July 25, 2003.07.25.03. - brain damaged [kemp][noje]
((and for the record, Damon chose the title of the scene *smirk*))
(kemp)
Sprawled out on the floor where he'd been left. Limbs akimbo except the injured one, it was stiff and stuck to his side like he might never move it again. Mouth open in sleep. Looking like some dirty half grown kid without shirt or shoes and smelling much worse than anything you'd tossed out of the fridge after it had turned fuzzy and greenish.(james)
the black Tacoma peeeeels out of the Rolling Meadow's parking lot
right past the strolling figure of one Bone Gnawer
it doesn't get more than a passing glance, though
(he's experienced Decker's version of driving before)
deep umber eyes rotate back towards a very specific door a handful of yards ahead
behind that door... is air conditioning
and after a day spent in the proverbial Garden State
drumming on a street corner to earn a couple digits of cash
nothing. sounds. better.rebar clinks in the sling over his shoulder as Cochran's climb the steps
keys jangle as a specific one is found and slide home into the heavy duty lock
the door, however, swings open with hardly a sound, welcoming him into the haven of air co......... World War III
a brow most certainly lifts as the Ahroun takes a moment to adjust
not just adjust, but flail in some attempt to find a living room within the destruction
he is in the right condo, isn't he?
(this may begin to explain the Modi's sudden departure....)
James just... stares.... as the door swings to clank shut behind himand the FUCK was that SMELL?!
(kemp)
The stink coming from the direction of the couch, only lower. Out cold on the floor where he had been left. Shoes gone, shirt with it. Wearing pants that belonged to who knew who, miles too big. Ribs showing clearly. Filthy gauze attempting to stop the ooze of blood on his shoulder.(james)
he's a Gnawer, and been in some seriously filthy places
but this is a smell that even impresses him
it doesn't take him long to find the source in the kid sprawled out on the floor beyond the couch
(..... fuck me)there's a part of him that doesn't even want to know
it's nestled back there along with the part that's praying Rune does not choose tonight to return home
then there's the Hood in him
it's half a sigh and half a curse that heaves out of his lungs
steel toe of one boot nudging against the cub's (all too defined) ribs"Kemp."
(kemp)
Groans with the nudge. The smell of dumpster rot so strong on him it could make your stomach turn. "No, no, go 'way." Mumbling half groaning the words out.(james)
this time, the nudge is harder
in fact, rather insistant"Get up..... or I'll throw you into th' pool instead'a th' shower."
the words are slurred, now, because of the break that didn't heal right
his jaw just doesn't move the way it used to
but the voice is easily recognizable as the Gnawer's
and he sounds like he isn't kidding(kemp)
Groaning, having to lean against the couch to wedge himself upwards. Leaving a black greasy looking streak on the fabric on his way upwards. Slowly swaying back and forth. Blinking to try and clear his vision. "What?"(james)
dark eyes draw to the black streak smeared across the leather of a very. expensive. couch.
(Rune is going to kill them all)
and he does well to hold his tongue
(this is his home, too)
just taking a breath before looking back to the cub
one arm moves to toss the rebar and sling uncerimoniously towards the wall
the jangling clunk on landing about explains his feelings on the moment
the other arm lifts and points down the first floor hallway"First door on the left. Shower. Now."
there.... isn't much room for argument
(kemp)
Cringing with the throw, expecting the item to crash into his head. Swallowing with a nod, though getting there wasn't easy. Leaning against the wall nearly the entire way, leaving behind that smelly mark from his skin. Silence then fumbling around and the sound of water from down the way.(james)
there's a part of him that wanted to help the kid
but remembering his reaction last time they met
in addition to.... whatever.... caused this mess
he figures the kid's done enough screaming for one night
water begins to run and the Gnawer takes a look around the room
deeeep breath Jamey-boy.... one more.
then dreads dance across his shoulders as head shakes
just not gonna think about it yet
a quick trip upstairs and he's coming back down with a bundle in his hands
that's thrown down the hall to thmp against the closed bathroom door
within the tangled pile is a pair of his BDUs and a t-shirt
the cub may drown in them but at least they're clean
(.... just gonna burn the kid's pants, dear Gaia)then he, deliberately and calmly, heads to the kitchen to get a fuckin' beer
(kemp)
He couldn't get his pants off and so he just stepped in the way he was. Hissing with the touch of water through the gauze to his skin. Slowly sinking down to let the water hit him while half dozing in the shower.(james)
beer in hand (and half gone already) he goes and hauls open the balcony doors
hot and humid as it is outside, there is a definite need of fresh air
and since the living room no longer contains anything resembling whole furniture
the lanky Gnawer hops up to sit on the breakfast bar and wait(kemp)
Heat and steam slowly loosening stiff muscles and joints. Relaxing him even more. Just the sound of the shower and warmth, perfect for sleeping. Yawning, his head resting against the side of the tub, eyes closed.(james)
five minutes pass
then ten
and by then the bottle is empty
and the cub should be clean
(if he hasn't drowned)
James spins on the bar to land in the kitchen this time
there's the breif concert of motions to get another beer
then he reaches over and turns on the faucet
high
hoteasy enough way to see if the kid has drowned or not
(kemp)
Starting to shiver as the water begins to cool. Sliding down the tub towards the faucet to turn it off. Groaning with each movement needed to half lay out of the tub. Finally just heaving himself over the side like a seal on ice to slide to the floor with a thump. Rug here was nice and soft and just right for napping on.(james)
water eventually turns off
there's a thump on the bathroom floor
good. kid didn't drown
satisfied with that, the Gnawer turns the faucet off
strolling back down the hallway to thump knuckles against the door"Got ya some clean clothes, they're outside th'door. Put 'em on an' I'll clean up y'r should'r."
nope. no napping for Kemp.
(kemp)
The rap on the door making him jerk upwards, pulling injured flesh and muscle. Groaning while half crawling to the door. He might get the wet pants off and eventually work his way into the clean ones, but drying himself and getting a shirt on was something he could only half ass do. After about ten minutes and a lot of cussing and hissing, he came stumbling down the hallway. Cleaner than before, though he'd bypassed the soap. Eyes and cheeks sunken from not eating for a couple days. He didn't have any spare flesh to start with, now all his bones were sharp angles. Water glistening on his chest and back, slowly running down in a pinkish stream from the soaked gauze.(james)
"Siddown."the second, now all but empty, bottle is used to gesture to a stool in the middle of the kitchen floor
(easy clean up, if anything, though the cub seems about ready to collapse)
in the time it took for Kemp to struggle into the pants James had gathered the pack's all-too-often used medkit from upstairs
now empty bottle thunks down on the counter's tiles next to the small pile of towels, gauze, and tape
the microwave buzzes an interjection, and the Ahroun pulls out a reheated plate of several slices of pizza
it's held out as incentive for the young Fenrir to get onto the stool(kemp)
Grimacing while taking the indicated seat. Forced to hold onto the side of the stool with his good hand to keep from swaying off. Sniffing with the smell of food. Not sure he could work up the energy to eat at this point but like most kids, he was always, always hungry and would give it a good try.(james)
plate's set on the counter within easy reach of the stool
soon enough a carton of orange juice joins it
tonight would not be a good night to test his parenting instincts in tossing it all into a blender and tube feeding the cub
here's hoping energy lasts at least through a slicebottle of Betadine is plucked from the kit next
and luckily the shower loosened the tape's already sketchy hold
because he's none-too-kind in just peeling it right off
frowning at the depth of the wound beneath"Should I ev'n ask what'appened?"
(kemp)
Arching up straight on the seat with the pull to the wrappings. Slowly easing back down again and trying not to let James see how his fingers were shaking when reaching for a slice of pizza. "Monster bit me." Stuffing the slice halfway into his mouth all at once. Forced to bite it off and chew so he could sit it down and reach for the juice. Stomach starting to growl and rumble.(james)
his frown deepens
in part because of the story
(obvious what that bite was caused by)
in part because he knows how weak the cub is
(he would've been a great dad, if he had the chance)
luckily standing mostly behind Kemp, the kid can't see that he's noticed"Was'is name Decker?"
smirked
the story of the living room is beginning to fall together now
towel grabbed next, and it's held to soak up the disinfectant that spills down Kemp's back after sloshing through the wound in rather liberal pour
he's a Warrior, not a healer(kemp)
Arching again with a hiss of surprise when the disinfectant hits his open wounds. Orange juice spewing across the room and coming out his nose to burn nearly as much as his shoulder did. Nodding quickly while choking and trying to get his breath back.(James)
he... can't help the half-grin looking over to the orange juice covered counter
oops."Sorry..."
and sheepish as that sounds, he means it
probably should have timed that pour a little better
towel's held to soak the ooze out of the wound
and he's reaching over to grab one for the cub to clean up with"It'll heal in a few days.... but I c'n stitch it if y'want." dreads crawl over his shoulder as head tips "Why'd he do't?"
(kemp)
Holding the towel to his face to wipe it and his chest clean. Mumbling through the folds of the towel, not really wanting to say it. "'cause bit 'em" The rest lost in the towel.(james)
the mumbled admission doesn't surprise him, really
seems about on par for what he understands about Fenrir
an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a bite for a bite
all's fair in love and shapeshifting
the laughter that comes next isn't mocking
it's soft, even kind - he can empathize
raised around the Sept in Albany, his first shift wasn't nearly as traumatic as Kemp's must have been
but that doesn't mean the concept is foreign to him
this isn't the first cub he's dealt with
not by a long shot"Goin' six ways furry fr'm Sunday's not the easiest thing t'get used to."
(kemp)
Absolutely refusing to admit he had shifted. He'd convinced himself it was a nightmare. "Didn't. He said he was gonna show me something and then he was a monster and he was chasing me and then throwing me and I don't know." Mumbling the last around a bite of pizza. "He made it happen, not me."(james)
there's another frown
the Modi's famous kindergarten class
guaranteed to give you nightmares and make therapy mandatory
obviously - the Gnawer does not approve
but Kemp's not his Tribe - he's Decker's
so James doesn't have much place to arguethe wound is left alone for now
he can stitch it when the kid won't pass out from the pain
tape'll work just as good
not like the cub can get a raging infection anyway
at least let him finish the meal in peace"Act'ally. He did." said with a lopsided smile as the lanky full moon moves to lean against the breakfast counter "Forc'd you into't reactively. Defense mech'nism."
(kemp)
Pausing with a mouth full of pizza. Complete surprise showing on his face. Cheeks puffed out with food, forcing him to mumble around it while nodding. "'e di ?"(james)
now there's a grin the Gnawer can't stop
thorougly amused at the sheer surprise on the kid's face
nodding in.... mostly.... confirmation"In a way. Somethin' you c'n do anyway, leas' when y'get used to it." there's a pause as he takes a breath to flex his jaw, still damn hurts when he talks, and the resultant slur of his speech is beginning to get on his nerves "But'n times've great stress, anger.... fear.... self pres'rvation... it'll sort've happen on it's own. I'd bet throwin' you 'round the room earl'er hit on all those points, an' he knew it. Did't to force ya to accept."
(kemp)
Swallowing with a mumbled response. "Bad dream." Shaking his head. "Don't want to do that again." He'd been so scared the only thing that had made him shift was flight or fight and flight wasn't in the cards with Decker on him like stink on a skunk. "Then he hit me, don't remember what happened. Woke up hurt and naked. Went where didn't think he could find me and then he did and he said he wanted to show me something. I already fell for that one, wasn't gonna let him do it again." The words pouring out in a rush now. "Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me."(james)
can't blame the kid, really
hurt and terrified then run through the Fenrir gauntlet of Garou 101
he'd've bit Decker, too"Deck'r's not..... th' most ..... compassionate... teacher. But y'can't escape what you were born t'be - it's not as bad as y'think." head tips again, curiously "Don't hear y'callin me monster.."
(kemp)
"You never got all freaky and tried to kill me." Hoping he didn't do anything else to him while he was guzzling juice again. Picking up the carton to take a big swallow. "Didn't attack me and roar at me. Why do I have to be like him? Who made the rules?"(james)
muscular shoulders roll in a shrug"Wou'd rath'r teach you to change, not force y'into it." simple enough explanation "Gaia wh'n she created Garou. She made th' thirteen tribes'n chose Fenrir blood t'be in y'r veins.But jus' cause you share blood with'm doesn't mean y'have to be like him. One Decker's more'n enough."
said with a tease in lopsided grin
there's a fondness and loyalty for his packmate
but admittedly the Modi is an asshole(kemp)
He might just be a kid, but part of him thought Decker was brain damaged. Nodding faintly, still not liking the idea that he was a freak and someone had forced it down his throat. Putting the juice down, his stomach too full by now after not eating for a few days. Burping and keeping his injured arm cradled against his stomach. In the next moment, yawning. "Maybe it's cause he drinks too much and smokes that stuff all the time."(james)
if James could only hear the kid's thoughts
he'd probably hurt himself laughing
more than once he's wondered the same thing"S'not even the tip of the iceberg, Kemp."
taking the yawn as a cue, the Gnawer pulls off the counter
grabbing the rolls of gauze and tape and making short work of covering the wound
decidedly more careful this time around
t-shirt the kid never made it into ripped and fashioned into a bracing sling
least it takes the pressure off the shoulder"Empty room at th'end of the hall, 'cross from the bathroom. Go sleep't off. I'll take care've the mess out here."
(kemp)
"Thanks." None too steady on his feet, though actually feeling a little better with food in him. Pausing partway down the hall to look back. "He won't come get me, will he?" He was having horrible nightmares and part of his subconscious had put a name on the monster in his dreams. Unfortunately, Decker was the name.(james)
dreads drag across his shoulders when head shakes
offering the young Fenrir that lopsided, easy grin again"No. He's gonna help me clean'up his mess. I'll tell'm t'leave you alone 'til y'wake."
(kemp)
Frowning with that reply. He really didn't want to run into the mad dog when he woke up either. Finally blurting out another question. "Can he get rabies?"(james)
he pretty much figured the cub wouldn't be happy with that reply
but he won't lie to him and say Decker won't find him again
all James can offer is a full night of peace before that happens"No. As inflicted as he may seem, we don't get sick like that."
(kemp)
Nodding faintly. That clenched it, brain damaged. Mumbling under his breath. "Brain damaged."(james)
oh. that. DOES. it.
as the Ahroun is moving to figure out what the hell to do with what's left of the living room
Kemp can hear him damn well laughing(kemp)
Glancing back down the hallway with a puzzled frown before slipping into the mentioned room. Hoping he didn't accidently get Decker's and end up waking up snuggled with the beast.Posted by james at 12:00 AMJuly 23, 2003.07.23.03. - genius [grania-phantom][noje]
(phantom)
The music can be heard, faint strains reaching throughout the half block that Phantom calls home and pushing back the encroaching dark. It washes through the alleys and byways, reminding people what's good about being here, about being alive.(james)
five blocks between the condos and the theater
that he's covered in Bone Gnawer style
with this easy stroll that seems to cover the miles with hardly any effort at all
well, almost no effort
the heat is another thing entirely
that's got him stripped down to a wifebeater
blackened scars creeping over tanned shoulders from beneath the thin fabric
BDUs are summerweight but seem even heavier with the damn heat
at least he's in the Northern states and not somewhere like Florida where his Cochran's would be melting onto the sidewalk as he went
there's a big of a grin quirked lopsided over (scarred) jaw to hear the music pouring form inside
fingers raise to lips, blasting out a short whistlejust because Phantom's claimed territory is within his own
doesn't mean he's gonna disrespect it and not announce himself passing through(phantom)
Whistle heard and music stops; Phantom goes to the front to check what's going on. If there's trouble . . . but no, he can see a sort of familiar shape coming. James? Must be, not many with pure motives would come here this time of night. The young metis slips out through the loosened boards on the front door and meets his accquaintance in front.
"Hey."
Humming as always, his greeting falling into the song.(grania)
There is beauty in everything, and she is bent on discovering it again, even in the sweltering heat of the night. The door to the studio is propped open, the windows in the back thrown wide, mobiles of metal birds somehow stripped and formed to seem light as feathers flitter and fly in the cross breeze created.
She, the one who works so diligently to see that which other people hide, is there… the door that separates the front from the workroom blocked open, and slender girl sits there, on the floor, a small table, with a well worn paintspeckled board on top sitting between her thighs. One leg wraps around, pale skin, bare from toes to the hem of denim cut-offs, the other foot is flat on the floor, forearm resting across upraised knee. A halter speckled with clay and paint, the former of which coats her fingers as she works the emerging form before her, and a kerchief holding back the halo of curls completes the outfit.
There is music in the background, soft, barely heard, and dark eyes are intent on discovering what lays beneath misshapen clay as she hums absently to herself.(james)
"How do?"grinned easily, if lopsided still
days like this he's considered lopping the dreads off completely for sake of cooling off
but as the temperature dropped with the setting sun
he settled with keeping them tied back under the faded, gray bandana
hands fish through his pockets, pulling out the pack of 99's and the battered zippo"Passss'n' through." chin lifts up, indicating the direction he plans to keep on going, ignoring the slur that just won't go away "Thought I'd check'n."
(phantom)
"Alright . . . How about you?"
Boy is tense, nervous even around those he's met before. Divided, as always (look at me, see me - close your eyes so I can disappear) he isn't sure what he should do. He speaks politely but awkwardly, deferentially.
"Think I was at the condos you mentioned earlier."
(james)
"Cur'ous." the grin turns a little enigmatic before he explains it "Headin' t'Gran'ya's." then a thumb hooks back over his shoulder "Bout five block back tha'way would be th'ones."that's when he pauses long enough to put flaring life to the end of the smoke
his head tips a bit, letting dreads fall to the pony-tailed side
he hasn't really been hanging round the condo's much himself for the past few days"There f'r any reason?"
(phantom)
"Yeah, those are the ones then. Big ahroun and pretty red-headed kin were there. Plus that kid, Kemp. He just changed."
Grania . . . just the name and his humming falls into her song, the one that is her. Grania . . . the pretty woman who hadn't freaked out when she saw his face underneath the mask. Grania, who had changed into a panther before him and let him touch her. Grania, the artist who had rendered James into sculpture perfectly, at least as well as Phantom rendered him into song.
"She going to give you that statue now?"
(james)
the easy grin changes into a soft bout of laughter
he isn't as musically inclined through vocals as Phantom is
but his tones are warm and rich regardless"That'd be m' packmate Deck'r, n' the kin's a good friend."
if the Modi wasn't introducing her as his mate
far be it from the Gnawer to do so
but a dark brow raises at the last
consideration timed through a slow exhale of smoke
(... away... from the metis)
fancy that, the kid finally changed
should make meeting him the next time quite interesting
then muscular (savagely scared by chrinos claws) shoulders roll in a shrug"Prob'ly what'm about to find out. Com'n?"
the invitation open enough
should Phantom want to tag along, he's welcome to, but James won't force him
(knowing how near agoraphobic the young Gnawer is)
assumption already made since he's seen said... statue?... then he's been to the studio already(grania)
Curiosity killed the….
….ah, so that is what is beneath her fingertips. The smile of delight, of discovery slides over her lips as she discovers some purpose within clay, and with a dip into a bowl of water nearby, she begins to pinch and smooth and caress and mold and shift and form the grayness before her into something beautiful, something amazing. From under talented fingertips slowly blossoms the shape, the sheer majesty, powerful sleekness of a great cat in repose… it is born slowly, with such careful attention to detail, even here, even now, in the most basic of stages, the roughest of suggestions…
and still she hums, hand lifting to brush back an escaped curl, leaving a smudge of clay along her cheek, unnoticed or ignored, it matters not, as fingers continue the sensuous slide over moist clay…
(phantom)
He thinks for a moment (she saw beneath my mask, I don't want to see her again - yes I do, and she hasn't come to visit . . .) before he nods his assent.
"If you don't mind . . ."
Not exactly agoraphobic, just territorial; guarding the small space in the world that is his from harm. And who would do it if he didn't? He falls into step next to the ahroun, unconsciously making sure his mask is secure as they move.
(james)
there's a bit of a frown
and his head shakes gently"Nah.... jus'get antisocial on the full."
deep umber eyes glance over after the tease
with the moon slimming in the sky above
the playful street performer emerges past the fanatic warrior
quite a pair, they must be
one tall, proud raggedy-man Ahroun
one smaller, slimmer masked Galliard
there's something about the way James walks
it says that even if the streets weren't as empty as they were this time of night?
he'd dare someone to make a comment about it
(he's a Hood, he protects and helps those that need it)
after another block or two of silence there's another glance"Y'know a shortcut?"
all he has is Grania's card and a.... general.... sense of where the address lays
(phantom)
"Only been there once, but this might make it quicker . . ."
Turning down an alley to cut off a corner of the triangle, and they come out only a couple blocks from the studio/home of the lovely Grania. His gait lacks the easy confidence of James', in fact he looks like he expects a blow or something thrown at him with every step (because he has been hit and had things thrown at him quite often). His dark, thrift store cast off clothes hide him well in the dark alley, and even when they emerge on the lit street near the studio and he tends to stick to the shadows more than the light.
"We should be almost there now."
And, indeed, seconds after he says it the right building looms before them.(grania)
head tilts, slightly, and smile lingers around lips as she lets her hands fall to better see what is emerging under her fingertips, before she continues, again, lost in the delight of clay between her fingertips, the soft light of the studio shimmering around slender form… she finally lets her hands fall, and reaches for the towel draped over her thigh, cleaning her hands with the damp cloth as she regards the beginnings with a critical eye…(james)
Gnawer's blend - it's what they're supposed to do
don't think it's escaped his notice that Phantom seems to blend a little bit more than normal
but even as he follows, then moves to take his place right in the middle of the lit sidewalk
he doesn't say much about Phantom's habits: to each their own
(but it pains him, deep down, to know it's a result of past abuses - he's seen it too often before)
the music filtering out of the open doors of the studio makes it easy to find
and there's an approving nod to the shortcut proven useful
one strong arm reaches out, muscle bands of steel surrounding bone, and knuckles hammer a beat against the big display window bypassed to reach the gaping door"Gran'ya?"
called out in peering around the corner and into the studio itself
(phantom)
He blends because (what else would he do?) he doesn't like to inflict himself upon unsuspecting people; he knows he wouldn't like to see the face he has, were he someone else. Abuse changes one, yes, but an even stronger force of change is the reaction of people around you. James' and Grania's reaction to him was not the norm, not what the runt-ish metis is used to. He hears her song and instinctively joins in, clear, crisp baritone carrying through the oppressive summer heat.(grania)
Still humming, slightly, head tilting just so, the light capturing and clinging to wayward curls that have slid free of the kerchief, and then the knock, and the voice, and dark eyes lift, slowly, and somewhere midway capture and tug at the corner of her lips as well, pulling them into a smile as she tips her head.. “..James…” (how is it his name can be such an intimate caress, a purr over senses to cause a tingle of anticipation…)
Muscles coil, body moves, and a goddess from the clay herself she rises, some venus of unearthly beauty even in such run down clothing – rags worn as riches. Fingers are given another wipe with the towel before it is tucked into back pocket, and (mostly) clean hands reach for James’ as she steps forward and lifts on tiptoes, slender form pressed against his briefly to allow smooth cheek to slide along his jaw… “It’s so good to see you..” purred with mere breath, before she steps away and that slow smile teases across her features again.
A squeeze of his hands, and her attention turns to Phantom, her smile brightening even further (the sun itself pales, unable to compare with purity of joy) as she reaches for his hands next, pulling him closer, and the greeting is the same, the purred breath, the slide of cheek against jaw, the warmness of her delight in seeing them both….
“Come in, come in… I was just about to break for some iced tea….”(james)
before stepping in, the Camel is flicked near filtered to the nearest puddle in the gutter
hands - strong, but for a different reason - clasp the sculptor's easily
she purrs, and he simply quirks that lopsided grin
most men would puddle into a mindless collection of quivering goo at such a greeting
(and such a way she says his name)
but the Gnawer has got to be dead below the waist
(wanna bet? he hasn't seen his mate in WEEKS)
because he just takes it all in stride
(bag. fuckin. heera.)
because it all makes bloody sense now
and her greeting is met with a soft chuckle"Figur'd I'd drop by since I nev'r call."
(phantom)
A pianists long, graceful fingers move smoothly around Grania's hands and he lets himself be pulled closer though a part of him screams out against it. Conflicted . . . almost like two people living in the same small apartment that is his brain. And he's not dead below the waist and can't help but feel himself respond a little, despite knowing there's no way she'd be attracted to (monsterously hideous) him.
"Grania."
Her name, her song and he doesn't need to say any more as she slips through his hands and invites them in for tea.(grania)
“I’m so glad you did… if you’d have called I would have more then tea.. oh! but first!” This, to James as she teases, humor sparkling in her gaze as she nods toward the showroom, where her pieces are displayed, and showcased beautifully – even though the spotlights are off it is easy to see she has a great deal of talent. “I’ve still that item for you… come…”
Iced tea forgotten for the moment, already, as she takes his hand and pulls him toward a shadowbox along the far wall, winking at Phantom as she waves for him to follow too… “I showed Phantom when he was here before.. I’ve waited forever to show you….” She stops him before the box, and nimble fingers find hidden switch to light the piece within.
Not very large, indeed it’s surprising there is so much detail in such little space. It is heavy, but not overly so, and a little less then a foot high, including the sturdy base upon which he stands. It is so very clear the Gnawer is the subject, though it is depicted in a beauty he would never admit to having. The brief first meeting gave her the visual cues needed… and from that, she fashioned the little statuette.
It is clearly James, from tattered boots to the top of the dreads, each one carefully wrought in tarnished metal, the one clinging to his cheek where she had reached up and plucked it away that first meeting, to smooth it back in an intimacy that startled the Ahroun.
The trench coat flairs around strong form, and even in the metal can one see the incredible strength in raggedy form, the animalistic way he moves, caught, frozen in time, mid-stride, a fire in his eyes that is coupled somehow with an aura of tragedy… it all is there, tangible, yet intangible at the same time… impressions captured and wrought into a timeless masterpiece, a metal rendition of the song Phantom performed when last they met… “It’s yours, if you wish it.”
(james)
the smile expands to quip a tease back at the playful cat
though that's when his hand is caught and the tall Gnawer is veritably drug deeper into the studio
(it's a den of iniquity, man! quick! run before she sinks her claws into you!)
there's a glance back at the metis
he knows what James is about to get intothat's when the shadowbox switch is flipped, lighting the statue inside
head rotates back around, and eyes lock on the figure
and the Gnawer. just. stares.....you're shittin' me
(snap out of it, Jamey-boy)(phantom)
He follows (he always follows) and is astounded all over again by the sheer volume of beauty in the space, and especially by the piece that is so clearly James. He'd seen the ahroun in very similar pose and now looking at the statuette next to the man who inspired it he's awed all over again by such large talent housed in such a small (beautiful) body. Still he hums, Grania and James together with him as the observer, ever on the outside even when invited in. Only in front of his organ does he feel truly included, though there he's alone and in his own world. He watches James' reaction, nearly as pleased at it as the artist must be.(grania)
her smile lingers and her gaze captures every minute little fluctuation of expression across James’ face, clearly delighted as he seems stunned… her teeth nibbling on lower lip a little before she asks a question she already knows the answer too… “Do you like it?” A wink offered Phantom before her eyes rest on the stunned gnawer again… purring softly… “I told you… you are beautiful…”(james)
he's still just staring
STA. RING.
luckily, the badly healed break only allows his jaw to gape so much
though he makes a point to firmly close his mouth before turning towards Grania
just.
stunned.
he's rarely had his picture taken before
the single polaroid he owns the most precious of his possessions
so to be confronted with something like this
he almost doesn't know how to react
(okay. he has no clue how to react)"I'm not...." the protest dies away into the softened edges of the smile, and he looks back to Phanton (can you believe this?!) before dark eyes swing around to the female feline again "I.... yes..... how'd y'do this?"
knowing, without a doubt, she had to do it completely from memory
(phantom)
He nods; not only does he believe it, but he has much the same vision Grania does. The statue is a physical representation of the song he instinctively weaves around James, and some things lend themselves better to visual art than audio . . . Not that he has the delusions of grandeur to call what he does art.
"She's a genius."
The statement quietly sincere as it weaves into the tune, holding the ring of truth.(grania)
She’s delighted with each of his reactions, every one captured and held close as she clasps her hands together and that purr heightens from deep within her… “You are, and there’s the proof… as for how..” shoulders roll in a nonchalant shrug, blush painting across her cheeks as she laughs softly… “I have something of a photographic memory I guess you could say, though I’m no genius…” She smiles softly at Phantom, and continues..” I just see things, and they stick with me.. like Phantom here and his songs… he sees, and he knows. I see, and I know exactly how it should look as sculpture… This, here, is how I saw you the night we ran into each other, literally”(james)
quite literally
and the reiteration of that fact causes the smile to wane shy
he basically plowed the poor girl into the concrete
his head shakes, trying to clear it self
align all this into rational information
it doesn't work with the stunned Ahroun"I c'n only pick up spirit rhythms..... you two are amaz'n."
(phantom)
Cheeks flush at being lumped into the same category as Grania, and he shakes his head.
"I don't do anything special, it's all her."
To him his music is . . . natural, instinctive as breathing, necessary as air. He takes it for granted, though it could be debated how he'd live without it, should he be unable to play, to sing, to hear. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't jealous of Grania's talent (ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies), not to mention their shared moments, but he's happy that they're both happy and that's good enough for him.(grania)
She shakes her head, and reaches for the statuette, sliding fingers over it lovingly, the creator and the masterpiece, before she looks up to James again… “Thank you – but the subject is what makes an artist great. Phantom’s music is far more…” She laughs softly, and moves to Phantom’s side, sliding her fingers within his again, and laying her cheek against his shoulder, briefly before returning that dark gaze to James “I’ve taken pictures of it – as I do with all my pieces, and it is now yours. I’ll wrap it up for you so to take tonight if you like… it is sturdy, but I’ve a box that will ensure it makes it safely home.”(james)
"Abs'l...." and the word drifts off with a frown, he simply cannot say it yet "Yes." quickly recovered with a soft laugh "I'd love to take it home.... thank you."(phantom)
Fingers in his, head on his shoulder and he looks at her dumbfounded. Even knowing what she does, she still chooses to come close, to share affection . . . his long, strong (deceptively delicate) fingers wrap around hers, squeezing lightly, unconsiously. He smiles when James says he wants to take the statue home, though it means she'll move away from him; if only he could wrap up the songs he makes and send them home with the people that inspire them.(grania)
She smiles with obvious delight and nods, her fingers lingering in Phantoms – for even knowing what she does, she still chooses to be as tender as ever with him. She does pull away then, and takes the statue from it’s place, and moves to the small counter, and wraps it carefully in a white box, wrapping a gold ribbon around it, before signing a card.. (A Grania original, for James. May you remember your strengths always, even in the face of sadness.) and slipping it under the ribbon.. “There we are…”(james)
he's still just..... awed
to a Hood, gifts are places to sleep, extra bits of food or money
but nothing like this
a bit of a grin finds its way to his strong (noble, if the street trash guttermutt could ever see it) features
a warmth to see the affection that dumbfounds the young metis
(if James can find someone... again.... everyone can)
though it is still lost in the sheer amazement that almost overwhelms the Ahroun
long and lean body stretches to turn and follow her to the counter
carefully taking the box she presents
solid weight held easily between his hands"Thank you."
again
quieter this time
touched deeply by the gift
and that's so clear in the softness of his voice"I've got t'go." clear he doesn't want to, and would rather stay in the pleasent company, but duty to the pack calls "Enj'y y'r night..."
offered to them both with a smile
then once again, the Gnawer finds his own way out, and leaves them to their privacy(phantom)
"G'night . . ."
Said as the older Gnawer leaves, so touched by the gift Grania's granted, so moved to amazement by the beauty she's given him so freely.
"I . . . I can go to if you want."
Unsure whether he should stay or go now that the reason for his being here is gone, the awkward young Gnawer half looks at her and half looks at something near her.(grania)
She smiles softly, and her soft (purr) voice follows the Gnawer… “You’re welcome.. you must come for tea another time…” before watching him go, and laughing softly as she looks up at Phantom… “and make me drink all alone… of course not. Come..” And fingers capture his again and pulls him toward the back room, carefully sidestepping the small table and the partial work upon it as she moves.Posted by james at 12:00 AMJuly 15, 2003.07.15.03. - bag. fuckin'. heera. [phantom-grania-kemp]aka: "Thanks, needed that."
[noje]
(phantom)
There's an old, abandoned theater in the area, one that is rumored to be haunted because of the somber strains of organ chords that echo through the streets nearby. Beautiful architecture from the twenties on the outside, and the interior filled with the decor of that era; plush seats gone to rats' nests, concession stand home to racoons, rafters housing bats and birds. And still the strains emerge, beautiful and clear.(james)
sometimes, things just inspire a stroll
getting out into the congested scab of the city
plucking out the remnants of fresh air from the exhaust perfume
thinking that maybe there is still a sun or moon in the sky above the pollution clouds
thinking that maybe there is Gaia's rich earth beneath the crusted and cracked asphalt slabshe left the structured landscaping of the complex hours ago
meandering aimlessly up this street and down the next
there really wasn't any goal to his journey
just needing to be out
reaffirming that he's still alive
that the blood pumping through his veins isn't soaking into some bug littered dungeon
but it's fueling each step, each breath, each thought and look
near death experiences do make one appreciate what they have
and he doesn't ask much, he never has, never had much to begin with
it's just the little things that make it all worth it to himask too much and you're bound to be disappointed
rejoice in the smallest victories and there is where you find your reasondreads hang heavy across his shoulders
several weighted against the sore spot along his jawline
deep umber eyes casually swim across the landscape
taking in the wind-blown trash over there, the sprigs of grass fighting through the sidewalk here
each step brings him closer to something, but he's not sure, and probably not thinking about what
at first, he doesn't hear the haunting melody
caught up in some movie that's replaying in his mind
but soon enough, it drifts in to the musician's thoughts
his head tilting as if that would better capture the sound
that's something he hasn't heard before when coming down this way
..... well fancy that.(phantom)
A haunting melody, one that speaks beyond minds to something older, something more primal. One that calls to those with hearts to hear . . . the performer reaches out with his music and pulls, strains wrapping themselves around something that can't (doesn't want to) resist. Even the rats and roaches, bats and birds seem to respond to the sad lonliness the musician pours into each note.Although the song is sad, it seems to brighten the area it reaches, bringing to it some semblence of it's former glory; an illfitting disguise over the slow death that is urbanity. One can almost see the women in their flapper dresses and the men in their casual suits heading into the theater, answering the call of the music.
(grania)
There’s something in the air, something in the vibration of sound across the breeze that speaks not only to musicians but to artists, painting colors on the wind, dancing shimmering sensations and delights through the very air that is inhaled into lungs and held, captive, until savored for each and every minute taste before it is exhaled again.
There is a girl (there is always a girl) with a feline grace, a slide of step that is so near silent it is as if she glides when she moves. But she is not moving now. She has been seated outside the abandoned building for a while now, since the music first captured her attention, crouched by the door as if afraid to enter, to break the spell of the ghosts and goblins within who play with such aching honesty. Slender, lithe form is swathed in black, head to toe, though in deference to the heat it is light silk halter, and filmy silky all but sheer skirts that cover her knees and pools around her form. Sharp contrast the pale skin, the halo of golden curls, the dusty lashes that brush cheeks, only to lift over dark eyes again. She sees the music in the very air about her – she’d not dare enter just yet… lost within the organ’s thrall…(james)
there's a smile that touches his lips to the tune
hearing the haunting, somber melody wrapping around the softer inherant spell
he pauses, indulging, picking apart the harmony that sings of nostalgia
but there's life here - current life
that much he can feel
(even if his head is still spinning from last night)
and dark eyes draw over the thesad of the building
looking for any markings that would indicate... what played within
whatever it is that tried to push away the relenteless decay of the scab world
no matter for how short a timetomorrow's always a question, concentrate on the now
that's the part you never expected to happen
appreciate ithis steps begin again, taking him around the corner
still he watches for those signs of ownership
a part of it because it's within his pack's territory
a part of it is probably a curiosity he should know better than to have
though a dark brow lifts at the crouched figure
(... been a while)
sole of one Cochran drags to announce his presence a few yards down(phantom)
A sound outside but not at the door (what's that?) and the music falters for a moment but doesn't stop. Someone approaching and he can feel the rage coming as he debates moving to his hiding place . . . but it's night, his time, his home, and he's loath to give it up. After all the time it took to fix the organ, after everything he had to do to make this place habitable, no way is he going to give it up. Sad sobriety turns to something more menacing yet just as beautiful, a signal that he knows someone's coming and that he won't back down.(grania)
Sole drags and scratches to announce anothers arrival, and soul shifts it’s focus slowly as if rending the very fabric of time and substance to force herself away from the sounds within that shimmer and slide and grasp and clutch her attention….
And the music changes and it is a clear signal from within that they know there are people here, and it results in the curve of lips into something resembling a smile… Head tilts, and attention slides, lashes lowered as she turns slightly before they open fully and rest, bright, intense, unwavering on the approaching James. (been a while) It is the beautiful man with the dredlocks who neglected to bring his beautiful mate to model…. It all flashes (recognition) through her gaze, as she uncurls with that animalistic grace, muscles and bone fluid under skin in a stretch to stand her full (not so tall) height.
Her voice is a purr that does nothing to compete with the intensity of music from within, barely reaching out to caress the ears of the intended listener… “James….” The single word breathed with an intimacy that is almost disconcerting…
(james)
his head tips, as the music changes
dreads dragging across the smooth muscular curve of one shoulder
a t-shirt, tonight, because those scars creeping from beneath a wifebeater tend to raise questions
and not knowing where he was going, he wasn't going to take any chances
but at the purred name, his grin rakes (lopsidedly, now) rogue"Gran-ya" slurred, like his jaw doesn't move quite enough to fully wrap around the word, adding a rather interesting drawl to his sharp Yankee accent, without knowing better, one would pawn it off to too much time around the Modi "Guess I owe you'n apology for not callin...."
chuckled softly, easily
beyond the Warrior, he is simply a street performer
that's built into the set of his shoulders, the line of his smile
moon's still swollen above, but waning
just like his (all too apparent) Rage
closer to the doors, his gaze drifts to the left
noting the pried away boards by the broken window
then raising further towards the secondary windows climbing towards the roof"Though think we've been announc'd."
(phantom)
He strains his ears, not wanting to stop playing but ready to flee if he gets a sign of danger other than the rage . . . not all rage is bad, not every Garou wants to hurt the poor metis who lives in the squalor of the abandoned theater's basement. Towering chords reach out, changing the image in listeners minds from one of the city's heyday to one of a darker time when gangs roamed the streets (different kind of gangs than now, ones that hadn't yet fallen to the indifference of today). Any threat and he can disappear in an instant; he knows all the secrets of this place, his home. But he waits, longing for someone to share a little of the night with, someone to talk to.(grania)
The grin rakes lopsidedly, and head tilts again as she steps closer (…beauty in everything...) and fingers lift to touch his jaw that doesn’t seem to quite move enough to fully pronounce her name (not that it is an easy task on the best of days), nails (…suggestion of something sharper, something deeper…) trailing along his jaw lightly, trailing away as she smiles slowly… “Yes.” A pause as if that is all she will say on the matter, before she continues… “I’ve something to show you when you find enough time to call, however.”
She winks, and turns her attention to the subtle change of the music again, laughing softly, the sound rolling amusement as she runs fingers through the halo of curls, fingers dropping to her side afterwards to smooth skirt against thigh… “So it would seem. Shall we?”(james)
the towering chords reach out
literal fingers crawling onto the sidewalk from the otherwise quiet building
they draw on the cement their memorial design
there's just something about an organ, man....
maybe it draws on something dear to him long ago
maybe it is simply the appreciation of one musician to another
he wasn't particularly watching for Grania's touch
but he doesn't flinch away from it
allowing her fingers to run down the rugged, not quite shaved line
feeling the hitch of bone that didn't heal properly near the joint
trailing away to the smooth draw of his chinthere's something different about him
she noticed, yet did not overtly point it out
(there is no shame in battle scars)
that's all he thinks of it
chin lifting a bit in nod to acquiesce"Oh?"
bout all he has to say on that matter, too
still not quite sure what to think of this one
bit of a nod, again, to her suggestion
though instead of stepping on in the doorway
knuckles square and scarred from brawling rap on the wood
opportunity knocks, so shall he, no need to be rude
(a little more hesitant about entering strange buildings, tonight)(kemp oates)
For once not wet to the skin. A little sticky feeling beneath the baggy jeans and shirt, but hey it was summer. Shuffling down the street, shoulders hunched.(phantom)
A knock (how long has it been since anyone knocked on the door rather than just coming in?) and he starts, music coming to a discordant halt, the last chord dangling disconcertingly. He moves silently (surprisingly graceful, but then that's what you get for having to run to the sewers when people approach) to a mostly boarded up window and peeks outside, seeing the man and woman he can't help wonder what they're doing here. Most people are scared off by his music, at least when it gets threatening . . . he reaches into a pocket and pulls out his mask to hide his hideousness before he moves to the door.
"May I help you?"
Voice soft and smooth, a singer's voice, an actor's voice.(grania)
“Oh….” The purred response that rolls into a warm chuckle. She will not ruin the surprise, and there is still the matter of the music that swells and slides and caresses in an encompassing wave of sound and sensation. He nods, he moves, he knocks and there is a slow melting of her form against the jam of the door, shoulder touches, arm braces, torso melts against arm as head tilts, to rest against worn wood… the vibrations of the music within clinging through the old walls and driving sensation about her in warm twisting delights….
The music stops and it is almost painful with the discordant jolt, her breath catching in something of a moan before she lifts her head – in time to catch the shambling figure of Kemp down the way and closing in… she studies him, seemingly lost for the moment, allowing James to cover answering the question from within….(kemp)
Young with pants so baggy the crotch was somewhere near his knees. Muddy brown hair just past the collar, straggling into the face of the teen. Lanky and thin might fit him if you could see the bones under the oversized clothing. Drawing closer with a faint frown. Organ music? He musta been hearing things. Course about the only thing he knew about organs, besides the one in his pants, was they played them in all those goofy old movies.(james)
he can't help the widening grin when the music stops
(always had been mistaken for a Ragabash, when the moon wasn't full)
that's offered to his sudden companion
dark gaze flips over his shoulder as Grania's focuses elsewhere
(.... aha... the cub)
but when the question arises, he's turned his attention back to the door
just because he was born in the street doesn't mean he has the manners of an urchin"Heard y'playin." easy and warm, James isn't shy around strangers, that's for sure, a lifetime of working street corners for change made sure of that, and something within him seems to respond to the clarity of theater that colors the hidden being's voice, even if he struggles to form words past the new dysfuction of his jaw "Figur'd y'heard us, knocked so you'd know who y'r aud'ence was."
(phantom)
"Is it just you and the woman?"
Still smooth and quiet, but with a slight edge of nervousness . . . he only goes outside when he needs food and never lets anyone in if he can help it. He hadn't seen anyone else from the window, but he can hear the steps of another . . . hopefully it's just another bum, another wino that'll pass by and leave him in peace.(kemp)
Slowing his shuffle. James looked sorta familiar, kinda hard to tell at times with the dark and all but there was that hair of his and he didn't know many with it. A little bit of a grin, maybe, starting with a look at the woman with him. One thing he did enjoy, it was boobs and that's where his eyes were heading first.(grania)
Her smile slides slow, warm, over lips as she meets the burnt umber of James’ gaze, no shyness here, around anyone it would seem as she returns to watching Kemp for a few moments, the baggyness of pans, the thin fabric that is far too big and hides a skinny frame. Her gaze is direct, disconcerting at best, interested at least, unwavering…
The question comes from within, and her voice rolls in it’s own reply (this one could have been on stage, on screen, yet she preferred different artistic avenues)… though the words are direct, it’s oddly lyrical in tone….
“There is another that approaches with a fondness for the female form, those would be the footsteps you hear approaching.” Further reply is left for James as back arches slightly… the silken halter and shimmering lengths of all but seethrough skirt clinging to skin, leaving not much to the imagination. The boy enjoys, and who is she not to enhance the sensation if only for a few short breaths….
(james)
his chin lifts up in a nod
that's aimed at the kid down the way
(yep, it's me)
though he can't help the amusement noting where the kid's eyes simply crawl
with that slimsy silk and whispy sheer skirts
he should be getting quite the eyeful of the outgoing sculptor
(he remembers what it was like to be that age... and if it wasn't for his mate....)"One kid I know, down th'way."
while he may be a Full Moon Warrior of Gaia's chosen children
he's not insensitive
and maybe he can sense the hesitance of the.... Garou... fancy that... inside
he's a Gnawer, for crissakes, and has probably met weirder
so pays that niggling feeling of doubt no mind
(obviously, anyway)
it's all about that easy (lopsided) smile
some small victory to counter his swollen Rage"Didn't mean to impose, wanted to know if y'minded I hang outside a bit to listen."
whatever the intentions are of the other two
he leaves up to them to admit
though it's pretty clear he probably has a question or two beyond that
but in the company of others, won't push
not demanding introductions, nor forcing his way inside
at least not yet(phantom)
One he can handle, two is iffy, but three in his home, in his hole is right out and he steps outside for the first time in days, squeezing his medium smallish form through a gap in the boards on the door. A runt, a whelp, no better than a cub in all reality and he faces them defiantly, daring them to find fault as all others before them have. Half of his face is hidden behind the mask, but his beautiful, clear blue eyes shine through as he takes them in with an artists eye, converting images to music in his mind as he hums their songs to himself. Light and airy, yet mysterious for the woman, angry yet humorous for the man, but the boy he can not yet guess.
"You heard me play?"
The question falling into the music he weaves rather than interrupting it.(kemp)
He wouldn't have noticed right now if the guy with the mask had a head where his penis should be, even if it was sing Yankey Doodle Dandy and doing the cha cha. All he really noticed was those boobs. Man and she wanted him to look, he just knew by the way she was nearly stuffing them out there like a trophy on display. And who was he to not look? Grinning for all the world as if he had just gone to heaven and there was nothing but naked angels flying around his head.(james)
if James pays any attention to or forms an opinion on the mask, it doesn't show
(his amusement at Kemp's visual bliss is, however, rather apparent, especially when Grania takes a rather drawn out and deep breath, the Gnawer is well aware of her... unconscious? right... games)
whatever floats your boat, right?
(or pants, in the kid's case, because he's right, she wants him to look, the artisan proud of her work, even if it is her own body, there is beauty in all everything and she's confident in her embodiment of it, and never once does that gaze waver from the boy)
he is, after all, a 6'2 whiteguy with dreads down to his mid-back
not particularly much he can say on style
not that he would anyway
if there's any fault there
the Gnawer doesn't see it
or doesn't care about it"Yeh, half block away."
one arm extends, slowly
bands of steel muscle through his arms flexing
palm up, fingers spread
that would be invitation to shake
intead of a threat"Name's James."
(phantom)
"Phantom."
Maybe not a true name, but the only one he has. Offered as he tentatively takes the offered hand and shakes with his own soft, strong hand. Long, cool fingers are never still as they seem to take in an impression from James' skin, something he adds to the melody he weaves. Blue eyes, a shock of white blonde hair and the half a face that shows is ugly, slightly twisted and a little wrong as he looks the man in the eyes.(kemp)
For his part he was entranced in the view and things were starting to look up. Good thing for baggy pants, it left room for growing, in more ways than one. That smile frozen on his face.(james)
his grip is strong
strong enough to crush Phantom's within calloused grip if he wanted to
but it's clear enough that he doesn't, because the shake is tempered but firm
thick knuckles squared by boxing
palm rough across the center from weilding rebar as drumsticks
but still, the Gnawer wears that easy smile"Heard rumors some sorta Phantom haunted th's place, though never came by t'check the story true." his chin lifts to indicate, but his gaze never wavers, deep and soulful as the color of Mother's rich earth (never back down) "Gran-ya's th'one mesm'rizing Kemp ov'r there."
"Kemp....." Picked up from where the Ahroun left off, the singular word is breathy, thoughtful, coiling like silk around the young Fenrir's ears, like the sumptuous word was meant for him alone, and the way she pulls from the wall, fluid (feline) movement of liquid grace - thighs tense, hips roll, torso slithers, and brings the next heaving breath right into his sights - draws her forward and she reaches.... the tender touch of her middle finger tracing down the bridge of his nose as if finding the lost secret his features contained therein (and perhaps she is), golden brow striking towards the head of glowing curls. But whatever it is she finds, and concludes, it only dances in disconcerting gaze that remains locked on his own.
(phantom)
"Grania . . ."
The name a song in its own right and he only draws the music out of it as he glances at her again, then to the younger man as he hovers nervously, protectively before the door of his lair.
"The rumours usually keep people away. Even your (our) kind never come here, at least not this close."(grania)
Phantom speaks her name and it is a symphony of it’s own, sliding over her senses in a way that pulls another breath deep into her lungs… the fingertip along Kemps nose, slides under his chin, a languid exploration of his cheek, to slide around under his jaw, nails – pointed, sharp (hints of worse just under the skin) – dig slightly in the tender flesh under jaw as she physically lifts his chin, bringing his eyes to hers, holding his gaze with hers for a long moment…. then she leans in, closer…..
There is no mistaking his scent, his breath, the way his chest lifts in hesitant anticipation as her cheek – silken soft, smooth, unmarked – slides across his, bringing lips to his ear as she purrs, softly…. ”my eyes are up here, youngblood…” it is a voice of a young man’s wet dreams, sultry, smooth, oh so promising, the request rich with promise of what will be received should he comply and lift his gaze, if but for a moment.
She turns then, her nails still under his jaw, to press her back against his chest, the slide of hips and silk agaist those reaction hiding jeans subtle, yet clear, as she moves with a dancers (feline) grace, and rests his chin on her shoulder…. (oh…new vantage point…) and smiles at Phantom… “You say my name beautifully, just as you play…” a pause, a shift of position without much more then a smooth flex of muscles as fingers pat kemps cheek (…good boy…) “I’ve never been able to resist a mystery, myself, such as the rumors here…”
(james)
the young whelp of a man hovers protectively (fearfully?) near the door of his lair
the older, muscular Ahroun shifts weight to make himself comfortable against the glass of an old poster display
shoulders roll in a bit of a shrug
a glance away to check the surroundings
(okay, part of it's to watch poor Kemp get tortured, DAMN)"Rumors keep most away, prob'ly still will..... wouldn't've taken much heed, save.." dark eyes drift over, again "Sort've in the middle of my stompin grounds."
gaze held
our kind, allright
though he's not tensed up in display of prowess
not feeling the need to defend his territory (...yet)
rather opposite, shoulders sloping in calm degree
seems he just wants to talk
but since this is Phantom's chosen hideout
he'll let the smaller Garou decide on where to be a little more formal(kemp)
Oh that was it. Damn, first there were eyes, at least he thought they were eyes, mighta been blinking nipples for all he knew right now. And she was touching him? When that backside went against him it was like an electric current and off went the fireworks, all in one big breath catching explosion. Literally panting, that grin flashing again. "Thanks, needed that." And before he soaked her too, he was stumbling off.(phantom)
Not really one for formalities so long as everyone's polite, he follows the full moon's lead and relaxes just a little against the door.
"Your stomping grounds? They didn't tell me . . ."
Afraid the other will make him leave and he won't be able to keep them away, the ones that come closer every year every month every week every day, the dark ones, the really bad ones. He looks back and forth between the two, then comes to an earth shaking (for him) decision.
"You can come in for a bit if you like."(grania)
The glance that lifts and meets James’ glitters with amusement as the boy shudders behind her, and gasps with the suddenness of his…reactions. Tongue slides over lips, slowly, and her grip slides away from him as she purrs a soft “Anytime” and watches the poor boy shamble off in search of a towel. At least he had enough sense to pull away before soiling her skirts…
She smooths hands across her thighs, and moves to stand just behind James’ shoulder, her fingers lifting to just barely touch along the small of his back, nails prickling in fabric lightly as the intensity of her glance finds Phantom once more… “Thank you…” for the invitation, but it lingers – she’ll fade away should James wish it, after all it is his stomping grounds she trespasses on as well…. But within the softly purred words is a hope to hear him play once more…(james)
okay.
that?
just does it
and the Gnawer is suddenly barking out in laughter
(he knows that look, and he does have a sense of smell)"Think you just made the kid's night."
it takes him a moment to regain his composure
(that. was. priceless.)
then offers Phantom a slow, approving, nod
it's as if he can almost see how the little Garou's world just shook with the offer
and while he could easily be overbearing and demand
he's basically allowing the other to make the decisions that make him comfortable
it may be that he's testing
it may be that he's just polite
it may be that he understands that fear, for some reason
(it may be that he's taking no chances, tonight)"'Preciate that, would let 's talk freely."
glance slides over his shoulder
Grania isn't sent away, nor her touch shunned
but speaking freely will include her, as well
that much is clear
just as clear as her hope to hear more of the music(phantom)
The small (puny, runt-ish) man slinks back in, pushing aside a loose board to accomodate the larger form of the man . . . not waiting for them to follow he heads back to the organ, his baby, his lover, his home. The disrepair of the place is obvious - how could it have escaped such a fate? - but not as bad as one might have imagined from the shabby exterior. The place is cleaner than expected, and apparently loved. A home, not just another abandoned building occupied by junkies and squatters (although there is a bit of evidence of such in the lobby before they enter the theater proper). Again Phantom moves with his (un)usual grace, but now there is audience to see as he makes his way through the building.Taking his seat on the organ bench (the organ is the one thing in the place that looks untouched by the ravaging hands of time), he begins to play again, first the air he'd composed for Grania (and it fits what he's seen of her perfectly, his fellow artists would appreciate that) and then the one for James. Both flow together, around each other, no obvious end to hers or beginning to his; they just are. It seems as if he's picking something out of the air, playing a song he's heard somehow, somewhere.
(grania)
She laughs softly, knowing she made the young mans night, and probably will for some to come, and with a wink for James, fingers slide over his back and she slips through the boarded up door, entering the young garou’s domain following with that same (un)natural grace, fingertips lifting here and there, to follow the line of some shift of wood, some lean of wall, gathering the impressions of the home as she moves…
Then he begins to play, and her eyes shine as she moves closer sinking to a fluid crouch near the organ, entranced, enthralled with the way he composes from the thin air, recognizing what he hummed with her name, and how it now weaves through the heavy piped sensations… arms warp around knees, and eyes close, and she simply lets it wash over her and drown her in the delights of his talent….
(james)
he follows, quietly
nodding thanks that Phantom makes his access easier
and as they work their way through the building
he looks around in curiosity (watching his back) rather than intrusion
as Phantom sits, and Grania crouches... James finds a sturdy looking seat and unfolds it for his own perch
that smile returns, widening to hear the tune that illustrated his name
while business may be at hand, he's respectful of the artist
listening quietly as fingers drum an absent (habitual) accompaniment on the wooden slat which functions as chair's air
only as the songs seem to ebb into something else, does he break the trance"Beautiful...." murmured, and his voice only barely grows for the next "Name's James Branson, Jukebox, Drums 'n Skulls, Fostern Full Moon Bone Gnawer of Eagle's Own. Our territ'ry spans most've Northern Jersey. Not here t'drive you out, Phantom, but woud 'preciate knowing more 'bout you and what brought you."
that, of course, goes for Grania, too
the details on her are still rather vague
but he's keeping his speech to a minimum for now
it's clear he's having to think about the formation of words
struggling to adapt to the newly ill-formed jaw
even if he's not particularly going to let it stop him if the need arises(phantom)
He stops playing reluctantly then turns to face James in respect of one of greater station (for fear of getting beaten otherwise, it's happened before).
"I'm a gibbous moon . . . cub (spitting the word out with disdain; even he knows he should be more by now) of the Bone Gnawers . . . I was brought here by some others who found me in another city. They taught me some, but not a lot . . ."
He's polite, but doesn't seem to know all of the proper ettiquette.(grania)
The Gnawer speaks, the beautifully dreadlocked man with more scars then those on his flesh, things that run deeper and more true, and more intensely awe-inspiring then he would ever suspect… and his voice weaves the music, and then it fades, and with such aching reluctance it actually brings tears to her eyes, dark eyes that lift to Phantom with a smile of pure appreciation for the beauty woven at his fingertips…
A tilt of her head, lashes fall in shutterclick memorization of the moment, before she lays her cheek to her knees and looks at james with a smile that lingers amused… “I am simply Grania… Twilight’s child…” but it is there she stops, letting the words linger….
(james)
Bone Gnawers?
a brow certainly lifts
then the smile widens
at least he's not another fuckin' Fenrir
the moon explains such heartbreaking talent, too
he's drummed with the Galliards of his tribe at moots
as a musician there's a healthy respect for their musical prowess
chin drops in a nod
there's more, of course
but he's not focusing on that now
instead his attention turns to Grania
(... Twilight's Child... he's heard that before...)
and a brow lifts, expectant"And does Twilight's Child have a tribe?"
not always one for pomp and circumstance
he did notice she left that important part out...(phantom)
Half glad to be out of the focus of the ahroun's eyes, half wishing he were the center of attention again . . . but his eyes go to the beauty that is Grania. Hers is the kind of beauty that has inspired writers, musicians, painters and all other kinds of artists for centuries, and he memorizes her (shape, voice, movement, mystery) for a later date before his eyes go back to James.(grania)
“Of course….” It rolls from her lips with a soft purr, more pronounced, more sensuous then any she has let free again, the words themselves a caress over the ear, down the spine, tickling along the skin with pinpricked anticipation of what touch could do coupled with that sound….
It is then that she moves again, such fluid grace and sensuality flowing through a form more attuned to pelt then skin, arms sliding from knees till nails prick at the floor, head tilting, sliding cheek along silk covered knees, till chin rests, and it’s a slow roll, a curl of form that melts to the floor that sees her shifting back, pitch of hips pulling her to the side as muscles and bone and skin continue to melt to the floor, halo’d curls resting in palm of hand as elbow finds floor… some great languid (feline) now reclined comfortably on her side, knees bent toward chest, fingertips dangling over knee…. “Don’t we all?”
Tongue slides over lips, as dark gaze crawls along the floor to dance over Phantom’s figure, seeing his wish for the limelight he so quickly shuns, before she finally replies with a slow arch of golden brow toward golden curls, head tipping to capture earthen brown gaze of the full-moon once more “Bagheera…”
And there are those who would kill her for such a tale, there are those who would not believe her, there are those who would be fascinated and simply wish to know more…. It remains to be seen – which are they……(phantom)
The movement (the song) and his eyes go back to the woman on the floor, wide and full of wonder. No one had told him anything of other shifters, barely anything of his own kind of shifters, in fact and he can't help but turn back to the keys of the organ and play Grania's song again, this time with a sensuality he hadn't incorporated before and a little more mystery. Music is his way of speaking more than words; music goes beyond what he knows how to say, music transcends launguage, race, breed, tribe, color, creed . . . The metis cub - despite (or because of?) his lonliness, despite his lack of knowledge, despite his face still hidden by the mask - is music, and it's himself he pours out onto the keyboard. And when he stops, the air around them quivers with a magic as if one can see the images he's played, feel the presence of the idea he's called to being. Yet everyone knows the song isn't finished, not by a long shot. There's too much he doesn't know.(james)
Grania has a glowing beauty which inspires the most passionate of artists to compose until their fingers bleed
James.... doesn't quite compare
he'd probably stare at someone like they had two heads if the reference was made
he's just... James
one Ahroun
one Gnawer
with dreadlocks
designed to blend and fit in anywhere
cause that's what Gnawers do don'tcha know
there's a bit of a smirk to her first reply
Of course we do it seems to say It's a question of which we claim
then a brow decidedlylifts
Bagheera?
well goddamn
he knew she was a changing breed
he could just never pinpoint what
that would very well explain it
her kind was supposed to be... well.. dead
the War of Rage could be thanked for that
but one thing Gnawers are good at is accepting what's thrown at them
and a slow, thoughtful, nod seems to do just that
Bagheera then.
curiosity is veritably peaked
but now isn't the time
and his dark gaze holds hers for a moment, and turns back to Phantom
though the song keeps him from speaking
lips were parted to begin forming words
but the breath wasn't right, the moment wasn't prime
his jaws remains slack with the sudden power of the metis' song
at least it's giving him time to recover from that big of information she gave him
(and dayum he's impressed)
the air is ALIVE with the beautiful, mysterious melody"The others still 'round?" his head tips, dreads dragging over t-shirt in the movement, asked so quietly because he hates to break the woven spell "Cause they'll wanna know this too, Eagles won't run an'one out with no cause. Terr'tory's big 'nuff to share some space, so long as you keep yer noses clean, keep 's informed, and don't do anythin' to give 's cause. Alpha's Blood Eagle, should meet'im, tell yer story, cause he's th' one that'll say if you stay or go."
he doesn't want to destroy the magic of the music
but there is duty to be upheld, safety for the organ player in the knowledge
drifting to silence again(grania)
His gaze holds her, and the dark depths shimmer with amusement and the strength hidden within lithe form that all but dares him to deny it, to say aloud that they are all dead and she lies (…lies, little kitten, will keep you safe…) and when it remains unsaid, and his curiosity (…killed the…) is piqued, then she relaxes completely – the illusion she presents unchanged, though one could, quite possibly, envision a long tail tapping lazily behind her without much imagination….
….the song begins anew and her eyes shine with appreciation and delight, knowing he plays for her, of her, and the feline is nothing if not genuinely awed and touched by the efforts, the movements of air formed song formed a beauty she could never hope to grasp within the forms of her own artistic endeavors… her breath falls… “beautiful…” the word purred, and she is quiet once more while beauty gives way for duty – which is merely beauty in another form….(phantom)
Head shakes but he doesn't stop playing, now weaving James' voice into the song, playing the night rather than just the one person. His voice falls into the song (enhances, not distracts) while his own tune enters - lonely and sad, quiet and eerie, sneaking upon the listener almost before one realizes it's there - as he answers.
"No one is here but me, I was left alone."
Close every door to me/take all I love from me. He's been alone for so long; it's good to have someone here at the same time as he wishes they'd leave; this is his place, his home and they're invaders, invited or not, wanted or not and always respect the territory of another - you're in his territory, as is she . . . Lost and alone, alone and forsaken and at least it seems they won't be taking him from the place he's come to love more than anything in this world because who would keep the dark things back then? Even now he can sense them, but they don't come while he's here at this bench, while he's playing. They wait to catch him when he goes out (and he never goes out if he can help it, but a man has to eat, doesn't he? Even a scrawny little metis whelp has to eat.) and about.Out of the corner of his eye he watches the woman (cat), but he can't see James and his nervousness (paranoia) at that enters his part of the song as well.
(james)
Phantom is concentrating on his music
so perhaps he doesn't see the Gnawer nod
while the metis may be of so few words
James is a musician, and the music tells him what he needs to know
it is also in the blood that pumps so valiantly in his veins
he understands what it's like to protect the little you have
he understands the confusion in wanting conflicting things
he understands the paranoid fear of being in a suddenly new situation.... alone
he understands the sorrow for..... more things than he'd care to admitwhile the music swells on, he's pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket
probably some receipt from some convenience store purchase he's forgotten by now
a glance at it.... proves it was a receipt for the last round of Thai take-out
(hm... should wash these pants)
from another pocket of the baggy BDUs comes a pen
(be prepared, sayeth the Boy Scout motto)
the number for a cell phone (Rune's, but he has it) scribbled down
the paper is folded in half - and only now does he actually approach Phantom's claimed throne
they all respect the territory of another
he, in his chosen seat, respected the metis' need for space and company all at once
gently, the folded paper is placed as a little tent on a flat plane of loved wood
within the scope of vision, but not enough to interrupt the magical flow
(he knows of Grania's entrancement, and far be it from him to disrupt music)"I'll teach ya what you need to know, it's more dang'rous here than you expect." murmured "I'll find you when Blood Eagle wants t'meet, if you don't call first." a beat, as he listens here, so close to the overwhelming throb of brassy pipes, he waits for a lull in the notes before the last "Thank you f'r playin, Phantom."
and he means it
the gratitude is genuine in slurred voice
there's a glance to the feline stretched so gracefully on the floor
(Bag. fuckin'. heera.)
bit of a grin in farewell
and he moves up the aisles between the dusty, nested seats
letting himself back out onto the street and on his way(grania)
She is entranced (….entrancing…) by the music, by the swell that slides deep within the soul, rending it with an emotion so deep, so personal it simply cannot be put into words… Her gaze slides over James as he moves (….I could devour you…) with a lazy blink, a tilt of head, a shimmer somewhere deep in her gaze of secrets (….bagheera….) untold… smile sliding across lips easily in answering farewell before she is in motion again…
Back arches, and abdomen flexes to pull her upright with a dancers grace, the quiet pensiveness still surrounding her, the aura of mystery and subtlties that speak volumes sliding over her in rippling waves as she slides to a stand and completes the stretch. She moves toward the boy then, this cub who remains lost in his music, who finds solace there that he cannot find elsewhere, a soft purr sliding through her voices, under her skin… “I will take my leave now as well, if you wish it….”(phantom)
Face turns to her and he smiles (twisted face smirks, sneers, but the smile is clear in his gorgeous blue eyes if nowhere else) and a shake of his head turns to a nod because it's late (early) and even he must get some sleep sometime. A pleading tone enters the song as he asks the question with as much dignity as he can muster.
"Will you come back?"
Afraid the answer will be no, terrified the answer will be yes, the half of his face that is covered by the mask a . . . mask . . . of indifference, but his in his eyes - as in his music - his thoughts (feelings) are not so well hidden.
"You can come back."
An invitation not issued lightly; the boy is not one to whisper falsness and lies. He means what he says (says what he means). Long (beautiful) fingers of one hand snag the piece of paper on the ledge in front of him and he slips it into his pocket, the playing of the other hand uninterrupted when it's partner leaves and then rejoins.(grania)
She smiles, a slow creep of emotion staining lips as she reaches to touch his face, fingers lingering along uncovered jaw, her cheek falling to slide against his (…mingled scents, welcoming touch…), all without marring his playing, achieved in the boneless seduction of one well used to working around odd obstacles in order to maintain the beauty of something, anything, the colors woven in his music surrounding them… her voice then, soft and soothing across his ear… “I will come back.” Before she pulls away again, touch lingering until nails slide along his jaw and then fall away.
Fingers slide into hidden pocket somewhere within the whimsy of silken sheer skirts, and pluck free a golden case, a card plucked free and set upon loved wood where folded paper had momentarily resided… upon it, her number, the address of her studio, and her name…. The silken purr falls free once more… “and you can call, if I am away too long…” There is the kiss of lashes against cheek, a shutter blink falling to capture the moment in perfection… “Good night, Phantom…” and with that, she turns and makes her way toward the door once more, and on her way…(phantom)
They are gone, and as they leave the building they seamlessly leave his song until it is just him, alone again in reality and in music. But not so alone as before, maybe; he has hope at least and what is worth living for if not hope? The music comes to an end (but not a true end; how can any work come to an end until its renderer is gone from this world?) and he carressingly closes the lid before taking up Grania's card and stuffing it into the same pocket as the scribbled cell phone number, then heads to his hidden bedroom in the basement.(fade to black)
Posted by james at 12:00 AMJuly 14, 2003.07.14.03. - never trust a fang [decker-imogen-johanna-barny][noje - some shitty little town]
(james)
urban wasteland full of squatters and drifters, gangsters and thugs
ain't a good place fer nobody
that would depend entirely on one's definition of "good" and "nobody"
because he, in all honesty, seems to fit right in
except for looking like he's had a shower in the past 24 hours
..... sorta.long brown dreads are tied back in grey bandana
there's more than one smear of dirt (... blood?) on the black t-shirt
those OD green cargos could probably use a wash... or three
Camel long is clenched between his teeth
but oddly, lips surrounding the orange and white smoke resemble an ambient smileBuck Moon last night
Full Thunder Moon
the Gnawer was nowhere to be found around the condos
which may explain that partial smile
though the reason he's here now is that faint feeling of pack which tugged his stroll down this street instead of the usual left on 25th(decker)
The silence spins out. Finally, "'N yer deedname." He lets go her hand, glaring, and shakes out the bloody strip of bandage. Like a spider spinning a web, his motions are hypnotic and repetitive as he starts to rewrap his knuckles. "Yer auspice 'n rank. 'R ain'tcha earned one yet?"(johanna -jo- delacourt)
Deedname, auspice, rank . . . again the familiar words beat at the wall holding back her memories, almost finding the latch on the door but not quite. Eyes meet his for the first time, intellingent and weighing but unsure at the same time. Uncomprehending, almost. She clears her throat nervously before answering.
"I, uh, I guess I haven't earned one yet . . ."(imogen)
"Yer have no idea what he's talking about, do you?" speaks the woman finally, a lilting accent that rounds out around the edges in a near brogue and clipped sharp around the corners. Un-american and certainly european, to say the least.(jo)
A thankful look and a slight shake of her head.
"No, I'm afraid I don't."
Voice still velvety smooth, but colored with her new found insecurity. Not knowing is going to drive her crazy if she doesn't break down that wall soon, but she's not sure how to go about it.(decker)
Well...she doesn't look like an idiot. Which either made her some sorta lost cub (wtf, another? and a Fang, at that?), or a very good liar. Neither prospect pleases him. On a night like this, very little indeed pleases him.When Imogen speaks he falls silent, tucking the loose end of the bloody bandage in under the rest. It's like there were only so many words between them, and when one spoke the other couldn't. He rolls his shoulders restlessly. The moon was coming up over the buildings now, leering and round.
The feel of pack turns his head, momentarily. James is smiling. Decker can't grasp that. Can't imagine smiling. Barely ever smiles in normal circumstances; wouldn't ever on a full-moon night, except maybe in that split-second before a frenzy, when all the world falls into a strange chaotic red order, and it all. makes. bloody. sense.
Beast. Bestial. Best for him, really. Freed of the burdens of conversation, he inhales again, deeply. Aromatic molecules spark off nerve impulses in his mind. Two gunships full of youngsters toting .45s cruise past and his eyes follow them. But they're not looking for trouble around here. They're going into enemy territory, D-Day on a small scale every night, every hour. Some will come back alive and earn their reputation tonight. Others will be sprawled on the asphalt when this is over, leaking brains. And tomorrow morning, or even tonight, Dr. Imogen Slaughter might be called to the scene.
Nod up to James.
(james)
the stroll seems to have a little more purpose
or at least there is some direction to the ground-devouring strides
chin (and ember, resultantly) tip up in breif nod
that easy, almost smile is still there
like some faint memory that's lurking about the periphreal
something made bloody sense, allright
just because he's a Hood never meant he was a Saint
he was only often mistaken for onedeep umber eyes, the color of Gaia's rich earth, skim over the stranger
(..... that purebred? fuckin' great.)
then strafe to the warwagon rumbling up the street and beyond
then.... back again
bit of a twitch in his smile
(... 'lo Imogen)
PR music man ain't much up on conversation tonight(imogen)
There's a brief glance toward Decker, quick, illegible, before sliding back toward Johanna. Even on a night where the moon is full, she doesn't waver her glance.Imogen is, as mentioned, a small woman, and this is something that is somewhat heightened by Decker, even when (or especially when) standing a few feet behind him, where she'd stopped herself, realizing the Modi had halted, and simply never bothering to close the distance again. She is fine boned and only an inch, maybe two over five feet, casually dressed in jeans and some t-shirt beneath a light jacket, which is still too heavy for this kind of weather.
"Then why..." pause here, not so much to think of words as to pull out her cigarettes again, reminded of such things by the smell of James's cigarette, as she glances briefly over her shoulder toward the Ahroun, before her eyes slide back to the song bird, "didn't yeh say so in tha first place?"
(jo)
Neither cub nor liar, but lost is not far from the mark . . . she looks back and forth between the two, hoping for some sort of explanation, any kind of key to try the locked door.
"I guess I didn't know I should . . ."
And now there's another that she can feel approaching before she sees him, another tower of rage but this one with a smile on his face. Another battering ram at the gate, much more and she feels like she'll break despite the strength she shows.(james)
this Full Moon wears a smile on his face
but the problem with James is - that smile is trademark
the easy curve is almost always present
even on a night like this
one should worry when it's not thereif Jo couldn't feel his approach, she'd have to be dead
not with the way that inferno of Rage has only begun to lessen
it still prickles and tumbles around him like an invisable sphere
which, probably, is the reason he remains a certain, specific distance away from Decker
most would think it's possible respect for his friend as the smoke from his Camel then drifts up and away
but they all know betterone hand slips into his pocket
retrieving one battered black Zippo
streetlights glint off the worn smooth finish as it rotates in the air
twisting between his fingers before the top flips open and produces flame
that's offered to Imogen
Jo only gets a curious glance(barny jameson)
Third night. Last night. Worst night.For the third day and night in a row, Barny is out walking (...Stalking...) the streets. Again, it was the Rage boiling in him that drove him out of the shelter of the small motel room. He has managed to walk all over the place during the short few days he has been here. Its a dying place, filled with desolation and hopelessness. It almost makes it startling, the people he meets on the streets. He half expects them to all be wyrm ridden freaks. But they look so deceptivly normal. It doesnt stop his skin from feeling like its beeing caressed by some venomous snake though.
He knows it is because of the rage. If anything, knowing the third night is always the worst night, he is forcing himself into more control. And in this case, control is to put away mile after mile of asphalt and concrete of pavements. The moon, bloated, shining, burning in the night sky illuminates him where he walks. Head that is in some desperate need of a shave, with dark red hair and beard that has reached some fuzzy outline. Vivid green eyes, alight cause of the rage burning hin his body, coarsing through it like some fiery tide. Black Tank top that outlines a broad, muscular chest, and does nothing to hide the branded mark on his shoulder. A scar running from the middle of his throat, encircling the entire left side of his neck is faintly seen under the moonlight. BDU's, and heavy boots finish him off. A big man indeed. an angry man that walks the streets.
(imogen)
And the rage thickens the air, burning the molecules, searing the atoms. It's hard to say if rage makes it colder or hotter, but either way it goes (and every second can be different), it's uncomfortable.It would be impossible to distinguish all the sources of rage, and it is almost impossible to remember what it would feel like to be unable to recognize rage, feel rage and know it's presence.
All this sets her teeth on edge and she stops searching for her zippo when James offers her the flame, her head turning to look briefly at the girl with the twin braids.
"An... 'I'm sorry, I don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about' never crossed your mind, did it?" she inquires casually, mostly because whatever feels off about the entire scenario is impossible to quite pinpoint. Particularly, when one considers the violent reactions of one cub, recently.
"Just... stare blankly and play along? Ta," the last said to James as she uses his offered flame, lighting the cigarette, a deep inhalation as she flickers back toward the girl, an eyebrow lifted.
(jo)
She pulls herself straight, proud again, losing the vestiges of hiding, of protecting herself. She may not know everything they're talking about but something about them reaches her . . . the rage beating against her with her heartbeat, the bands of headache tightening as she struggles to remember anything to aid her in this situation.
"I thought maybe it would bring something back, listening. Talking isn't always the best way."
Although for her it usually is, rather singing is usually the best way.(decker)
Just a snort from the Modi.Not in the mood. Not in game for this. Not in this state and not on this night. Everyone's lighting up around him, and him, he just tossed his last joint away. Expected to walk one redhead to one car, expected to turn around the other way and welcome the violence waiting for him in the empty parking lot with open arms.
James drifts in. Imogen's talking to the Fang. Decker drifts out, turning his back to the tableau and walking off. Aimless at first. Then it gets pretty clear he's going back up the street toward where he left his truck. Toward Barny coming down the street.
Storm fronts colliding.
(james)
"Bring something back?"forgive him for being a little skepticle
he did, after all, come in on the latter half of the conversation
(whatever conversation there was, knowing present company)
Imogen's accent is foreign, his is sharp, bred just across the damn river from here
the Gnawer drifts in, the Fenrir drifts out, a rather deadly dance when you think about why
but now his attention has turned fully, after a welcome nod, to Jo since the Zippo is no longer of need
the Camel, half smoked, still clenched betwee his teeth allows both now free hands to open in that "please elaborate" sort of waythis wouldn't be the first time the Modi has drifted off and let him take over
so it seems James takes it all in stride
...... but if this is another cub....(barny)
But Rage responds to rage, doesnt it? And that beacon/explosion/ocean of Rage that is just There! Draws him like some violative moth, to the literal flame of Gaia's wrath collected. One good thing about it. He wont have to howl to alert them to his presence as he approaches, that is for sure. If he recognises any of the figures standing there except Decker, he makes no show of it. And Decker is coming his way. With something close to a fidget, he forces himself to stop. Hand searching the many pockets of his pants, before he finds the thin metal box. opening it, he pulls out a slim J. The full moon, and this much rage? he will take any help he can get. Zippo found, and the flame lights up the hard, chiseled lines of his face as he lights, and drags deep.Holding it, watching Decker approach, one hand cupped around the sweet smelling J. A slight nod, and he waits. Its the packs grounds after all. Clear skies. Yet thunder is threatening to fill the area.
(imogen)
"Alright." Smoke exhales with her words, sharp, suddenly, hinging on impatience. She certainly has more than Decker, at the best of times, and as he walks away (glance flickers, then back), certainly, this might be obvious. "We're going to play a game. We're going to pretend I don't 'ave all that much time. Which means I can't draw this out for the next few hours while I ask you questions and you give me ..." caustic, sharp shrug, "... say half an answer."The full moon's rising, and she glances toward James, and tilts her head in the gutter mutt's direction, an eloquent motion, simplicity. "So. What he said. Bring what back?"
(jo)
She shrugs, protective shutters closing against too much emotion, too many questions.
"Anything really . . . I don't remember much. I know my name because it's on the liscense that has my picture and on the credit cards in the same wallet."(decker)
Decker's eyes flicker at Barny's joint. His pace doesn't slow and it doesn't quicken. He comes at Barny until it becomes clear he's walking past Barny, hands in his back pockets, wallet chain glinting like silver. But it's not.Passing, he reaches out and snags the joint over. A jerk of his head motions for Barny to follow along. Pulls a hit off. Swoops without slowing and grinds it out on the pavement. Hands it back to the Coggie.
"Ya don't want that fuckin' with yer head where we're goin'."
Back to the parking lot. Back to the boarded-up, run-down, long-closed store.
(james)
and a brow most certainly lifts
oh this is just..... peachy
as Silver Fang (must be, with that breeding) amnesiac
one LONG drag off that Camel kills it then and there
then it's flicked towards the gutter uncerimoniously"Allright."
he wants to beat something - not problem solve
deeep breath James"May I see the wallet and cards?"
(jo)
She raises an eyebrow at his request, taking in his shabby, worn down state distrustfully before supplying the requested items. Eyes like a hawk's (or a falcon's) watch him as he looks over her things, her Washington state driver's lisence with the Seattle address, the handful of credit cards, the small amount of cash, they key card to her hotel room. No pictures, nothing personal to give any clues.(barny)
Perhaps there is some flash of a silent growl as it is snatched from him. But control is the word so far, and by the way Decker makes it sound Barny doesnt argue the action for now. He shrugs his shoulders in some semi reply, as he takes the cold smoke back from Decker, tucking it away in one of the many pockets of his bdu's. He walks slightly behind Decker. Its the little things that can make the difference between clawing at each other, or working together on nights like these.He doesnt say anything as he follows. Strange, huh? Just smirks, walking along in silence, looking towards where Decker so easily leads. Some cracking of knuckles and joints as he flexes, and opens his hands. He doesnt know what to expect, but it is always good to be prepared, isnt it?
(imogen)
She was likely about to ask the same question, however instead takes a quick sharp drag off her cigarette. She glances briefly toward the licence, credit cards, thoughtfully, "There might be a sept up there," she shrugs slightly. "Otherwise, I can try through th'DMV an' see if there's any previous addresses." Where there might also be a Sept. Either verify the story, or perhaps simply to try and give the girl some sort of answer.(james)
there's a breif expansion of his smile in thanks
whether it's for her trusting him with her things even as shabby as he looks
whether it's for her simply obeying and not further raising his (already high) stress level
that's for her to decide
the flip through the wallet is quick and to the point
either he knows what he's looking for or this isn't the first time he's rifled through a wallet"There's that, DMV is the easiest, but will raise a brow and get those involved you may not want, anyone here that could run the numbers is on a business trip." .... just how long has it been since you've seen her, Jamey-boy.... "Other option is to place a call upstate. Do you remember the room?" easy enough question, that, to see where her memory starts - but here's the kicker: "And do you even know what she meant by Sept?"
translation: Do you even remember what you are?
(decker)
Clawing at each other.
Working together.Either way works for him, really. As they approach the parking lot Decker can see his truck has, indeed, been fucked around with. Headlights yanked out. Hubcaps gone. Tires too. Windshield smashed, radio yanked out, and the toolbox from the bed.
All of it is sitting in a pile near the front door of the closed supermarket. One of the punks is sitting atop the pile of tires, grinning. No, they aren't subtle about this sort of thing, but then again, they had the advantage of numbers.
Decker stops by his truck a moment, silent, looking over the damage with a critical eye. The air around him bends and shears. Black body radiation: you swear he's about to go incandescent like a comet and rage.
But it subsides. Turns cold. He strips his shirt off and leaves it on the hood. Turns and starts toward the young thugs under the awning, his feet pounding concrete. Their jeers and taunts fall on deaf ears, and eventually stop falling at all. The grins vanish. Switchblades flick out and guns are cocked, but their hands are shaking the closer he gets.
Eight feet away he hits Crinos
(all hell breaks loose)
and reaches forward without taking another step and extends a huge arm and grabs the kid off the tires
(punks scattering every which way, screaming; guns dropped clattering or fired wildly)
and throws him seventeen bonejarring feet
(air jordans beat asphalt; the storefront clears out like a meth lab under a sting alert)
and doesn't bother to chase when the kid picks himself up and runs screaming bloody murder.They weren't the fight he was waiting for. Hell no.
In the silence that follows (silent save for the distant shrieks, the conflicting stories they'll put together three blocks away, the arguments they'll have that'll turn into fistfights and gunfights until they all decide they'd tripped off some bad X and chalked it up to a weird night, and forgot why they never came down this way ever again.), Barny might realize it wasn't the kids that was giving off that feel that made even Ahrouns tense. No, it's the building behind them, shut down, locked down, dark, its windows shattered and boarded over like eyes sewn shut. The Modi shifts down - partway - halts at Glabro and speaks to the Coggie.
"This place ain't smell right to my Theurge last time we was down this way. Ain't priority on nobody's list," this neighborhood, this land, already rotten, already infested, already beyond hope, "but could be good fer a l'il romp."
The Get of Fenris Modi levels a steady stare at the Child of Gaia Ahroun.
"Think yer up fer it?"
(jo)
Sept, another familiar word but not quite the right key . . . Although some pictures are brought forth by it. Wolves and people and things inbetween dancing and telling stories and herself singing with everyone listening. But where, and what was that? The headache's been threatening since she felt the first brush of rage and now the bands tighten again, causing her to pale slightly.
"Yes and no; the word is familiar . . ."(barny)
He follows. The truck, and the kids are given some quick glance. Is this what Decker had meant? But with the advance, and shift and the careless throw of the youth, Barny just smirks. His own shift is instantanious and smooth. He watches as Decker returns, then glances to the building. Looking at it for a few moments, before his gaze goes back to the Modi.The smile, fueled by the full moon and his rage is almost hungry. Answer enough as he puts his hands together infront of his chest, cracking glabro knuckles with the sound of tree limbs breaking in a storm. A nod in the midst of a shoulder roll. Sign clear enough for decker to lead on. This, might be just what he is looking for.
(imogen)
"Rohl introduced himself, and she didn't have a clue," notes the woman, with a faint lift of her shoulders. It's easy for Johanna to be lost again, seeing as Imogen uses the Modi's last name without thinking, when he had introduced himself with his first name, only.Her head turns toward the sound of gunfire, a brief pause in her attention, fingers sliding, habitually to her hip and finding her pager, sliding it free to check the display, before sliding it back. She picks up the words to James, again, "yer choice on th'licence. It's doable," ashing her cigarette toward the pavement. Doable might mean she can manage it without raising eyebrows. Doable also might mean she can manage it, even with problems, because the problems are controllable.
And it's not connected to the gunshots, and may very well be across the city (hell, across the state wasn't completely unlikely), but it's around now her pager, just checked for batteries goes off.
The curse is muttered, hissed beneath her breath as she reinserts the cigarette into her mouth, and takes several sharp steps away from the Garou, thumbing the pager off as if it burned, pulling it free as she continues to step away as she glances at the display, reaching into her pocket for a small cell phone, heading back toward the car half way down the block. Farewell constitutes a brief glance, and a flick of her fingers, because chances are she isn't being paged to hold a conversation.
(decker)
The boards give way until the Modi's Glabro strength, bending and then cracking jaggedly in half. He rips them off one of the larger windows in the front. Inside the store is pitchblack, the air musty. The dim light spilling from outside doesn't last ten feet. When their eyes adjust, they can glimpse the shadowy interior.No one's been there for years. Some of the casings have fallen off the fluorescent lights overhead. The tubes are still there, but Decker doubted they still worked, even if the electricity was still running out this way. Which it wasn't.
The cash registers are bare and deserted. The shelves and racks from the last leaser, the second-rate grocery market, are still there, naked as a skeleton. Dust and mice droppings cover the floor, though the air is eerily still. No mice here anymore. Even they've moved out.
And it stinks, too.
(barny)
He lets decker lead their 'assault'. Following him into the abandoned market, he looks around. Indeed, it does stink. A glance to Decker, then again, his gaze is drawn around. It seems empty enough here. In the back perhaps, or even in the moonworld. No need to hit crinos yet. Not for Barny anyway. He gives a nod towards the doors leading into the back, then tips his head slightly to the left, as if saying thats the side he will take, leaving it up to Decker which way to go.(james)
something's happening down the street
it's out of sight, and should be out of mind
but not when you're connected by the wings of Eagles
and it makes something BRISTLE within the Gnawer
the gut reaction to distant ignition of where his packmate went off to
something that pulls and tugs at the predator coiled just beneath human shell
something that the guttermutt can pick up rippling down the trashed street
(the ghettokid's reaction to the gunshots and screams)"Son of a bitch...."
.... the Veil is at risk
.... there could be trouble
.... someone is having fun without him"Doable." nodded towards the kin before she steps off under slavery to the page, and the wallet is handed back "And you have three choices. A. Go back to the motel and wait for me to call tomorrow, we can look more into this. B. Carry on your way. C. Tag along."
choice is hers
he's spun on a heel and is heading towards where those gunshots came from
Trouble?
shot ahead - needed or not, watching the door or jumping into the frey
that's still his packmate
he's not about to ignore it(jo)
Gun shots and something in her answers, leaning toward the sound (there's music even in gunfire to her) and incorporating it into the song of the night. She stands and follows the man, only hoping she won't be in the way or that she can help.(decker)
Decker's already looking into the right. In Glabro his features are primordial, easily mistaken for caveman or Cro-Magnon at first glance.At second, they're nothing alike. The brow slopes, yes. The jaw pushes forward. But the length of hair is coupled with thickness, a watertight layer beneath the longer guard hairs. His beard and body hair is filling in much the same, coarse and stiff guard hairs over a thin layer of down. The former is taking on a distinctly grey tone, and it's not the grey of old age. It's the steel grey of a Fenrir.
The bone structure is halfway lupine, the cheeks flatter, the nose split down the middle, the teeth elongated and set apart so as to intermesh perfectly. Those teeth are visible as he scents the air, bottom jaw falling away from top a distance. Then he straightens, assuming a more humanoid stance, and looks at Barny.
A voice underlaid with a growl, "Kin ya make any sound at all? Howl?" Barny shows him the whistle, and he gives a curt nod. "Ya find somethin'--" cuz Barny didn't look like he needed help, and Decker wasn't the type to really give it either, "--give a blast."
Then the Modi turns his back and strides away toward the right, quickly disappearing into the murk of the store.
Barny, meanwhile, is left to himself. The left side of the store yawns open and silent and dark.
(barny)
Asked, and whistle shown. Not that he is going to need it. If he does find something, the sound of claws in flesh, and screams of pain will be all to clear, wont it? The large ahroun, made to seem so inhuman in glabro moves to the left. Senses stronger then those in homid, it is still murky to him, even as his eyes have adjusted to the shadowy darkness. He moves with confidence, but not stupidly, even as the rage boils in him to Frenzy. He is looking around with all his senses, searching for that wrong that the Modi spoke of.Where Decker had the tones of gray and silver of the Get, if anything, Barny gets darker. The Red hairs and furlike hair on his arms and shoulders, mixed with the green of his eyes, intense as he searches. It would be so easy to place him with the Fianna tribe, wouldnt it?
(decker)
The deeper Barny goes, the greater the sense of wrongness.Because even if he's a little off in his perceptions, going in the south side and turning left, he should've hit the west wall a long time ago.
But he doesn't.
The distance stretches on. And on. And meanwhile, the north wall seems to be closing in. Like the store wasn't the rectangle it'd looked like from the outside. Like it was tapering, the laws of space bending and becoming fluid.
Pretty soon, Barny's in a tunnel. The tile is slick under his feet at first, but increasingly crunchy. If he bends down, he'll see it's littered with bug carcasses that get thicker and thicker as he goes on.
Still no wall.
Just silence. The pound of his own blood in his ears. The crunch of dead bugs. Distance.And, very softly, a rustling in the distance like the wings of a giant insect.
Where was he?
(barny)
This wierd bending of space. He is no theurge, but he knows that this is commonly encountered. In the umbra. Anyone who has ever moved any distance in the moonworld would recognise it. when a mile walk can take several hours, but a 10 mile run can take less then a minute. But he is no damn theurge. he is a warrior, and what the hell does he care about it? what he does care about however, is the faint sounds, and remains of the bugs. The shift to crinos is as fluid and instantanious as the shift to glabro was. He doesnt seem to grow in between. One step he is glabro, the next, some 9 feet furred monster. Dark fur, as to nearly black with the deep red hairs. Coarse, and still so utterly silent. The crinos form exudes fear from every hair. The slightest motion is one of calculated madness and destruction, as claws against the floor is the only sound escaping him now.(james)
Tacoma up ahead
.... stripped.
that's. not. good.
that would explain the gunshots and screams
he's surprised there's no blood in the parking lot
but that isn't where the inherant trail stops
so that places him paused at the door of the old market
glancing back to Jo, breifly
his eyes wander to her chest
and not in that normal copping a look way
but like he's looking straight into her heart
and what so unknown seems to be inspiring it"Think it's in you?"
accompanied by a rogue grin
because if that wasn't a vague question...
to back him up? to survive? a valid excuse to even be here?but now he's inside
his body has changed, like the door was a gateway in so many ways
senses heighted, features primal
something wicked this way comes... though he has a feeling it's already here
he can smell (feel) Decker off to the right
he can smell another stranger off to the left
they're all closing in on the back of the store
that leaves him bringing up the middle, taking up last flank
Jo.... is on her own
(no better way to prove you can swim than by jumping into the water)but there's something that calls them, almost like gravity
it pulls harder the thicker the bugs crunch beneath Barny's pawpad feet
it brays like challenge at the Modi in the reeking darkness
it tickles enough to make the mellow Gnawer paranoid
it calls.... whispering, taunting.... at the Fang, such blessed secrets the darkness may hold(jo)
She looks at him and (of course it's in me, I'm no coward) follows silently in more than one way, average sized, graceful body shifting up to a larger yet still lithe body as she prepares to defend as needed. Always alert, senses are now on edge, honed to a sharp point as she looks (smells, listens, tastes) for any threat around them. Ah, blessed secrets held by darkness promised sweetly (sweet as saccharine) and she follows the whispers, knowing that that's where the battle lies. And memories flood over her (such horrible accusations, treachery, wyrm-taint and who knows what else leveled at her and her family) making her want to curl up in a corner, to cry, to die, but now she knows she has to prove herself, to show that she is still good regardless of what her house (a pox on both your houses) may have done.(barny)
Indeed, this is what is the worst part of it. The wait. The walk. He knows that there is some great fight waiting just around the corner, or at the end of this never ending corridor. The wait, the anticipation is almost worse then the rage, and it is all he can do not to run head first into it. Great claws flexing in the dank, stinking air. Every sense overwhwlmed by that lust for battle tearing in him.(james)
they say that the lyrical rub of a cricket's wings are the serenade to it's mate
they say, also, that the very sound is the same that warns of impending locust swarm
it is enough to drive animals into stampede for the effort to get away
instinct commanding flight to save itself from the mindless plague consumptionbut those are herd animals of the plains - and these are urban predators
they don't run
(though perhaps they should)Decker came upon the far (solid) wall and turned again, finding nothing there, low-slung thuggish swagger smooth as glass in this careful, confident journey towards the challenge. The closer he gets to the back of the supposed store, the louder the sound gets - his hearing always was better than the others. It's piercing, grinding, hurting his ears and making his spine ache even before he sets foot in the tunnel. The grunt between packmates is more mental than verbal, and the Modi pays little attention to the Fang other than lingering glance which makes note even if she knew nothing of auspices and deed names and perhaps the Sept may sound familiar, some things must be automatic. Because she sure ain't a pretty little girl anymore. Something in her knew what it was doing, even if she wasn't aware of it.
The move to flank is automatic, James taking a step to the side to cover yet still allowing the Modi to lead.
The sound keeps getting louder for Jo, her missing memories filling in the blanks with whatever it is she wants to hear. Promises. Seductions. Temptations. Sweet, blessed secrets. The call to battle is coy and noxious. An overwhelming doubt begins to creep up, tickling with tiny little nails. Does she walk with allies, or do her enemies draw her into the darkness....
Barny, furthest ahead, wary and careful as a scout - doesn't feel the tiny little warp that signals stepping across. Maybe because it looks the same, here, it's just as dark, just as smelly, and the ever-thickening carpet of insect carcasses seems to.... move. Sometimes moving as if either something was traversing smoothly beneath them, or perhaps they weren't all dead.
(jo)
She tries to shake the voices out, to not hear the whispered promises (there's a lady who's sure/all that glitters is gold), but oh, secrets . . . the temptation is strong, will the Fang be stronger? Suspicious glances shot at each of her companions, but she stays with them, knowing even if they are enemies it's not likely she can take them both.(barny)
Perhaps, there should be some growl from him. claws sink, and tear into the long dead shells of the animals, making the massive beast easily keep his balance. Moving forward at a slight crouch, as if ready to pounce, or slip to the side. Arms and paws down infront of him. sometimes helping with the balance, while at others, those claws flex and feel the air, as if it were flesh (or spirit) already. He hears no whispered voices, but that sound. that sound of the rustling wings, it sets his teeth on edge.(james)
Barny passes from the tunnel into a cavern, or maybe the tunnel simply widens to accomodate whatever it is that built it. The store was an open gate, and he can realize that now, the question remains of what it is that conjured such things in the darkness. Before him, the air seems to whirl and thicken... two somethings begin coming out of the darkness, right infront of him....As the Child of Gaia slowed, the others were able to catch up. Picking their way through the quagmire of little carcasses, shaking off the still living creatures that scurried up their legs to find some puchase, some sanctity in the Garou that moved through as if to ride them as rafts back to the outer world. There is safety outside. There is only something.... wrong.... here...
Decker is the first into the cavern, edging off to left side when space enough clears. James moves right, hanging back, after a quick Whozzat? at the appearence of Barny's furry form, and Our side. shot back over the Totem Phone quells his hesitance. At least the Chrinos won't be one of the things they'll have to fight.... hopefully. Jo is left to make her own decision. All she can hear are the promises of the giant wings soft and sweet in her mind.
The Modi can see what's happening around Barny, but that doesn't help with the sudden rush of air that whirls around him (the chittering of the giant wings, the deafening, mindnumbing sound that's white lighting in his brain, mockery to Fenrir pride, the flashback to the things that tore at him to the sound of a demon drummer and the full moon high, high above) into the forms of several Banes. It's enough to throw him right. into. Frenzy. He's been looking for something to take it out on, and opportunity always presents itself. This is revenge. For his truck. For the attack. For hitting Imogen. For everything. Suddenly he's become a roiling thunderstorm of steel grey fur.
The Gnawer whirls, snapping Chrinos and shoving Jo out of the way, his claws slashing at the Bane just behind her (or is at at her, herself? Who's side are you on, anyway, Johanna?).
(jo)
There's no time to debate such things as loyalties when banes are found; even without all her memories something tells Jo this. Glabro to crinos is instant, smooth, almost beautiful in it's primal savagery. Claws and black tipped white fur flash as she moves, taking on a bane before her. Better to deal with known threats now and possible (imagined?) ones later.(barny)
He waits, sensing something wrong before he sees it. The others coming up behind him doesnt even draw a glance, just a an irritated, angry flick of his tail. And then the shadows begin to swirl. Perhaps the sound of those cricket wings would have driven him to frenzy. Atleast if it were given a chance. The child of Gaia full moon doesnt need some wings. As rage burns through him, fueling his body, the full moon burns in his mind, and the frenzy is a fact.He doesnt know what the others can, or will do, but Decker made it well clear, as did barny that first time they 'spoke. you take care of yourself. dont expect anyone to carry you burden for you, and Dont. Fuck. Up. It is with open jaws, that would normally explode in a battle cry, that he charges the banes as they are forming out of the darkness. The utter speed of the Garou's frenzied charge brings him ontop of one, just out of range for the other to reach. Frenzied, but he is a warrior true and true, as his claws tear out.
The claws tear into the bane. the spirit doesnt know pain, or fear, and doesnt even try to avoid the razor sharpened claws. But the skin of the bane turns the blow away, glancing it off, and to the side. In turn, the bane lashes out with some perverted scream. Barny tries to slip to the side, but the banes his strikes his chest. Barny takes the hit, but the thick skin and fur of Crinos body manages to just make the blow glance off to the side.
The second bane moves to be able to attack shortly.
(jo)
Bane, garou and confusion and attack . . . she feints front and then spins on whoever's closest (the unlucky James). Claws rake at him as she moves lighning fast and with no tell.(decker)
FRENZY--
--halted.Three banes rushing at him. He stands there, blazing with Hyperion's fire, covered with the skin of trolls, steeled against pain, tattoo slithering into a black axe incandescent with blue foxfire, calling upon his totem's might
as
the
banes
come
in.Three hits.
Scratches on his hide. Nothing more. Motherfuckin Fenrir, baby. Then it's his turn. Axe singing black through the air, claw flashing out--(even Fenrirs fuck up)
--miss!
Banes come in. Rip him to shreds. He falls, he gathers his rage, he calls himself back to life with the sheer force of his anger. The world is red. He's hurt, almost dead, came back, and what doesn't kill him--
Yeah. It pisses him off.
CRUNCH. Axe into the third bane. Ichor spills. CHUK. KSHH. Shrieking, fading away. Whirl on the second.
One hit, solid. Another, devastating. A second Wyrmling spins into oblivion.
And now, the third. Steel-grey rage, crimson blood, black axe. The bane lashes out, pure malice and evil: the blow is turned aside by the light of the sun and the skin of the rock-trolls.
And it's his turn. Again. Stepping forward on huge paws, moving out of pure instinct, sheer rage, no fear, no mind at all.
Move like an anaconda.
One hit to cripple.
Strike like a motherfuckin Fenrir Modi in the prime and final years (days?) of his life.
One more to destroy....yeah, that bane's dead.
And him, left behind: breathe in. Silent from begin to end. The red fades. He musters his will. He centers himself.
Breathe out. Work his shattered jaw.
Drums-on-Skulls! Mother's Riddle!
Roll call.(james)
Rage inspires. Rage blinds. As easily as it overcomes the Fenrir, his packmate is soon to follow. James wanted to beat on something, but got saddled with problem solving, no matter how breif. In the heat of battle, he simply.. gives in. The Anthem of War thunders from the normally so mellow Gnawer as the bane falters beneath flurry of claws, blood staining deep brown fur from it's retaliation.Decker is surrounded by the whirling spirits. Yet still, the Modi keeps fighting. Never give them your back. Never surrender. Even if they're beginning to bring him down.....
Then the kick hits the Gnawer (.... what the fuck?). Spinning to face it the claws raking for his throat skim through the thick barrier of maned and tangled fur. It's not hard to imagine a lupine brow lifting in almost human expression of surprise in a very breif moment before the red closes in again.
Oh that's it
He was trying to. help. her.
One thing you never do is cross a Hood.James, in his righteous anger, calling upon Eagles' strength lashes out towards the treacherous silver fang female. But in his heroic attempt, he forgets the dead shells of insects that litter the floor, and stumbles, head first down to the ground, baring himself for a few, vital seconds to attack. There is the breifest thought that his deed name is going to be changed after this to something worse than it already is. That, however, is quickly banished as the traitorous Fang lunges again in concert with the bane.
Something about this just isn't right.
Seriously.And all it does is fuel the Ahroun's Rage into repeated attacks. The Fang bitch falls then rises once again, only to go down permanently beneath his claws even as the black spirit presses in. Her body already reverts back to naked breed form when he spins to face the bane. But it's too late, he's too broken, he's lost too much blood to the Garou that could have been his ally. He goes down and tears back to the land of the living out of pure spite. But it's not enough to pull him back into battle, only enough to keep his heart pumping in his chest (belching crimson onto the ground from gaping wounds).
When the Modi barks roll call - Drums on Skulls doesn't answer.
(barny)
Insane fury form the cliath Child of Gaia. Is it a wonder he left his tribe, tired of their treehugging politics and actions? Claws first, he dives into the bane, rage fueling his actions. Slipping to avoid a heavu blow, he screams, as he literally tears the bane apart with a few quick strikes of his claws. Then the second one reaches him. He doesnt avoid the blow this time, and it strikes him squarly over the shoulder. Blood wells up, but it doesnt stop the fury of the Coggie ahroun. He hurls back at the bane, into a frenzy of claws and teeth, tearing at its spiritual flesh.Then James goes down. He catches it in the corner of his eyes. Decker said, Dont. Fuck Up. Everyone carries their own load. You make your own way. A curse slips from the ahroun, as he turns. he takes another strike to his unshielded back, stumbling forward. Massive crinos thunders past the bane that just leans down over James body, reverted back to its breed form. A howl, and the Dark monster that is barny rushes past the bane, barreling for safety. james body firmly protected in his arms.
He doesnt even pause to clear the building. Even in his crinos shape, he can sense the life slipping from james body, and it is instictual, that the warrior calls upon his tribes gift. that of the mothers healing touch. Some blessing of power? perhaps just the effort, and will the great ahroun pours into the healing of this fallen comrade-in-arms. But the power rushes through him, and into james, to fill james with that sweetest of Life.
When the role call comes, Barny raises his great shaggy head, mouth open, as if to howl.
But only silence springs fourth from great throat.
----
Figuring roll call gets answered when James snaps back to the world of the living, heh.
Johanna's final post will be inserted here at some point, too.
And insert all players PANICKING, SCREAMING, WORSHIPPING/HATING THE ROLLER, AAUUUGGHHHing at your leisure.
FUCK that was fun.JAMES:
disfigured jaw, break never heals right
+2 to all verbal communication diff when using human speech, and +1 to bite attack dif
speech slurred
+1 temp gloryPosted by james at 12:00 AMJuly 10, 2003.07.10.03. - another Fenrir? [decker-imogen-kemp][noje]
(everything before in decker's journal somewhere)
(kemp oats)
"Listen, I didn't touch nothing, I didn't take a piss on anyone's tires, and I ain't that kind of guy, so whatever it is, I'm sorry I did it and next time I'll try to make it a nice night out too. Okay?" *Hands held up while backing up, each word spilling out just increasing his back peddaling.* "You Tarzan, she Jane." *Jerking a finger towards Imogen.* "Me Cheetah shit and outta here."(decker)
Decker follows another halfhearted step, and another, and then stops. His hand goes back to his neck. He lowers his head and pops his vertebrae, looking for all the world like he's decided fuckitall, he's going back home. If that's his home up there in the posh condos, the likes of which the likes of him couldn't afford in a million years. Decker drops his hand after a moment. He looks up from under his eyebrows, which are straight, low, and a darker blond than the fuzz of his hair. For a second Kemp could swear he's smirking crookedly.And then--
(Remember that stuff about sagging, running, and how Decker wears his pants lowslung, but not so low that he'd trip and fall on his face if he started running? This is where it comes in.)
--then the Fenrir explodes into motion, coursing like a hellhound after Kemp and his unfortunately giveaway purebreeding. It's a reaction typical for the tribe. Can't talk them into something? Muscle them into it. Body over mind. Action over thought.
(...run yer ass down.)
(james)
the dreadlocks are usually the first things someone notices
thick ropes that hang down over his shoulders and tickle the bottoms of the blades
it's either that, or the long lopey strides that seem to cover the miles with ease
though tonight, with his full belly under the filling moon, it may be the exotic scent that washes out in wake just before the ever-present sphere of RageTake out. Thai. Goooooood
at least they'd notice if any where looking this way
one arm, tanned golden by the summer sun, has fingers hooked in the bag slung over his shoulder
the other is busy in removing the joint that's been nestled pleasently between his teeth for the last half of the trek through the complex, flicking ash onto the grass
and a brow most certainly lifts and what's looking to become a rather impromptu game of tackle football on his front lawn with the Modi charging some.... kid.... should be interesting
(kemp)
*He had been back pedaling to start with. The motion picking up when Decker starts to run towards him. Surprise and maybe a good healthy dose of fear showing on the young face for that split second when backpeddaling became a forward lurch and dive to the pavement. Hitting the pavement hard enough to drive the breath from him and splash water from the cement to the sides. Trying to slide and not shred his belly open. That danger of the moon showing, well it was happening. Those loose jeans sliding down far enough to bring a groan when flesh met cement.*(decker)
Since Kemp hits the ground, catching up is easy. Six or twelve long strides and he's bearing down on the cub. No time or room for deceleration. Decker simply swoops down, grabs Kemp by the belt and the collar, and drags him quite literally another yard or two before hitting the brakes and hauling Kemp up to his feet, nose to nose, eye to eye."Never," quiet, steely, and barely winded: the pause is there for emphasis, "run away."
Call it lesson one. Then he turns Kemp around and starts marching him back toward the condos, one hand still on the back of his neck.
(kemp)
*Voice still changing and that became evident with the almost girlish high pitched yelp coming from him when snatched up rather than achieving his goal which in some little corner of his mind was suppose to work more like a Jet Li move and send him sliding between Decker's legs and out the otherside to safety. So much for fantasy. Speaking of fantasy, where was this guy taking him? Sputtering out while flailing around like he might fly if he got the chance.* "Hey! Put me down! I ain't that kind of guy you perv! If you think you're gonna put that in there, you're fuckin nuts!" *Just the being turned around with his back to Decker was enough to make the kid think this guy was a homocidal homo.*(james)
the kid hits the ground
Decker drags and heaves and growls
then the kid starts holleringoh. this. is. just. great.
like the neighbors don't already have enough reason to want them out of the complex
(they just don't dare bring it up)
though he can't help but quirk an almost non-existant grin at what the kid's yowling
(Decker..... HA!)
so, taking another course of action
his own strides quicken a bit
(chin lifts a bit seeing the kin stand)
and he's closing in on his packmate and shreiking boy(decker)
"MOVE, cub." Teeth are clenched. Hand is clamped firm, but that doesn't mean Kemp can't still flap his arms and legs quite a bit and throw his elbows around. Decker's about this close to losing it. Where the fuck is James when you need him? Oh, that's right: halfway across the parking lot. Speeding up now, at least.They're heading for the stairs now. Not Imogen's, but the ones next door. Rune's condominium, though Kemp has no way of knowing this, nor who Rune might possibly be. Decker shoots Imogen a single glance as they pass under her balcony, somewhere between annoyed and exasperated and pissed off and frustrated and all of the above.
(kemp)
*He'd gone from losing his pants to getting them wedged up between his butt cheeks. At least with his pants shoved up his ass, nothing else was getting in there. Lanky or thin, either would fit him. Maybe 5'3" or 5'5", not much over 100 lbs all told, wet cloths and all. Latching onto the railing with hands and feet almost as if part monkey. Legs splaying out to hook those feet in the rungs and his hands clawing for purchase, trying to put on the brakes and making a big ruckus.* "RAPE! Someone help me!" *Panic starting to rise to an almost uncontrollable level the closer to the door they got.*(imogen)
She's isn't paying much attention to the Garou anymore. Instead, she's turned her head to look at one of the neighbouring condominiums, where the front porch light's turned on, and so has the living room light.If you listen -really- really hard, over the kid's yelling, you can hear someone else yelling inside.
Damned neighbours. Fucking potheads, partiers. The hell... the commitee will hear of this.
Imogen cannot hear much more than a dull mumble, though perhaps one of the Garou can hear more. She doesn't care what they say, however. She only cares if they open the door.
A brief glance toward Decker, silent, and then toward the kid as he makes life just that much harder.
The kid starts screaming rape. In another situation, this would be perhaps funny, as it is, however... "Christ, shove a sock in his mouth, or something." Muttered, undirected, really, as she steps off the stairs now, beginning down them. Not following the Garou, so much as turning her head toward the stirring condominium.
(kemp)
*The cuff to the head shut him up for a second or two while his head rang and stars flickered before his eyes. A shake of his head sending rain flying from it.* "Oh, oh, I see, you're a pervert and you like to be rough too!" *One thing was for certain, his mouth had a way of digging deeper holes for him.Crawling at the railing with those legs jutted out like some wild monkey trying to keep from going up the stairs.*(james)
they're heading for the stairs of Rune's balcony
by the time the kid's latching on like a spider monkey, he's only a few feet away
(and if you think he didn't pick up on how close his packmate was to losing it....)"Offering your ball-gag?"
quipped at the kin as he's trotting by
because he is really amused
though it's not showing entirely because then he'd get his ass beat
then, since, well, they are blocking the stairs, plastic bag of food is set down on the wet grass
he's moved around to the side, reaching over the railing and grabbing the kid's jaw in one calloused hand
forcing the cub (.... pure bred? well fancy that...) to look at him"You know, spread out like a flying squirrel isn't putting you in the best of positions." his voice is about as warm and smooth as his grip is strong, colored a bit by the accent that obviously places New York state as his home, dark brows lifting a bit over deep umber eyes "But if you stop struggling, I'm sure he'll let you go so you can walk on up the stairs and sit your ass down in one of those chairs, which makes it a lot harder to be violated."
nod up to the Modi
Give him a chance.
cause if the kid relaxes then there's no broken bones or dislocated railings when the Fenrir's strength (or temper) kicks in and he just drags Kemp right on up the stairs
he's tempted to add in the fact that Decker's so straight and narrow he probably wouldn't even touch himself
but that would guarantee the attention focusing on him, and his ass getting beat
so it's saved until later
the iron grip on Kemp's neck doesn't waver, but the directing pressure drops the most miniscule amount
five seconds of decision time bought
then they'll probably deal with broken bones and neighbors going so far as to open their doors on the nearing full(imogen)
"Should I use it on the kid, or the neighbours?" shot back, british tongued, silver tongued, somewhere caught between annoyed and probably some latent amusement that wouldn't quite show itself. This close to the full, it's not surprising. Her sense of humour is morbid and difficult at the best of cases. But that was, at least, a quip.One hand brushes beneath her jacket to the small of her back, before falling away as she flicks her attention up toward the offending, active condo and then about then. It's only the one condominium that has begun to stir, however. Maybe they're new and not quite acquainted with the boneshaking fear the Garou can inspire.
She isn't wandering up, as her shoes echo faintly against the pavement, stopping at some undefined point. However, chances are, she must have a plan, should the door open.
(decker)
James is amused. Imogen is somewhat amused. Decker is not, and getting even less so. Then again, he's the one that's getting flailed upon and kicked and shouted at. And he doubts the talk of ball-gags was going to help matters.Yeah. If he quits freakin' out, fired back across the totemphone. Decker's grip doesn't loosen the slightest bit though he does, at the least, stop pushing Kemp up the stairs.
(kemp)
*Starting to actually listen to someone with James' grab and words. Not entirely sure why or who this guy was. Suddenly going limp and letting go of the death hold. Though mention of a ball made him worry. Was he going to put his ball in his mouth? Holy fuck! Clamping his mouth shut tight just in case cause that was just plain sick.*(imogen)
And sudden. Blessed. Silence. Her head turns to glance toward the balcony, as if to assure herself that either no one has killed the kid, and that no one has really gagged him. Finding that neither have happened, she turns her attention back toward the condominium, fingers pushing back dampened hair that is progressively getting damper.It's not raining hard. But it is raining still.
(james)
That is my goal, Decker.
shot back just as easily through the totemphone
though his attention doesn't seem to exactly waver from the cub"Allright then." that's when the Gnawer offers a grin from within frame of heavy dreads weighted by the rain, letting go and draping his arm over the railing, fingers flicking to wave towards the balcony "Go on."
with Decker behind him and James off the side
not an option to try running again(decker)
Go figure. The kid stopped freaking out. That's why James - Fostern Ahroun, past-haunted James - is the PR man for the pack. Makes you wonder what the rest of the pack is like.One scarred fanatic, male, Fenrir.
One viiiicious-sexy technophilic citywolf, female, Walker.
One teenaged homicidal hormone-crazy punk rocker, male, Fenrir.
Assorted hanger-on'ers and hopefuls.
And Decker.Yeah, they were well-adjusted. James is by far the best of them. Decker lets the kid go like he'd been waiting to wash his hands of the mess since the beginning. Which is to say, he lets go so fast Kemp might fall if his reflexes weren't quick. Decker takes a step or two down the stairs, wiping his palms on his shirt.
A nod up at the kid. "Fenrir cub. 'll talk to 'im if ya git him calmed down. Otherwise Luc 'r Erik kin do it."
(kemp)
*As soon as he was released he was pounding up the stairs. He didn't know what the big skin head pervert wanted and he really didn't want to find out. All he knew as the sumbitch jumped him and wanted to butt fuck him. And he was going to find a way out of this even if he had to leap over the railing and land on his damned head.*(james)
Fenrir cub. Peachy.
as if he isn't surrounded by enough freakin' Fenrir
though there's only a half grin response along with the nod
long body bends to sweep up the bag of Thai
just as Kemp's bolting up the stairs, he's not far behind
the hand with the joint is pointing towards a chair that put's the kid's back to the corner"Sit."
easy going and as well-adjusted as the Gnawer is compared to the rest of the pack
(and that is a scarey thing)
there's something about him that recommends Kemp do as he is told
though in the gesture he notices the joint has fizzled out because of the rain
and a breif frown accompanies the stretch to place it carefully on the edge of the table to dry
soon paired up with the rustling bag of food set to block it from any wind which would dislodge it tumbling towards the tiling
(SIN!)
boot hooks into another chair, and he takes a seat in direct line between the cub and the stairs
only way out is over the railing - and the Modi's down there circling like a shark"First, he's not going to rape you. That is the least of your worries. Second, calm down, all he or I want to do is talk to you - and he's the last person you want to piss off by continuing to freak." something about his wry grin says the Gnawer knows too much about not pissing Decker off "Third.... name's James. Got something I can call you by other than Flying Squirrel?"
(imogen)
Silence from Kemp. Silence from the Garou, relatively. The porch light remains on, but the living room light, visible through veneer blinds, suddenly turns off.The slender woman (she's over five feet, but hardly), turns and begins to walk back down the path, back toward a set of stairs. Not Rune's, but her own, apparently not opting to join the pow-wow of rage.
(kemp)
*Stumbling back to land on his butt and almost coming up again. He was still thinking about a mad suicidal charge through the two of them.* "Listen, I didn't do nothing. He's the one that owns the world, not me! And, and he's the one that jumped me! I didn't do anything!"(james)
there's a wry grin in response to that"Never run from a predator, kid."
out comes a pack of Camel longs from a cargo pocket
battered black Zippo is soon to follow
lighting up with the trademark snapCLACK
and he holds both out in offer towards Kemp"Which would mean going with that escape plan is a bad idea with both he and I involved. We don't own the world, just a nice parsel of land in the state. He tells me you're a cub, any idea what he means?"
(kemp)
"Yeah he means his nuckin futs and I don't smoke, didn't you learn anything in school?" *Bad dream, bad dream, just like the other one, only less bloody so far. Scrubbing at his face hard wtih both hands*(decker)
Circling like a shark...
...toward Imogen's stairs.At the bottom of her stairs he stops, one hand on either rail like it was now ingrained in him to bar off escape routes. "Imogen," he says. Doesn't call: says her name. Him and his molasses southern drawl; his quiet hard tone with just the hint of rasp at the edge. Him and his contradictions, in short.
And him and his new joint, which is getting rolled right this minute.
(james)
"Yeh, learned a lot of things in school. One school says you smoke and you die of cancer or something just as nasty. Another school says you and I will never have to worry about that."there's a beat or three there
just the time it takes for strong heart which will never sicken through conventional disease to pump three times"What've the dreams been about?"
by now he's leaned back, plastic chair molding to his spine
Kemp is certainly not the first cub he's dealt with
he knows that haunted, sleepless look too well(imogen)
Him and his contridictions.She's reached the top of the stairs by the time he's circled around, by the time James is offering a cigarette to the cub, and he's being refused, because, well, cigarettes are bad for you. They cause cancer. They kill you. Apparently someone had been paying attention in school. He doesn't raise his voice and while her hearing is no where near as good as some, it is certainly enough to hear that.
She turns, easily, to look at him, one hand sliding up to push back strands, fallen free and damp from her pony tail to cling to her cheekbones. Pushed away by habit, and pressed to cling behind her ears. "Yeah?"
(kemp)
*Lift his head to snap out.* "I don't know what you're talking about!" *Admitting anything was not something he was going to do easily, especially bad stuff. You admitted the bad stuff and it made it real. If you denied it, it was just some really badly fucked up nightmare that you'd wake up from.* "Can I go now?"(james)
"No."that single word falls with the force of a hammer
though his voice has never raised once"Because you know exactly what I'm talking about, I can see it in your eyes, I can feel it in your blood - just like you can feel something gnawing at your insides like a monster waiting to get out. It's as real as you don't want it to be, or we're all in one big nightmare. You can try to run away and pretend it's not happening until one day it suddenly kills you. Or you can sit there, stay calm while I call him back up up, and let us help you."
(Barny Jameson)
Trudging. What else is there? Another street. Seen plenty of those since he left the Sept of the hand of Gaia. He was asked to stay on. But fuck if he could take it. But here? not that far 'home' should he have to. besides. He heard there was some fighting pack here or something. those gnawers just mumble and mumble.But its worth looking into. No more of that touchy feely crap. Following the directions of Mother, he find himself in Hibernia. what a dump. but better then the endless park of the sept anyway. Looking to the streetsign, nodding to himself. Was the right street anyway. so he starts to walk along it.
The man coming into view soon, is quitee a large guy. nearly 6'4, and broad over thr shoulders. A rough n cut face, framed by red-brown hair ontop, and a nasty looking scar running over his throat. Green eyes set deep in his face. He aint no pretty boi. A bag slung over his shoulders as he moves slowly down the street. The warmth have him dressed in Jeans (blue, washed) and a black wifebeater.
(kemp)
*Oh shit, he was going to bring the skin headed pervert up?* "Ok, I'm listening, but can't you just leave him somewhere's else?" *Part of him wanted to kick the crap out of Decker while another part just wanted to get out of his reach for fear he'd pull his head off and shove it up his butt.*(james)
there's something in the way the Gnawer laughs
he's.... probably thought or asked that same question once or twice
but he doesn't say it because he's also well aware of how good the Modi's hearing is"That's another no.... because he's your tribe, I'm not, so even though I'm sure I'm going to be the one that does most of the explaining... by all rights and purposes he should be involved."
that drifts off, seeing if the kid catches the "tribe" comment
(decker)
It's hard to imagine what the hell it is they built a relationship on. Their silences are vast, chasms of no-sound. The distance between may as well be a light-year.His hands unwrap from the railings slowly. He straightens. Then he starts up the stairs, one at a time, cub next door be damned. James could handle it. James was all grown up now, and so was he. The distance shrinks to nothing. He tops the final step and gives his back to those on Rune's balcony. He's larger than her. He blocks her from their sight, and himself as well, which cannot be an accident because he puts his hand on her cheek - the once-bruised one - and pulls her forward. He's notoriously insular about his private life. About her.
"Nothin'," he says, and kisses her brief and fierce, like a war. And after, "Go fer a ride with me later?"
(kemp)
"Tribe?" *Ok so this guy was as crazy as the other one, only this one didn't want to make sweet love to his butt. At least he hoped not.* "Listen, you might be playing cowboys and indians, but I'm just trying to get by ok? So, if you could find it in your headdress to let me out of here, I'll send you a smoke signal or something on mother's day."(james)
"If Mother's Day wasn't several months from now, I might just trust that you won't run and hide and then we'll find you dead or worse someday."the grin is still there, easy going and .... kind
quite the contrast to the skinhead on the balcony next door
seems that James is, quite honestly, a nice guy
(too damned nice for his own good)"It may seem like a child's game to you." the near-filtered cigarette is flicked towards the proximity of the coffeecan that served as an ashtray, because it's a sure bet he misses "But why do you think you're having the dreams or that I know about them, probably even what they're about, if it wasn't real? I went through it, too. You may not smoke, but do you eat?" dreads drag on shoulders of wet shirt, nodding towards the bag "Come inside, listen to what I have to say for another hour, and if you don't believe me after that, you can tell me to fuck off and be on your way."
(barny)
And there. Those two houses, and the ones infront of the houses. A bit off still, but there is no mistaking it, is there? Even if Mother hadnt told him the adress, he couldnt really have missed it. not with all of that. So turning his steps, he crosses the street slowly, looking from one house to the other. But the number matches only one of the houses. So he stops by the hedge, looking to the pair on the porch, and waits. He doesnt make a sound however, to introduce himself.(kemp)
*Looking towards the bag for a moment unable to hold in the urge to swallow.* "Well ok, but only if no one comes near my butt."(james)
there's a glance strafing off the balcony
catching the figure by the hedge
that's followed quickly by nothing more than an impression across the back of his packmate's mind
since the cub was pawned off on him
Decker can take care of the newcomer
though he can't help but laugh"Don't think you'll have to worry about that.... you're not exactly my type."
with that, the tall Gnawer unfolds from the seat, grabs the bag, and heads inside
(kemp)
*Taking a look towards the escape route with a frown. He had given his word sorta, that he would listen. And there was the added lure of food. He was always hungry. Scowling and following James. Muttering while hiking his jeans up some.* "Good cause you ain't exactly my kind either."(barny)
He watches them move in. A shrug. they must bhe busy with something. he could see the man's looks. He has been... Acknowledged? perhaps. but not invited yet. So for the moment, he stands, and just waits. one hand slipping down to finger the pocket of his jeans, aching to reach for that thing inside. But not now. not yet.Posted by james at 12:00 AMJuly 01, 2003.07.01.03. - claiming [decker-imogen-spots]James...PM...:Decker Rohl
Three in the afternoon. 80-some-odd degrees. Summer's fullfledged now, the solstice past, the days shortening, the heat rising off the pavement to bake your soles to the ground. It's a New Jersey feel, somehow, this citified heat: long shadows in the corridors between skyscrapers, the golden-red glow of afternoon through glass and concrete and smog. Premature sunsets. Even out in the suburbs there's the taste of the city in the air.
He's parked where he hasn't been for a while. Bottom of Imogen's stairs. Drab military-green shorts are shorts only in the loosest sense of the word; the hem hangs an inch below the knee. Sockless feet are stuck into an ancient pair of flipflops; jersey sticks to his back with sweat, and leaves a myriad of tan lines across his shoulders and upper chest.
CD walkman, headphones, waiting around. A lady walking her dog toward the green belt comes by and he squints up with one eye. Her stare is the sort usually reserved for something vile and frightening, cockroaches and mangy feral-dogs. "Don't ferget to pick up the turds," he reminds her, cynically helpful. She walks all the faster, dragging the bristling Fido away.
There's something about him that frightened the prey-animals and angered the predators.
Other than that the afternoon's pretty devoid of excitement. He's tanning into summery brown, at least on the upper surfaces of his body. Like a water animal, he's countershaded, lighter on the inside of his forearm, the underside of his arms. No spa-cultivated supertan, this, but the simple darkening of a rough-born boy who should probably be working at the docks for his day's pay instead of loitering on the good doctor's stairs. That's all right. He still had a couple bucks, enough for burger and fries and gasoline. He'll go tomorrow.
Imogen SlaughterTue 04:02PM
The sunset bakes the sidewalks until they are almost uncomfortably hot to the touch. The air isn't hot in comparison to deep southern summers but in comparison to the days of rain and sixty degree weather, it was a scorcher. The breeze hardly stirs and the air tastes of smog and car exhaust fumes, that kind of heat that sticks in the back of your throat.Still, it's pleasant enough, the sun warm, the air not so humid. Summer as it hasn't been, belated like the spring was belated. It's nearly four pm, which is actually rather early for the sleek mercedes to come into the parking lot and drive into one of the tenant parking spots. It's early for the flame haired woman, strands half tamed by the benefit of some elastic or another. What strands refuse to be tamed, wild and curling, denying all attempts to calm the chaos, fall to cling against the curve of her neck, brush the collar of her blouse and slide against her cheekbones. Fading bruises now, the slow descent from dark black and blue to greens and yellows, mottling. One could not tell it was summer by her skin, pale fine flesh that would likely burn rather than tan. Not that there is much sun to be found in a morgue. Or a car in early morning when she is either going to work, or coming home.
There isn't much in the way of freedom with strict business attire for the summer, except that her blouse is short sleeved and she had tossed off her jacket during the drive. Lighter fabrics, thinner, lighter weaves, still dark colours, sombre. She opens the back door of the car, grabbing brief case and jacket, fingers curling around the first, the second drapped to stay best as it could on the brief case.
Bristling fido and his surly owner is long gone by the time she approaches the walk way, heading toward the stairs where the Modi loiters. She pauses, just as her shadow begins to reach his feet, her free hand sliding into a pocket, finding keys as she looks at him. "'Lo." Somehow one syllable is at least better than simply staring and waiting.
Decker RohlThe tinny blast of music is audible even two yards away. Bassless, all music sounds about the same, four-four time, common time, the high section of the percussion and little else. He can't have heard her greeting. It doesn't matter how good his ears are; when he's blowing them out like that, he wouldn't hear apocalypse itself falling on his head.
He can see her, though, through the honeygold lashes that scatter the sunlight into rainbow hues dotting his view of the world. Talk about rosetinted glasses. There's some motion of her lips when she speaks. He tugs the earphones down, nods up.
"Wasn't 'spectin' you til like eight o'clock." That's his idea of a hello today. He should probably move out of the way, but the concrete's warm beneath his body, and hot everywhere else. He'd shadowed himself a comfort spot in the sun. There's an absurd sort of flair to the silver on his wrists, flashing brilliant against his tan like the world's cheapest attempt at bling-bling.
Imogen
He's blocking her way up the stairs, and so she remains where she is, the keys jangling together softly as she draws them from the pocket, and holds them neglectfully by one finger looped through the ring.Her eyes flicker down to his wrists, something that by now, might very well be oddly familiar, for him to see her do, for her to see on him, before her attention flicks back up, "I was supposed to be in court," she shrugs her shoulders slightly, "It was postponed."
Her attention flicks away to some undecided point and back again, "So I came 'round for a bit before I go back."
Decker RohlA flash of his eyebrows: one of his many wordless gestures, ambiguous, all amounting to a shrug or a nod. He shifts his weight on one elbow and leans to that side, giving her enough room to get by him. If she felt like it.
"Go on, then." Jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. There could be something infuriating about his insolence: that he dares act as gatekeeper to her own damn house. He doesn't seem to care, though. He hooks the earphone back over his ear and turns the music back up.
Imogen SlaughterTue 04:40PM
She stares at him for a beat of unreadable silence broken by the heavy beat of his music. There could be something infuriating about his insolence, and there must be. She might have said something, under her breath so quiet that sensitive ears, music blaring in one and close to blaring in the other, couldn't hear.After the ambiguous moment, she speaks aloud, not yet taking a step through the opening he'd provided, "Just going to sit 'ere on the steps then, are you?"
Decker RohlTue 04:51PM
He'd been reaching over to pull the other earphone on too. Reseal himself in noise, and fuck her muttering. Then she speaks aloud and he stops, halts, freezes even if not for the indefatiguable laziness in his motion that would never, under normal circumstances, simply freeze up. Tilts his head to look on up, his hand coming down to rest on his stomach.Pause.
"Yeah. Gittin' some fuckin' sun." Aggressive, a glance tossed at the gap between him and the banister. "What, 'sit scarin' you, thought o' walkin' by so close?"
Imogen SlaughterTue 04:57PM
"No," another negative that she says without need to think or consider. She shifts her grip on the brief case, the jacket slung over the handle shifting between the movements of her fingers.The house keys, car keys, work keys hit together disonantly as her other hand reaches up tugging through the loosened strands of hair, pushing back the bright hair from her face as she looks at him, direct and still holding his gaze. Because she wasn't 'scared'. Or refused to be, perhaps. "I want to know why you're here."
Decker RohlTue 05:07PM
A beat.Then he moves. Suddenly. Smoothly. Sits up in a flex of abdomen and nothing else. Elbows come to rest on his updrawn knees, forearms and hands hanging loose. Muscles churn under his skin and the ink that marks it, so like the bands of flesh moving beneath a snake's patterned scales. The motion seems a logical prelude to his standing up, just as smooth and just as sudden, but he doesn't. He arrests right there. Right at the cusp of standing. Taut.
He draws two quick breaths. His nostrils flare twice and compress twice.
"Maybe I'm waitin' fer you to git home." It's almost silken. It's almost sussurant. It rasps at the edges like a steel file. "Maybe I'm waitin' to see ya. Maybe I'm waiting fer you to walk close enough fer me to touch, 'cause that's about as close I'm lettin' myself git lately."
Then, slowly, he sinks back. Tension runs out of him like water, deceptive. He smirks at her. "Enough reasons fer ya? Could always call the cops on me like 24C threatened."
Imogen SlaughterTue 05:24PM
Give her this, if she is afraid of him, really, of his sudden movements of his rage (some fear renewed by a rather poignant reminder), she doesn't flinch or take a step back as he moves suddenly. Some part of her is tense, but some part of her is always tense, lately. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has no way of knowing it's not only with him."I wouldn't like to see what a Garou would do when confronted by cops intent on arresting him." Whether a Garou would fight back, kill them, rip them limb from limb. Whether the Garou would go, and go furiously insane behind bars for a day or two before finally snapping. Kinfolk have taken the fall for Garou before, to save them from such a fate. Quite a few humans have likely done the same, though not willingly.
Her weight shifts slightly as she looks away a moment, toward the manicured green lawns of the condominium plaza, green from all the rain, poisonous fertilizer and care done by minimum wage workers. "Well, I'm home. And you can see me." Her gaze resettles on him after another moment, "Are you just goin' ta stay ou' 'ere after?"
Decker RohlTue 05:37PM
It's a glare. It's a challenge. It's a stabbing offensive. It's an attack in everything but body, the way he nails her down with his stare, the way the angry grey never quite reflects the blue of the sky. Hell knows what's got him riled up this time. Really, he doesn't need an excuse. The electric-charge sensation that cloaks him is excuse enough.Then, abruptly, he gives it up. Looks away and shakes his head slowly. He might be answering her question. Likely he's not. The quiet goes on for a while. The lady and her dog are circling around the long way to avoid coming by Imogen's condo again. He watches them detachedly for a moment. The sunlight is crisper in the north, smogscreened though it might be; it casts the angles of his face into dark and light, sharply divided.
In a photograph (and it's doubtful he even has a single one saved somewhere. after his short days are over, there won't be a record of him, his high planed cheekbones and his hurricane eyes. there won't be a record at all except in memory and, just maybe, if that end was fucking glorious enough and he took enough wyrmlings down with him, in song.) he could be striking. In life, he's closer to terrifying.
Eventually his attention comes back to her, though his gaze doesn't. He nods at the stairs behind him, and to the left.
"Why don'tcha siddown a while, Imogen."
Imogen SlaughterTue 06:04PM
He glares at her and for moments, she stares back. The offensive glare of his eyes backed up by the heavy weight of his rage.She looks away sharply when he gives it up (it must be a relief, sometimes, when he doesn't look at her), up the stairs toward the front door, before her gaze flicks back as he speaks. A beat, before she steps up past him and up the stairs (and if she was lying and she was terrified of him, it's firmly buried to the point it no longer matters), without so much as a word.
The brief case is dropped at the top of the stairs just beneath the overhang, the jacket thrown over it, keys dropped to the side with a dull jangle, and then silence.
A few steps down, and she drops to sit above him, back setting against the railing, the sunheated wood pressing against the thin fabric of her blouse, almost too warm. It's been a long afternoon and the sun has been out the entire day, unobscured by clouds. Everything is beginning to retain heat from the sun. She's a rather petite woman to begin with, and isn't prone to sprawling or taking up all that much space. One leg draws up to rest on the same step upon which she sits, while the other, on the step directly below, as she sits, sideways. It's easy enough to look at him from this position, dark blue eyes slitting slightly against the sun, framing the view in coppery red.
Whether meant or not, on either side, he had gotten his third comment. She was almost close enough to touch, if only because she refused to sit miles away from him. Somehow, it seemed more ridiculous when sitting, than standing.
The music is still loud enough to hear, the beat consistantly audible. Her attention flickers toward the ear phone for a moment, before toward him, "if y'were anyone else, I'd tell y'about the damage those things can do t'yer ears," she says finally, inanely, hand reaching up to press back strands of hair once more. Speech, if only because for once, she might not wish the silence.
Decker RohlTue 06:13PM
She can see him easy enough. The reverse isn't quite as true. He would have to twist around to look at her, and it seems like too much trouble. So she sits, he lounges, and doesn't ask why.Why she didn't just walk in. Why she came back. Why she did as he said (asked) and sat down behind him.
Somehow joints were a nighttime thing, at least when the moon is small. He doesn't feel the urge, doesn't have the longing, doesn't go for his weed. He does, however, rub his wrists absently. Then she mentions the volume of his music - inanely perhaps, and perhaps out of a lack of anything else to say. Somehow leaving the silence to roll out seems improper.
He looks at her over his shoulder. After he's turned away again, she hears him snort quietly. He pulls the earphones off completely and taps the power button. "Christ, Imogen. Don't needya to mother me."
Imogen SlaughterTue 06:23PM
A brief snort of air to answer his own, "Well, that's comforting," she answers, some sort of thread of wry sarcasm (like his mockery, carelessness, she has her defenses and barriers), "I don't particularly think I'm the mothering type."He doesn't bother looking at her, so he can't quite catch the narrowed eyed frown that comes and goes like a summer storm; nor can he see the slow pass of her thumb across her index finger, the habitual pass of her attention over the well healed groove of a scar. She rests her head against the railing support, attention flicking upward and away toward the harsh blue sky, as she exhales, slowly, through her nose.
Decker RohlTue 06:52PM
A silence. He lets it slide. He's tired of fighting. He's tired of fighting with her. His temper's what started the problem in the first place. He scrubs at a spot of engine-oil on his palm, licks his thumb and tries again.Then with some small amount of care, he sets Livingston's CD player aside and turns on the stairs until he's sitting much the way she is, back to one banister, heels to the other. There's more length to him, though, and he isn't the type to fold and scrunch. He takes up more space, broader and wider, a larger sprawl.
Antiparallel, he looks at her for a moment. This is, in fact, the first time he's looked at her for some time. Not a glance, and not at her bruise. He looks at her throat and at her cheek, at her eyes. Behind her, the white stucco condominiums are sharp and bright against the sky. A welcome breeze lifts sweat off his skin. He pulls his shirt up and wipes his brow with it, pulls it back down.
"'M sorry I hitcha." In the end he finds he has to say it - not for the sake of absolution, but for some blind, stupid hope of it that's impossible to let go of. As if with words, with blood, with pain, he could perhaps strike the whole of the night from existence. "'N I'm sorry I jus' left ya there."
Imogen SlaughterTue 07:07PM
She isn't looking at him, when he looks at her, her attention flicked upward toward the sky, the breeze that had skimmed across his skin skimming across hers, brushing through the fabric of her shirt, of her pants. Somebody somewhere is having a barbecue and the air smells of charcoal and burning meat.It's hard to say what she'd been expecting now, after her caustic comment, barriers up and repelling. Whether she'd expected him to snap back at her, get furious and stalk away as she pushes it and him too far one more time.
She had certainly not expected an apology.
It's not that she stares at him in open mouthed shock, or even that her eyes widen, only that her features go carefully blank, as her attention shifts toward him an for a long moment it's just that.
Her hand moves finally, in some sharp meaningless gesture, some small motion that is meant to answer him (but of course it is not eloquent enough for that) or help her find the words to do so (but there are none, or there are too many) or simply a gesture of nothing, meaning nothing because she has nothing to mean and feels she must do something.
The thoughts are half born, some flicker of it behind her eyes, but too fast too quick for even her to catch them all, let alone him.
And finally, "I wouldn't 'ave wanted y'to stay, anyway." Absolution is a hard thing to hand out on so many levels.
Decker RohlTue 07:22PM
He watches her close up on herself. He watches the thoughts flicker unreadably; it's her talent to be able to do that, but it's a damn frustrating one."Know that," he says at last, and maybe he does. Now he does want a joint. He could blame it on the slipping sun that cast his shadow long and ridged on the stairs, that made valleys and ravines of the folds and creases of his pants, the tiny vertical ribs of his jersey. He could, but he knew that wasn't it.
The hand that had tugged his shirt up and then down again stays loosely bunched in the thin material. The cotton's a tight fit, hugging against the hard curves and planes of his body, but the material itself has been washed so often that the knit is loosened, the weave slowly beginning to unravel as all things do in the end. Here is the cloth; here the tapestry; here is the thread you add to it, until the scissors snip it off.
Here is your life, the extent, the expanse, the length. This is what you get. The war, the violence, the losing battle.
And these, the moments.
He bows his head forward for a moment. Then he raises it and looks at her hand like he might take it. He doesn't, though. He gets to his feet and steps off the stairs onto the path, doesn't go far, doesn't go anywhere, stands looking into the evening sun and wondering what now.
And what now circles back to what then, what before. Reknit and close. He turns back, his hands finding their way to his pockets. He sits down again, the way he had when she first walked up, facing west, back to the flight of the stairs.
"Tell me something," he says.
SpotsTue 07:46PM
Hibernia.
He has been here once before.
then, he was interupted as he stumbled upon a beaten and bruised kin.
Feels ages ago, even if it was less then a month.
A month here has done little to change his patterns.
shoulders sagging, shielded by a light windbreaker.
He peeks at 5'11 wearing those everpresent, slightly to large boots, that make a slow, rythmic tap tap against the asphalt of the sidewalk.
Jeans worn to perfection rising low on narrow hips.
Skinny, is a king word for the small metis known as Spots.
Mohawk a ragged mop of darkblonde curls on his head, that is striped with white, looking almost like some failed barcode experiment.
James had given him the number to call Rune.
Perhaps he should have, instead of what he now has done.
But to follow the Spirit that guides him is natural.
So he walks through suburbia, hands deep in pockets, and a half forgotten, half put out smoke clenched between lips and teeth.
The metis goes to meet the eagles pack.
goes to meet what he cant help feel, is a return back home.
His tribe is there.
(imogen)
Life leaves its echoes upon everyone, marking them forever by certain situations and actions. That a certain day might mark someone forever. In some cases, it's truly scars, marks that will never go away. In other situations it's simply the way someone reacts to something. To shut down, instead of react angry. To react with scorn, rather than get angry.Tell me something, he says, and her attention has turned to the sky once more, hands straightening out against smooth slippery fabric of her dress pants, fingers spreading against her knees, stretching the tendons.
The sky is much paler than her eyes, the clear blue deepness compared to the darker more clouded blue.
This is the harder way to do it; at least for the one who has to answer. To actually think of something to say, something to answer. And make it matter.
And finally, more or less, she does what he did. Avoidance, as her attention flickers toward him again, glancing at his turned back, "Like what?" After a silence long enough that he might have thought she wasn't going to say anything at all.
(decker)
"Anything."(spots)
How do you know one corner from the next?
You dont.
It has nothing to do with visual recognition.
Nor any of the other senses most humans take for granted.
Just that tickle along his back.
the slightest shift of the gauntlet.
A ripple in the fabric if you will.
It always changes when those able to cross it freely remain long enough in an area.
So he stops on the corner, blue gaze searching the row of houses glimpsed behind the hedges.
One like the other.
A couple on the stairs there.
Another walking his dog there.
Finally, a drag that revives the struggling glow of his smoke.
Grey smoke released from thin lips, to be caught by the breeze, and torn to shreds.
What is he doing here anyway?
He really should have called ahead, and have James meet him.
It would have been the right thing to do.
Cause he has started, however slowly, to see an inkling of what life could be.
Away from his tribe, and all that he knows.
"Fuck..."
Uttered so softly, as the smoke is thrown down, and stomped, as if it was to blame for him beeing here.
And with the slow Tap Tap of boots, he begins to walk down along the rows of hedges.
Searching the houses, and the surroundings for some sign, some glyph or mark that would reveal the packs home.(decker)
(i gotta post faster cuz i'm gone in like 40 min, y'all!)There's no glyph to mark the land. No runes carved into the door. No thundercloud forever looming over one condo; no sound of distant howls.
There is, however, the intense rage washing from the man (correction: Garou) on the stairs, whose attention is, for the moment, tuned out across the expanse of the parking lot: black asphalt sea.
(james)
it's..... hot
strange thing when you tend to live through most of the night
the day seems all the more glaring, baking, broiling, swel. ter. ing.
he spent the latter part of it at the condo's pool
even playing with a few kids
(it's the little things that count)but that was an hour ago
now he's the only one by the glistening, crystaline water, sitting at the edge just at the 4' marker
dark gray cargo shorts soaked to nearly black
the back cuffs weighted behind his knees to dangle right on into the water his feet are still in
black t-shirt plastered to lean form
(you try to explain such scars to children)
dreads almost seem tame now, with the cling and drape of water
Camel smoke billows out of his lungs towards the setting sun
one more drag, and he's stretching (sloshing) his way to stand
meandering across the slippery when wet! concrete towards the safety gate(imogen)
A brief sound in the back of her throat, some sort of acknowledgement that she'd heard him. A moment, where she perhaps considers the question again, and if she had something to say, when Spots comes into view, tapping his way, searching the houses and surroundings for some sort of sign.Exhale, "It looks like I'll owe you one." Her eyes narrowing as the metis walks closer in his aimless search.
Her eyes narrow slightly on the movements of him, perhaps because humans don't tend to go wandering around here. After all, if Spots can feel the rage from there, a human would certainly not come any closer.
(decker)
The Modi's attention comes up. His hair's shorn close to his skull, faintly glistening with sweat - hot today, humid too. His eyes might be grey or blue or something of both; it's hard enough to tell at a distance. He eyes Spots for a minute and grunts under his breath."Yeah."
Subtle change in posture: the hunker a little broader, more obviously confident, a touch more tension in the bracket of the almost-bare shoulders. He doesn't bother to raise his head high like a dog sitting up, but the angle of his jaw's held a little differently. Body language, street-thug language and garou language. It's all the subtleties of it that made the claim: this is his land and these are his buildings. He doesn't own them by money, but he does by bloodshed.
James put in an appearance. He glances over. Nods up. Sinks back, elbows onto the stair above him. Another gesture, another meaning. James, PR man, can take point. He'll fly wing on this one.
(spots)
Rage.
Mark enough for anyone, washing so heavily from the seated man.
And it sends a shiver down his spine, quite unlike that which led him to the area.
this one, announces the shoulders sag.
He found atleast one.
Yay.
Some part of his brain had hoped he would run into james here, and get away without meeting anyone else.
Its never that easy, is it?
Steps slow, as he approaches the house, a glance cast to the two there.
they were busy, so he stops, and fishes out another 'bro from his pockets.
Bic brought up, a flare of light against his face, before he once more drags deep into his lungs.
And exhales slowly.
He has rage within him as well, but the feelings of it are diminutive at best.
Never the warrior at the best of times.
Gaze down, seeming locked on his boots.
And james appear.
If Spots notices him, it doesnt show, remaining where he is, waiting to be called.
He knows his place.(james)
there's a nod up (answered, one to the kin, too)
there's a thuggish melt back on the steps (acknowledged)
there's another gesture (deep umber rotates left)
it's all in the body language
where phrases transcend vocality
it's the method of the animal
of packthough as he gets a glance of that skinny form and barcode mohawk
instead of settling into the ease of ownership
the Bone Gnawer grins and changes course
wet feet not quite slapping against the concrete
but the step's quick enough to get to cooler grass in a heartbeat
(and the Fenrir before he bolts)"Hey Spots." called out as the metis gaze locks on the ground, waiting til the look up for nod up "S'up?"
(imogen)
There's rage here, sitting a step or two down on her stairs, and approaching from the pool, leaving small puddles of water with each step. It's palpable, it's in the air. Her eyes follow Spots for a beat, three, now, still leaned against the railing of the stairs. Her posture change is subtler because she isn't using her body language to mean anything. It is infact something controlled, and smothered. She brushes back strands of hair from her face again, as James's voice grasps her attention and then back away.She has no rage, which might not be an easy thing to pinpoint. At a point like this, it's not as if rage was flames of a candle, they're bon fires, blazing hot and hard and the burning warmth spreads everywhere. She's possible close enough to Decker that the fact that she is, in comparison to the burn of rage, startling cool might be hard to gauge. What she does bring to this odd gathering, however, is the weight of her breeding. The evidence of pure blood.
(decker)
Decker frowns at Spots. The name he overheard from James. What sorta name is that? He notes the downcast eyes. Thin shoulders. Weirdass hair. Knew James.Must be a Gnawer.
He loiters a while longer, silent now. His attention's focused forward. For lack of a better word, he's ignoring Imogen, at least in intellect. In that, though, is an odd sort of trust. A physical, visceral belief that his six was safe. His gaze stays on Spots. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes James coming forward.
(spots)
He does look up then.
Offering a slight nod up to james.
Kinda natural to do as your head raises.
"Hello James."
nice day, aint it.
Good to meet you!
The metis would probably greet james like that.
If not for the two on the stairs.
The signs clear enough.
This, is their ground, not his.
So the metis waits, gaze lowering back after it rose to look at james chin.
Hedges covering James feet.
Shame.
He kinda liked those boots the gnawer wore.
Quite spiffy actually.
Smoke lifted to lips.
Drag.
Wait.
Exhale.
the wash of rage.
The sense of that pure blood, scented behind (above) everything else.
He wants a joint so bad he can taste it.
But this isnt the time for it.
Gaze still on ground, his voice low.
"Sorry I didnt call ahead...."
He really is.(imogeN)
She is impassive as she considers the interaction between the two Garou, a steady dark eyed gaze, as her weight shifts slightly, settling more comfortably against the almost too hot railing.(decker)
Yeah, okay. Enough of this. The Modi straightens up, gets to his feet. Squeezes his fist and pops his knuckles (like maybe he was just itching to beat some backbone into Spots) and then turns on the bottom stair, flawlessly balanced on the none-too-wide ledge, to face Imogen briefly."Lissen." Too low to be overheard; pause. "When you gonna be home tonight?"
(james)
those boots are spiffy
.... if he was wearing them
but right now it's just the water that hasn't evaporated yet
soaking wet clothes: built in air-conditioning, baby
and as Spots looks up, there's that familiar grin
and as Spots looks down again, he doesn't seem to make anything of it
nor the eagle eyes of his packmate over on the stairs
muscular shoulders rolling in a shrug"No worries, you wouldn't have known I was back. Mother sends her best."
quietly offered
so James and the strange Garou have a bit of a past
the way his head tilts, there's a hope that will get Spots to look up again
rather than having to do a verbal reminder infront of the other Fenrir"What's got you so far North?"
(imogen)
Yeah, okay. Enough of this. The Modi straightens up, gets to his feet. Squeezes his fist and pops his knuckles (like maybe he was just itching to beat some backbone into Spots) and then turns on the bottom stair, flawlessly balanced on the none-too-wide ledge, to face Imogen briefly."Lissen." Too low to be overheard; pause. "When you gonna be home tonight?"
(decker)
His tongue tucks briefly into his cheek as he stands regarding her. No affirmative; no promise to stop by; no question to see if he can. Just a vague nod up. "Okay. Later, Imogen."Then he heads on over to Rune's after a brief glance at James, taking the stairs in twos. Gonna get his keys and go for a drive. Maybe he'll go make a few bucks today after all.
(spots)
It isnt james.
All to clear in his posture, the hang of his head.
A neck that doesnt strain to rise his head.
The slightest twist of lips, that coul be the birth of a smile.
but a still-born one, as it vanishes, perhaps unseen.
"Looking for you."
Fingers flick the ash of the smoke as he pauses.
"Wanted to repay you for what you did before."
James earler appearance so unexpected to the young Get, he completely forgot it then.
Left hand coming from pocket, fist clenched around some bills.
"And introduce myself to the others."
Been to long already.
but the knowledge of the pack having atleast two of his tribe in it, has kept him away.
no secret to James.(imogen)
"Another time," she answers, a half sentence which is what all greetings seem to become, after a while. A sidelong glance follows his departure briefly, before she gets up herself, fingers sliding through loosened hair.The slender woman is clearly not of the Fenrir persuasion, with red hair that speaks of colours of pure autumn, sunsets, rich colours of red and roan, the setting sun piercing through it, catching in lighter strands that are almost blonde.
Compared to the two, and the other who just left, she is considerably more dressed than the rest. Navy dress pants skim her frame, and in this group of people wearing t-shirts and wife beaters, she wears a pale blouse.
She takes the several steps up to the balcony, pushing aside the suit jacket and opening the brief case.
Out come the cigarettes. Spots, apparently, had the right idea, as the woman lights up.
(james)
he's pretty sure it's not him
remembering the Fenrir's response to learning of family in the area
well. he's damn sure, actually
and while he may not be able to see the stillborn smile
he knew it was forming
just by the tones that quietly eeked from the small metis' mouth
and perhaps by the fact Spots worked up the guts to come all the way up here in the first place
so that keeps the easy grin on his facewanted to..... wha?
as the left hand comes out
the Gnawer blinks a moment
(Well I'll be damned...)
and the grin simply widens
accepting the payback with a nod of gratitude
(sure means something to repay a Hood)"'Preciate that." dark eyes stray to the Modi's departure, an almost non-existant response, then he's turning to the little Get with that same (trademark) grin "Just missed Decker, everybody else is out."
well, Imogen is still there, obviously
but he's well aware of her preference to avoid Garou
rather than jump in on a meet'n'greet
if she wants to join in, she will
and dreads tug against the wet shirt's cling with a nod back towards the condo"Welcome to a beer, if you want to stick around and wait til someone gets back." a breif frown, he's realizing the anchor of fingers on smoke made the water dripping from sleeve down the steel of his forarm has taken the cigarette for a proverbial swim, as well, and the useless guttering embers flicked away to spin out over the hedges "C'mon."
(spots)
He swallows.
The cash handed so easily to James.
Anyone worth the soles of their feet repay kindness if it is in their power.
"You left so quickly before. Forgot about it when you came back. sorry it took so long."
If he recognised the name of Decker, it doesnt show.
Perhaps imogen has met a few Garou.
But if it werent for that oh so slight tingling of his rage, when compared to the bonfire that is james, it is near impossible to guess that he is one.
The submissive stance he holds even before James that he appear to have some history with.
The sagging of shoulders.
And lowered head, not looking at imogen after that first tentative glance.
But James makes the dreaded offer.
Had things been slightly different, Spots would likely have turned him down.
But you dont say no to an invitation (order) from a Rhya.
It leaves scars.
So it is a hesitant nod that is James only reply.
He doesnt move however, but waits for James to lead the way.(imogen)
Cigarette smoke, an exhale as she sits back on the top steps of her own condominium, half in the shadow now, though the sun is nearly completely set. She doesn't appear to be paying much to the conversation anymore, setting one shoulder against the support connecting to the top stair, slowly smoking the cigarette.Imogen had gotten a tentative stare from Spots at one point or another, and perhaps the bruising across one cheek had been caught, perhaps not. Half healed and the shadows darkening as they are, everything starts to smooth together, and distance and a quick glance can make some things harder to catch, harder to see.
The ember of her cigarette flares in the growing darkness as she inhales sharply, drawing it into her lungs slowly.
(james)
anyone worth anything repays kindness
it's just the way of the Hood to dish out kindness
regardless of whether or not he expects it to be paid back
most of the time it isn't
which is why when it is.... it means something
but the Gnawer's head ducks, leaning in a bit"Stay for a beer, it'll be a few hours at least." said for the Fenrir's ears alone, there's no requirement to stay until someone gets back, but hanging out for awhile at least purports the effort "Least I can do that you came all this way."
grinned
so what if it seems the normal salutation of the pack
some reward for sniffing them out
braving the Rage that's resident seemingly even without one of the Garou being present
it's still a genuine offer
an invitation
even if Spots wouldn't consider refusing anyway
left shoulder sinks towards the ground, a little, as weight shifts to turn
long strolling stride keeping to the grass until he's at the base of the steps
trotting right on up with little (.... little.... ) grin at Imogen"Grab a seat, get comfortable, Rune doesn't allow smoking inside."
unless the moon is full
but he doubts there'd be a visit during then in need of any explanation
one hand waving absently to the plastic porch chairs
the other reaching to open the door
which is left open as he moves inside
stripping out of the soaked shirt
(ashed scars from Chrinos claws darkly patterned within tanned flesh)
that's thrown blindly into the laundryroom
only indication of any aim is the wet SMACK of fabric onto washing machine
next stop is the kitchen
the fridge sighing open, bottles (three) clinking into his hands
soon enough he's back outside
(door closed this time)
one beer held out to Spots
and before he sits, another is held with a lifted brow towards Imogen
he'll toss if she accepts(imogen)
The gesture toward her catches her eye and the slender woman's attention flicks up toward James, by and large ignoring the stranger."Don't throw that," she warns him, dropping the cigarette into the ashtray beside her before unfolding to stand. She's hardly over five feet, five foot one, five foot two. Once standing, the woman steps to the balustrade where the two balconies are close enough for her to reach across for the beer. "Ta," she says, a flicker of a glance toward the Metis sitting.. well... on the balcony floor when perfectly good chairs are available.
With the disappearance of Decker, the rage is abated leaving James and minorly, Spots as the only sources.
(james)
brows lift at Imogen's response
wot? him? throw?
considering the Modi's aim the other night
safe to say none of the pack would try out for the NBA
(not mentioning that whole Rage and suspension issue)
top railing presses against the upper half of his thigh
his six feet two inches making up the reach between the balcony that the foot shorter Kin would be shy
chin dips in an affirmation welcome to slang thanks
then the still soppy Gnawer sinks into the
..... well... all the chairs are unoccupied
(not surprising, honestlyt)
so he chooses the closest one
it affords easy focus on the lawn out front anyway
glancing to the Metis"Welcome." escaping carbonation hisses as the bottle's finally opened "I bet you can guess the message Mother sent back."
without Decker there
and the moon barely growing in the sky
the absense of Rage is significant
even if his is an inferno compared to the Metis'(spots)
As Imogen approaches the railing, the lack of added rage is more evident.
He risk's another glance towards her, the slightest frown appearing on his brows.
For lack of a better word.
He is confused, and concerned.
"I can guess. Same thing she has threatened me with the last two years."
Bottle opened with an easy twist, and he sips the cool beer.
He hadnt realised how warm he was, until the amber liquid rushed down his throat.
He savours it for a moment, then takes another long drag of his smoke.
Holding it in, he seems to ponder something.
his gaze raised slightly, to James waist level when he sits, his words causes the smoke to escape his lips in small bursts.
"Why is she hurt?"
Second kin he has met here in the eagles territory with bruises.
It makes no sense to him really.
How can they mistreat them so?
This one not of Fenris blood, but her breeding strong yet the same.
Why would they let them get hurt?
And why wouldnt they heal them?
A slight point of his bottle towards the railing separating the two houses.
"I can heal her, if it is alright?"
Offered softly, before another sip of the beer is taken.
That is sooooo good.(imogen)
The beer bottle hisses open as she twists it, and takes a sip. For James's benefit, at least the bruising is faded, the swelling gone. Healing no where near the rate of a Garou, but still, much faster than a human could ever manage.Her attention jerks toward Spots as he speaks, her eyebrow arching in indifferent question as she takes another swallow of beer. "She can speak f'r herself, thank you. And as much's I 'ppreciate the offer, it's none so bad as ta need healing."
(grania)
Beauty in everything. This is what she told the man the other night – an odd one, he – and she is again out prowling (stalking, slinking) the streets looking for that beauty. Inspiration found in the tiniest things..
The splash of kids finally coaxed to leave the pool at this later hour, not because it is chilly (it is not) but because they are hungry, and there’s the promise of pizza that hangs on the wind. Laughter and splashes and mass exodus is viewed from the distant sidewalk by dark gaze, tilt of head, intensity’s stance as each minute detail is captured
(Jonny there almost lost his shorts, his face and neck flame crimson deeper then the sunburn gained as he looks wildly to see who saw, Melinda snickers and points it out to her friend who peeks, offering Jonnyboy a shy smile, which only deepens the blush further, and on the way by Melinda (sister, cousin?) is pushed back in. Footprints wet on the cement, towels scooped up and slung around dripping bodies, laughter and squeals empty the pool in short order.)
dark eyes glitter with promise of starlight that isn’t quite seen under the lamp where footsteps stopped, the light capturing golden halo of curls, dancing as she tips her head slowly the other way, fingertips lifting to trace along the lamppost (feel) sliding over the imperfections of the paint and metal, intimate caress for inanimate object.
Dressed in black, as usual, but in defference to the heat of the day, it is a whispy light skirt that swells and flows about her knees, midriff bare, up to the matching black halter that keeps her ‘decent’ for the most part. Face is bare of makeup, fresh as the newborn day, skin tanned a deep golden from days spent lazing about in the sun…(james)
there's a soft chuckle
the way Mother said that
when grabbing. his. cheek.
made him think Spots would already know
but he promised to pass it along anyway
then the subject turns to Imogen
and his head tips in consideration
wet dreads dragging over drying flesh
snagging against the welts of ashen scars
falling forward to frame the glyph brand on his chest"Accide...."
then Imogen speaks up
and the Gnawer can't help but chuckle
though it's mostly hidden in another slug of the beer"And I was about to say" still so amused, open mouth of the bottle tipped towards teh kin on the next balcony to make his point "Ask her permission, not mine. Spots, meet Dr. Slaughter." the young Get would probably not call her by her first name anyway, and that's up to Imogen to give. "Neighbor, associate, and friend." as well as any more detailed association to the pack, or its Germans, her pure blood surely speaks for itself. "Dr. Slaughter." the bottle tipped back towards the little Garou "Spots, friend from down AC way."
he also grabbed a joint when inside
battered Zippo CLACKS to searing flame
he takes the first long drag
then it's offered to Spots(spots)
Wide eyed.
His head dips low, to stare at the tiles he sits on.
"I apologise. I did not mean to offend."
How could he explain it to her?
That he would not adress her, because she had not spoken to him before.
He doubts she would understand it even if he tried.
The way he sits so still.
It is like a dog that has been beat to the point where it no longer shies from punishment.
Just stoicly accepts it as a natural thing.
Slight tension of narrow shoulders.
Either Imogen, or James.
He doesnt care.
It doesnt matter.
He insulted the kin.
Someone above him in rank and status within the nation.
Ignorance, is never an excuse.
And it might not be very bad, her bruises.
But they are still bruises.
But his offer rejected, or so he belives, he says nothing.
Just stares at the tiles.
Her name tucked away in memory.
He will not repeat the mistake again.
If anything can be said about the small freak.
He learns quickly.
Atleast, when it comes to some things, if not others.
The offered joint, instead of the expected punishment has him sitting very, very still.
Then hesitantly, gaze rising as slowly as the sun is setting, once more to james waist, he accepts it.
Looking at it for a moment, as if it is a viper ready to strike, before he brings it to his lips.
And taking a long hit from it, holding it in, he passes it back to James.
And the smoke is released, slowly through mouth and nose, some tension slipping from his shoulders at the same time.(imogen)
"It's a pleasure," said without meaning, a habit, because this is how you answer to greetings. Her eyes narrow briefly on Spots and his shame or sorrow or ... whatever it was before her shoulders shrug slightly, in differently. "S'nothing," dismissive.A brief glance at the watch around her wrist some understated gold thing before she steps away from the balcony railing and drains the last of the beer, dropping it by her doorway. Brief case picked up, jacket laid against the brief case once more, keys jangling as she picks them up. Either going in or work again.
"Night," said as she turns her head, glancing mostly toward James, rather than Spots, before she starts down the stairs toward the parking lot. Work, then.
(grania)
Slender form twirls around the streetlamp when eyes are convinced to leave the still rippling waves of the pool, the way light dances over the water in little peaks and falls to shadow in little valleys… but she moves around the pole, fingertips holding slight weight to lithe form as she leaaaaaans… and twirls, before soft laughter bursts from lips, and she lets go and falls away from the lap, hands tucking into the straps of the straw colored knit fabric backpack that hangs from shoulders. Steps are light, almost… dance steps as she slides down the walk in front of the condo’s before movement catches her eye, and she watches the flame-haired kin as she moves down the stairs and toward the parking lot. Steps pull to a stop again, head tilts, and dark gaze watches… flame against darkening sky, against pale cheek, the confidence of walk, the pride through spine, the repression of guarded gaze….(james)
he takes back the joint
and begins the rotation towards the kinfolk
but then she's dismissing herself
and there's the smooooooooth halt and hitch up in toast then reroute back to his lips"Night"
and he's quietly camping on the joint for a few moments
watching Imogen head towards the parking lot and her Benz
then the slow drop of hand to pass the joint
but it's held above Spots' line of sight
forcing him to look up to grasp it
pressure increases between toes and tile
heel lifted a bit to nudge ankle against the small Get's knee"She rejects everyone's help that way."
softly
seems he's talking from experience
there was nothing wrong with Spots' offer(spots)
It is held above.
And Spots doesnt reach for it.
(If you dont see it you freak, it aint for you! Little fucker, Ill show you your place!)
Instead, there is a nod for james words.
"I truly did not mean to insult her James-rhya."
Words soft, and low enough not to be heard outside the balcony.
A soft sigh, and a shake of his head.
He takes a sip of the beer, silent for another few moments.
"Ill be staying at a motel near the bus station tonight. Dont have to be at work until friday."
Shaking his head some.
"But there is something you have to know James-Rhya."
And the slightest tension arrives in his voice, and shoulders again.
He isnt sure how the gnawer will react to what he has to say now.(james)
it's held above
it's held in offer
he's quiet a moment before a gentle"Look up."
he doesn't argue the appelation
knowing the difference in rank, now
it's perfectly natural for Spots to call him that
even if it's still WEIRD for him to hear
the joint is patiently held until Spots takes it
and only then"Go on. I told you before to always speak freely."
what's not said:
and there's nobody else here to enforce otherwise(spots)
Only as James tells him to. (Orders it)
Does his gaze rise.
And the joint accepted, if a bit slowly.
Held, he takes another hit of it.
Might as well do this with the slight buzz of the joint.
"Eva Braun, the Get kin. She is staying with me down in AC. I claim responcibility for her, and her future actions now."
In other words, whatever she does, any anger it arises, or punishment it deserves, is to fall on Spots shoulders.
Elders in the nation do this for cubs a few times.
Or for prized family members of their Kinfolk.
sapots does it for someone that for all intents and purposes, (in his own world) is above him in rank.
Not forbidden in any way.
just unheard of.
That join passed back to James, held so james wont have to stretch.
his gaze back down again. not at the tiles, but at James thighs now.(grania)
The redhead gets into the car, and pulls away, and only then does the slender girl move once more. Lips curl into a grin, and she moves from cement to the grass, a moment spent bent, slipping off sandals, before standing, to let them hang from her fingertips, toes sliding through the manicured grass, little dance step here, there, and she twirls again... thoroughly enjoying the sensations of new summer warmed grass on bare flesh…(james)
he listens to this
quietly
even taking the joint back for a thoughtful drag before answering"Then I suppose." slowly, measured, on exhale, dark eyes studying the joint's glowing cherry "You should start teaching her some manners because the only reason I didn't kill her for disrespecting my Beta then hurting me was because she was Luc's girlfriend at the time."
he's curious if Spots knows that he was the one that originally broke her arm
not to mention the entire story in semblance of truth
as well as her former association with Eagle pack
he's familiar with Elders protecting cubs through responsibility
he was also raised in a different school of thought"Because I won't have as much mercy if she does it again. " another slow drag, eyeing the girl twirling in the grass (seems familiar), and handing the joint back, gravity taking hold of his buzz and settling weight a little lower in the chair "Which would be a pity because I'd hate to hold you both responsible for her ignorance and stupidity."
he knows Spots knows better
knows a little too much, in his opinion
but you can't change someone in a day"Claim her or not, Spots, no matter how much you want to protect her and take the fall yourself: we're all responsible for our own actions." brow lifts, with a glance "I hope she realizes how bad of a position she's putting you in."
(spots)
He listens carefully.
then nods.
"I know, and I thank you for it. She told me everything, and I cannot say it wasnt her own fault."
He shrugs his shoulders a little then, pondering something it seems.
"If she does it again, you are free to exact any punishment you see fit on me."
Upon taking responcibility for her, he has all but warded her completely.
She cannot be punished for her actions without going through Spots.
It is his place now, to punish her or not.
And to take any punishment she draws, on his own shoulders.
But to punish her, while knowing she is claimed for like this, is a crime in the nation, for all tribes.
Of course, when Eva hears this, he is likely to get his ass kicked both once or twice.
Too Spots, it doesnt matter that much.
Not as much as it does that she is a pure bred kin of his tribe.
A resource to be protected with his life if need be.
After all, she can do what he cannot, and that alone makes her more valuable then Spots.
"She doesnt know I have done this. I dont think she will like it. But it is my choice. And I formally apologise for her earlier actions to you, as I will to your Beta when I meet her."
A deep bow of his head towards James.
Some things come all to easily for the young get.
"I should get to the motel. If you are not busy, perhaps you will allow me to buy you lunch tomorrow, to celebrate your achivements james-rhya."
And thus said, he stands slowly, gaze lowered.
A glance to the twirling figure, he ponders it for a while, then looks to James. (Bare feet)(james)
"I know the laws, Spots." chuckled, wryly "I also know how to use it against you - which is what I'm telling you I don't want to do"because that would short the Nation by two Fenrir, not just one
who would protect Eva, if Spots were killed for her mistakes
but it's clear the Gnawer doesn't want to hurt the little Metis
rather likes him, honestly
just as it's clear that he feels the exact opposite for the kin
and is fairly chafed at the decision Spots made
he doesn't want to risk another friendship over that little fucking bitch"She caused bad blood to be spilled between me and one of my packmates. She is the reason that Luc believes" - not believed, believes, he hasn't seen the Skald since, and that hurts him, deeply "I betrayed him, which is something I would die before doing. Since you took her as your claim, I'm being very honest with you - that's something I'm not prepared to forgive easily. Though maybe now, because of your concern, dedication, and apology, she may live through the next time we meet."
one more clarity: up until now, she wouldn't have survived it
the young Metis can feel that in the weight of the dark gaze on him
he wouldn't have to see James' eyes to know that truth
but at least it's also known that the Ahroun accepts his apology
while his own tribe may not officially follow formality, he's not one to ignore it
but as serious as his words were in tone
they easily melt into something softer, smiling, as he stands
those wet longshorts cling to the plastic chair
(damn that was comfortable)
and the all but ashed joint is sacrificed to the roach gods over the balcony railinghere, beneath the oblique glow of the neighbor's porchlights
the tracks of his scars deepen
savage clawmarks that drape from his shoulders
extending the tangle of dark dreads down his back
the slender shadow of brand's raised welt on his chest
(Eagle's branded son, claimed by right of flesh and fire)
a hand extends, slowly, to shake"Glad you dropped by." grin rakes lopsided, almost.... shy.... someone celebrating his achievements. who'da thought? "Think I'll take you up on that offer."
(grania)
Head tilts, twirl stops, flimsy skirt flitters and flies and falls to rest again over creamy thighs – there is the feeling when someone is looking at you, when someone notices that you are there, creeping along skin until attention is gathered and dark gaze searches for the watcher…
Perhaps it is the strange man from nights before.
Perhaps it is someone wondering why she dances in the grass, their grass…
There is a joy in that, the sensation and wonder that goes along with a single word that voices a world of possibilities, a universe of dreams… perhaps… maybe…
Familiarity in the tilt of head, the impish grin, the playful step of body in sinuous motion, music that only she can hear, only she can feel… movement on a balcony pulls gaze that way, and the form of Spots is studied with an intensity that he might recognize… it is the mark of an artist flaying the skin to watch the way the muscles and bone work underneath, just to better portray it at another time… (…heaven is in the details…)(spots)
He listens, then nods.
There isnt much to say to that really.
he didnt think the gnawer would appreciate that spots placed himself in the way.
But he hopes that james will understand, that he truly didnt have a choice.
Not when it comes to the kin of his tribe.
He appreciates the honesty, and if the fact that the Gnawer had the kin targeted for death comes as a shock, or surprise, it doesnt show.
they both know the laws, and spots knows it can be abused to the point where James could kill him for a true, or imagined crime of the kin that would warrant such a behaviour.
But they both know that Mother Larissa dont take kindly to such behaviour.
In fact, had she known about the fight between the pack, and the get kin, she would have sent james home with a message for all involved to face up to her (And a never ending session of cheek pinches) for their stupidity.
To Spots, it doesnt matter.
Instead, he nods to james, another half born smile creasing his lips, before he turns, moving of the porch.
"Im in the motel by the bus station. Come by tomorrow when you have the time, if you want to. Ill not be going anywhere."
And he slips from the house, and down the street.
Another glance cast to Grania, but the woman is left to her own devices, as Spots heads towards the motel.
Atleast he is still in one piece.
always something, right?
Right.((and fuckitall, players pass out))
Posted by james at 12:00 AM