker)
"Ya know, when I was in Texas... I had some ganwer friends a bunch of fucking wierdos if ya ask me... but ya know what?" Tucker is finished with his third beer and yes he is, though to to the point of funny adjectives (trashed, blitzed, hammered, plasterd, etc.) certifiably drunk."Those guys were real an' I tell ya you're good guys even if the fucking elders from my tribe with the fucking sticks so far up their asses don't see it. I can't see how you guys can be considered commoners, hell you're fuckin honest, strong, and you got numbers on yer side that's fer damn sure. Anyway i'm drunk, but I mean this. You're a hell of a guy james. I hope I can pack up with you folks some day."
Running his hand through recently dyed blonde hair reminicent of eminem or a backstreet boy he chuckles. "You're all a good bunch of urrah, even if Rune gives me shit and Luc thinks I wanna fuck his ex-ol' lady, WHICH I DON'T (adamant, about this one. Last night was a misunderstanding)." He removes a small piece of paper from his pocket recognizable as a hooter the size of a mans pinkie and offers it to the dreadlocked Ahroun.
"Got this while I was up north, figured I'd share the wealth. I'd stay and smoke but i'm tired and and I hear that couch calling my name. That thing is sooo much more comfortable than that damn semi-trailer was!! Anyway night man." Gettting up he stumbles over to James and gives him one last work of wisdom. "you're a good fuckin' guy jimmy and I tell you what if you ever need anything I gotcha. ANYTHING."
With that Tuck stumbles into the condo, smaking his head into the door frame before he gets all the way in, crashing down onto the couch with his face down in the cushions, sure Rune would yell at him tomorrow about his shoes but fuck it sleep was a now thing.
(james)
he listens to the Fang rambling
really listens - not some tolerant smile and nod most kids would get when spouting off drunk
he's giving his full and undivided attention
allright, maybe there IS someone James can outdrink
(and the fact endlessly amuses him)
the mention of Luc's ex (bitch) gets his attention
though brows certainly life as the fat roll is pulled out and offeredit's easy enough for James to give something
he's given up his last beer or scrap of food to a packmate without even thinking twice
(twice now, he's almost given his life)
it's the Hood in him - others need and he provides
but to get something, from a Fang, something even as menial as a joint
well, it means something, especially following the rambly speel
given the week he's had of being told and feeling worthless
it means something more than Tuck probably understands
and the Gnawer just smiles (genuinely) and laughs"Night Tucker... thank you.... watch th...."
that would be one Ahroun's arm snapping out like lightning to wrap fist in the other's jacket
just enough to steady the kid's balance to get in the door, not literally through it
(and James is strong, he doesn't even brace himself for leverage)
not bothering to finish the sentencea bit of a peer to make sure the kid lands on the couch
then dark eyes drop back to the little gift
knowing it wasn't chiminage - just sharing
..... kid doesn't seem so bad after allPosted by james at 12:00 AMJune 04, 2003.06.04.03. - battlehungry. bloodthirsty. [rune][newark]
(rune)
Canal Street
NewarkThe streets are empty, mostly, in this long-dead portion of the town, night and day. Seventy years ago, the factories around here ran three shifts: day and night, day and night, immigrants downing in the foul stench of one of many leather tanneries, textile factories, slaughterhouses, ironworks, what-the-hell-ever. But mostly: tanneries and slaughterhouses,
slaughterhouses and tanneries, a symbiotic relationship if ever there was one.Sixty years ago, what with the war and the shortages and all, most of the factories scaled back: two shifts. The workers were needed elsewhere, in then chemical and metal factories, in the ordinance factories and the tire factories, in the army, over there. Everyone figured it would pick up again, after the war ended.
Everyone was wrong. The war ended, and the tanneries cut back further. Two shifts to one shift. One shift to a smaller shift. Until the first of the tanneries closed, shipped the work off to Mexico, laid the employees off. The city was starting to look shabby, the old neighborhoods, though still intact, were starting to decay as the newly constructed suburbs swelled with those who could afford to leave.
Only the most desperate find themselves drifting down canal street, with its broken streetlights and great industrial hulks lining either side of the street. There's plenty of abandoned housing in the residential neighborhoods to accommodate the homeless population, and only the crazed would be willing to sleep so close to the sprawled hulk of the slaughterhouse down the block. Rumored to be haunted, it is.
The tip came from one of James' kinfolk. Easy for them to insinuate themselves among the trash and riffraff (because they are the trash and riffraff) and drift like forgotten newspapers down the city sidewalks, unseen, all-seeing. Little less than a month ago, they destroyed the budding base of activities for a gang from New York found to be a little "too close" to the Wyrm. Now, a little less than a month later, a Bone Gnawer kinfolk brings 'em word that someone's poking around then Goldmeier tannery, wearing those same colors. Seems their ambitions are not easily quelled, and Newark, well, Newark is a perfect target, after all.
"You take front, I'll take back," dark eyes sweep up across his features, bathed in the wash of greenish light spilling from the dashboard. Her fingers tap in rapid rhythm against the steering wheel of the rental: the Beemer would stand out like the sorest of thumbs, here.
The hulking mass of the slaughterhouse down the street catches her eye. Her gaze flickers up and her mouth thins with distaste, but it would be suicide, nothing more than suicides, to try to do anything about that blighted sink. Urrah practicality: one thing at a time.
"Ready?" she swings open the driver's side door and flashes him a brief, wicked grin, freshened by the first rush of battleawareness, the sharpened senses, the heightened response to stimulus, the heavy dose of adrenaline quickening her blood.
(james)
good ol' Golemeiers - that's one place he won't easily forget
(sometimes, at night, he still hears that keening wail)
even if he doesn't actually remember the closing chapter of the last time they were in this area
his jaw drops somewhat lower, working in a circle, tongue running over the topography of his teeth
there could actually be a rather scandalous remark to her directive choice
tossed between them on curve of a slanderous grin
however that is not the one thing that they think of at this timehe settles for just the grin, instead
just as breif, just as wicked, just as primed by the pump of adrenaline thickening their blood
battleready: this is what he was born beneath the full moon to do
the door to the rental clicks quietly closed, his grip pulling off the raised handle to sling arm up and mirror the lazy (seeming) drape that sets rebar across broad shoulders like a yoke, and for all the wolf in him tearing at the gates - the stroll that flanks the GlassWalker is long and easy, Cochran's beating an even rhythm on the grimey, forgotten sidewalk"Web crawl or just flush?"
somebody been pokin' roun' that tannery his kin had said two guys wearin' their colors proud, ain't sound too happy f'what they don't find that shoulda been there, they was smartin' off all sortsa shit, maddoggin' ev'yone - we jus' lit out and sent the call to ya
dark eyes drift over towards his Beta
brow lifting towards the heavy dreads framing his face(rune)
James has his length of rebar. Rune has a nine millimeter, dull and heavy and black against her pale hand. She tosses him a sidelong glance, then her eyes fall to the weapon, checking the clip.There's a moment of rumination - gears whir and click behind her eyes - but it all ends with a brief shrug. "Flush." Her arm falls to her side, brushing along the leather and creaks faintly with every long stride. "If that doesn't work, we'll try plan B."
Their path has taken them to the corner of the building, and without a word she veers off, circling back down the narrow walkway separating the tannery from the warehouse next door. The only farewell she offers him, a brief pat on the ass, almost possessive, before she saunters away into darkness. The echo of her booted feet fades, but he can still feel her presence a bright, hot point in the back of his mind as she circles the building. Wordlessly, she communicates her arrival at the shipping bay doors - a thought, an impression, an image, with crimson undertones: bloodthirsty.
(james)
[.... to be continued at a later date]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMJune 02, 2003.06.02.03. - fountains of (and?) information [imogen-rune] *e[noje]
(imogen)
There must be a particular sort of person who works as she. Does she feel at home in the grey walls of the morgue when everything is silent, or surrounded by her colleagues? Bones that tell tales and flesh that speaks a story beneath surgeon's skill, skill, which some might say is wasted because her patient is long past help anyway? It might feel odd and alien to her to return home to the tidy condominium plaza with its pruned hedges and nearly perfect clean walkways. The stucco'd buildings with stairs on the outside, out of place because the architecht was perhaps from California and had not considered New Jersey winters and by the time it was decided that such things, stairs to each condominium was impratical, too much money was spent and the supervisors hardly cared to begin with.In comparison to the grey walls, grey buildings and stark fluorescent lights, the half twilight of incoming night darkening the green of the lawns and the green belt beyond might be something incredibly out of place.
The green belt is not much of anything to be considered such a thing. Pruned grass and several trees carefully cut back into what is considered appeasing shapes. Wyld shaped by the weaver, slowly being eaten back by the weaver, because every few years, a tree is cut down for 'safety' or for some unknown landscape design that could only be understood by the human artist who worked every once and a while to fit some idea of city beauty.
It's here she's walking, however, exercise, fresh air, freedom from the confines of her condo, off the pathway in the semi dark and past the trees, following some pattern or no pattern at all. Jeans certainly suit the walk, and it is what she wears, having changed not long after she got home. True to form, she had showered as well, hair damp and coiled low on her neck, held back further by a clip or two. As it dries, strands begin to fly away, escaping in curls and waves, catching in the faint breeze that smells of clean air and earlier barbecues, that smells faintly of rot when it passes her, because she'd had a particularly decayed case today, and she hadn't had a lemon on hand. Smells like that bond to the skin. Smells like that make the skin crawl even as it permeates it. Hands slide into the pockets of her jean jacket, a faint clink of keys and coins, as her fingers disturb the contents within.
(james)
she had a particularly decayed case today
something that had traveled well beyond the realms of "normally" decayed
one of those things that was particularly, lingeringly pungent
and perhaps above the smells of the afternoon barbeques in the washed air
he smelled her before he otherwise knew she was comingeven in the guise of a man, the beast remains alert
reading through comparitively dulled senses all the little triggers floating around
one of the most reactive being the tinge of decaying flesh
so that may explain why he doesn't particularly turn his head towards the approaching footsteps
he remains in this lanky stretch across one of the benches
dreads curled up as woven pillow against the top of the back of the rest
dark eyes down at one quarter mast so that he has to peer through darker lashes
ankles waaaaaay out on the sidewalk, pointing towards the little fountain plunked into the little courtyard formation on this quad in some semblance of artistic qualification of aesthetic because it looks good rather than performs any type of true funtional merit other than make a lot of noise
but it seems that's what he was listening to
the way the water tricked into the rain-filthed basin
the natural percussion harmony drizzling across his senses
with the way the weather's been lately, this would probably be the last sound he wanted to hear
but it's different than the rain
there's a higher clarity in reverberative bounce
a pinpoint of melodramatics contained and shaped by the resultant basin
not the overwhelming roar of last night's stormhe still doesn't open his eyes, but chin lifts up when he hears she's within eyeshot
(rune)
The sliding glass doors on to Rune's back balcony open. From somewhere, a thousand somewheres, the low hum of air conditioning. It's cool in the evenings, sleeping whether, but even in places such as these, controlled and dolloped and confined and pruned to within an inch of any possibility of actual life, few are willing to leave their windows open during the day, at night, any time. It's not just the smog that gathers thick around the suburbs, thicker every day, now, as the temperature (slowly) rises and the summer driving season is in full swing. Crime, too, is omnipresent. Someone always wants what you have.The barbecues happen on enclosed patios or balconies. Few sit out on their narrow front stoops and converse with neighbors. As such, developments like this are the Weavers ideal breeding grounds: humans become drones, bees in the nicely structured little hive, without the benefits (and chaos) of social interaction.
Garou are social creatures, though. Even the most private of them, and soon the empty sterility of the plush condominium becomes as stressful and provocative as rush hour traffic. Too much of anything is bad for the nerves: too much quiet, too much noise.
After a moment's contemplation of her cigarette and lighter, Rune tucks them away, slips her high-heeled sandals from her feet and climbs over the wrought-iron railing. It's a delicate maneuver, but after testing the strength of the railing, she extends her long legs and half-reaches, half-jumps for the retaining wall of the patio below.
After that, an easy jump to the ground. She lands, sinking into a crouch to absorb the impact on soft, thick turf, then slips her heels back on.
Another sound added to the constant hum of traffic, the buzz of the lights, the plink plank plunk of the fountain, the canned laughter rolling from the television in a unit opposite them, one of the few with an open window.
"Imogen, James." Greeting, this, uttered as she selects a cigarette and lights up, the sharp scent of smoke coiling into the rest of the scents in the night air. "...sup?"
(imogen)
Now, tonight, the weather has cleared, and a sliver of the moon spears the sky on its setting descent curving toward the edge of the earth. Twilight passes faster here than farther north, and passes incredibly slower for those more attuned to such southern climates as L.A, Alabama. By now the final slanting rays from the sun have died and there is barely a glow to the horizon, and the sky has a luminescence all its own, pale grey, pale blue.Her eyes are dark blue when they flicker upward toward the sky and the sliver of a moon, the slow beginning of waxing once more, Luna's inevitable pregnancy. Stepping around the bench upon which the Gnawer reclines, her fingers tap lightly across the back of it, uninsistant, more a placeholder for a greeting than any actual speech that she may offer. Like Rune, Imogen is lighting up, though her cigarettes are less colourful, offwhite with darker filter, set between pale unadorned lips. She steps, casually, easily, and perhaps out of habit, moving downwind of the two, where either her cigarette, or the particular sickly sweet scent of decay, fluids long gone bad and flesh that should have long been buried cannot quite be caught.
This is one of those smells that she may get used to, but she is aware of. Such a scent is something she has gotten used to, but she is never, ever unaware of its presence.
The turn of her attention fully toward Rune as she speaks, a brief movement of her mouth that equates to a smirk of greeting, as she answers, be it automatically, as she exhales cigarette smoke, poison and cancer easily from her. "No' all tha' much, an' y'rself?"
(james)
and above it all
pack
of this? he would not need sound nor scent nor sight to know the Walker moved closer
she? he could simply..... feel
the tightening prickling between his shoulderblades
that causes him to stretch up a bit on the bench
hands lifting off the seat to wander across the back in some lazy crucifixion
ankles haven't quite uncrossed, yet, but heels are pushing against the concrete
simply because that tilts his skull to look at the now upside-down Beta
flashing a little grin (that grin) before his attention wanders towards the drumming fingers with a glance
but, unerringly, deep umber follows the path of the Kin crossing behind the bench until attention focuses on Rune once more"Just listening to the rhythms."
rhythms?
every spirit has it's rhythm - you just have to learn it
he's mastered Eagle's, for when the time that come it's needed
seems with all the rain, he's trying to find what's inherant within the little elementals that wander and play within the fountain
by the drumsticks tucked into the side pocket of his BDUs, probably picking it up, as well(rune)
Rune does not glance up toward the sunset, which seems pale and unremarkable to her, as it always does. Sunset, twilight, in movies these things are richer and deeper, without the inevitable band of ashen-brown-gray smog that always rings the horizon, even on the clearest nights. In the distance, more low trees, little more than windscreens between competing developments that have stolen their unmemorable names from what may have been here before. What they promise: tranquility, some level of comfort and solidity, some illusion of space to those weary of the city. Or rather, that is what they promised two decades ago. Now, two generations have been raised in such suburbs, and each new development is always billed as an escape from the one before."Not much." Rune smirks, a faint curl of her cruel red mouth, crimson lips peeled back around the golden filter of her French cigarette. Not much. All things equal: that's not bad. The smirk breaks briefly, something like the cresting of a wave, as she casts a glance toward James. The shadow of amusement deeper and different than her usual sardonic demeanor, but only a shadow of such. "Rhythms, hmmm?"
Another drag, and she exhales a plume of smoke into the dark half-light. Her attention strays to the sky, the sliver of moon silhoetted there, its darker three quarters a shadowy presence. The sunset may not draw her glance, but the moon always does. "You've heard abuot this Endron stuff?" she asks, her attention falling from the sky to the kinfolk seated there on the bench. "I've got a list of their lawyers, some other stuff, but - " a brief shrug of her shoulders as she draws abreast of the bench and holds out her cigarette to James, an offering. " - anything you can find, might be helpful."
(imogne)
She turns her head to answer Rune, "Somethin' about a ... " she searches for the word. It would be easier if Garou had their own terms for such things (they do, but not in a language Imogen could ever hope to comprehend or imitate) it might be easier. It's the dual terms that get her. "... spirit o' sorts beneath where they're located. I'll see what I can find. If y'give me..." Pager. It's a shrill sound, sharp, and results in the kinfolk's immediate attention, her hand coming from her pocket to clap on the pager clipped to her hip, thumbing the button.A curse, quiet and succinct, "Shit," muttered around the filter of her cigarette, a cloud of cigarette smoke, as she views the display, dimly lit. She glances up to Rune, completing her sentence, as her free hand, unhampered by the pager in the other hand reaches up to take the cigarette from her mouth, "If y'give me what'cha have, I c'n try and supplement it. An' maybe check inta where they've been before." Despite distraction of the pager in her other hand, there is a vague sense of thought behind her dark unrevealing eyes. Imogen is nothing, if not a scholar.
"Pardon me," a twist of her mouth, half a grimace as she gestures with her pager, indicating the source of her departure. Cigarette ashed and reinserted in her mouth, she steps around the Glass Walker Ahroun, back toward the condos, her apartment, her telephone and then her car.
(james)
it's the almost puppyish twist of his head that says mmhmm rather than a vocal affirmation
now, he could be referring completely to the trickling, tinkling sound of the fountain just outside their conversation
or.... he could be referring, at least partially, to the sudden whim to show her. rhythm.
whatever the connotations of his response, he keeps them... mostly... to himself"Jhoath."
barely. murmured.
almost inaudible to the Kin
and with her pager going off, probably more towards completely than almost
and in the reach to the offered cigarette (thank you) he scoots over a bit on the bench to make room
conventional couples sit there to watch the sunset
perhaps Garou will get away with watching the moonrise?"S'what Billy called it when he came by to get his patch."
he knows more
that's clear in dark eyes peering through the cloud of exhaled smoke
a glance towards Imogen heading towards the car
then back to his Beta - now may not be the time to fill her in?
at least... here on the green belt?(rune)
Rune's dark eyes lift to follow the kinfolk's exit. Her brow wrinkles, puzzled by the reference - she hadn't heard that much - until James clarifies. Rune offers a brief wave to Imogen as she leaves, then sinks onto the bench beside James, kicking her long legs out in front of her."Later." Rune says, confirming his wordless question. Trapped spirits with mysterious names out in the middle of the woods: part of the job, maybe, but not her cup of tea. Her shoulder brushes James' own, as close to the usual affection shown between lovers as they can get away with, in public, in the eyes of the world, and she casts him a sidelong glance as she holds out her hand for the cigarette, nails gleaming like blood in the light. "Anyone told Erik yet?"
(james)
"Don't think so."just as easily as he asked the wordless question - he's moving right along
the way his head shakes is an excuse to shift his weight against her shoulder
the long stretch of muscle that leads into bicep rolling against her arm in a shrug
it's the easy familiarity of the animal pack
it's the mindless contact of two people that obviously live together
(in whatever capacity)
one last drag and he's returning the smoke to her bloodtipped fingers"Haven't seen him for about as long as I haven't seen Decker around. Not something I particularly want to broadcast, though Billy gave me a few details."
(rune)
"No," she replies, flashing him another one of her devilish smirks as she lifts her cigarette to her mouth. "Let's keep it off the radio. Even the dedicated channel."Some flicker of a shrug as she casts him another sidelong glance. Lipstick smeared across the filter gleams dully in the amber lighting, some trace of the gold color showing through the translucent smear of color. Some of that color has found its way to his mouth, and as she glances at him, she transfers her cigarette from one hand to the old and reaches to smudge it from his skin. The suggestion of the sharp edge of her nail, the heat of her body beside his, in the gathering chill of the growing night, the sinful curve of her hip, fitted snugly against his body, the sure awareness of movement.
Her eyes drift up to the sky again, the ring of orange on the horizon, the darker sky above them, where only a few of the brightest stars shine out through the haze of light pollution. "Think it'll ever be fucking summer again?"
(james)
there's the slightest tip of his chin
maybe even a curve of a mirroring smile
(that's what he thought)
he's about to say something - but is verily distracted by her reach
his brows reach towards browline of dreads in concerted - yet subdued - surprise
his lips have a mine of their own and pull away from her cleaning fingers in widening grin (.... hey!) than ends in laughter as musical as the softly bubbling fountain (.... guess it.... wasn't my color)there's that underlying edge
that primal burr that's beneath their skins
reacting to the careful suggestion telegraphed in everything but words
(you're doing this on purpose)
but he retaliates only in the way he kipes the smoke
playful grimace while making a point to try to wipe away the freshest layer of lipstick on the filter
coupled with a matter-of-face nod"Entirely too soon. Why, something wrong with spring?"
she's asking about the warmth of summer in tones from a place just as warm
the actual.... absense.... of an accent that's entirely Californian
just in the way she phrases images drawn of beaches and sand and big blue skies
he's responding with the tones of a harsh winter
the sharp cut of words that could only come from New York
he's all too used to the Union's cold
how opposite, their worlds, in every possible way
.... except one"Learned it."
shared on a whisping curl of smoke beyond his lips
chin lifting towards the fountain just before them
keeping up the rotation of the cigarette(rune)
"Yeah," she smirks, snagging back the smoke with an incidental graze of her fingers along the strong lines of his hand. "It's too fucking cold. Hafta wear too many fucking clothes."Five dollars, easy, says she won't change her look come the full heat of summer, and then she will complain about the oppressive humidity, the sweating stink of exhaust fumes, the weight of the wet air on their respective skins.
Rune is not a woman easily satisfied.
By now, the cigarette has been smoked down to a bare nub. She takes a last drag that is practically melting filter and then flicks it, expertly, toward the convenient ashtray, complete with a Keep America Beautiful sticker that has been thoroughly defaced by some enterprising teenager stuck in this bland land of relentless conformity. Her eyes narrow as she follows then passage of the cigarette, end over burning end, and then shift to the fountain as he nods. Without turning her head, she gives him a rich, arrogant look mirrored in the slow lift of her chin. "Yeah?"
He will feel as much as see the drift of her attention back to the fountain. The shift of her attention, once her eyes dance over the burbling waters. Deliberately, she kicks off her expensive shoes - her toes curl over the heel, holding one down, then the over, until the heels are free of the strap. Then: she lets loose, kicking them into the air, catching them, putting them aside on the bench. Beneath the ashen scent of her cigarette: alcohol, expensive lotions. Above them: cool, chlorinated water, the smokey scent of seared meat.
She stands, taking in their surroundings in a slow survery, scanning on several levels, sight and sound and the intangible, ever-present bonds of pack. No one else has been around for days and days, really, sometimes their restraint is more for form than substance. Amused, or perhaps self-amused, the razor curve of her grin as she saunters toward the small fountain and glances down, pennies line the bottom like copper blooms. The faint spray dampens her silk shell, but only just. The heels dangle from her right hand, and she slips her left into her pocket, with a jingle of keys as she considers the little fountain.
"You'll have to show me." The curve of her grin is almost musing, though there's a certain challenging darkness in her eyes. "...though I think this one's a little small. Wanna go for a ride?"
(james)
he's watching the way her fingers breifly taunt over his hand
brows decidedly lift at her response
(his own suddenly paused - or lost)
..... he ..... can't really argue that
and he probably wouldn't want to if he could
imagination runs wildhe has no idea the level of bitchery that will begin come summer
he has not known her long enough to experience it
but there's probably just as sure a bet: it won't change anything
in fact, he'll have the excuse to do something about it
and again, we are finding things the Gnawer will simply not complain about, himself
not a single word of argument will issue from his mouth"Yeh."
is forming between them, instead
a little agreeable sound sorta just. grinned
because he's returning to that lazy sprawl across the bench
elbows hooked and dangling over the back of the seat
fingers drumming a little tune on the wood
that sound, too, seems to come to a pause as she takes a moment to study the fountainhowever, it's not polite to stare, Jamey-boy
and he was definitely going to in that anticipation of the shell further dampening
he's not looking away, exactly
rather letting his gaze slither down that style that will never change
(except strappy sandals replacing the heeled boots)
and rest on the dancing water, as if in consideration of their present situation
it's more of an instinctual reaction
because he knows what it is she scans for
and his gaze only rises once again after her suggestion
(tracing. every. damned. curve.)
flowing smoothly into the curious lift of a brow"Depends." weight rolls forward, wooden drumsticks clacking in the loose thigh pocket as he stands, long legs closing the distance between them in barely two full strides, and his weight shifts, leaning to peer into the copper speckled fountain, and then leaning in as if to pass some confidential comedic nugget of observation - but it's in the lift of rugged jaw, the hardened edge to the partial smile, and the precise tilt of his head that shows he can be just as arrogantly rich in his looks as she - even if they both know it's an act he puts on just for her, and his voice drops to a whisper that slides in under the volume of the falling water "Do you promise to ride me 'til my knees are too weak to stand?"
the first time, his brows lifted in that wooooaah type of surprise
the second time, they are lifting in that slow creep of righteous challenge
deep glimmer in dark eyes that quite literally begs and dares her to accept it in the most devilish of ways
balance submits to the call of gravity that seems to be stronger behind him
dodging the swipe he's sure will come, knowing how that will fuel her ire for the next one
the restraint they maintain for show rather than substance heightening something in the air between them
because he's backstepping towards the Z3 quietly waiting in the lot
because they're going to a place far away from prying eyes
one of those places they'll do nameless things - just because they canPosted by james at 12:00 AM