November 25, 2003.11.25.03. - faith [tristan][riverfront]
(tristan)
At some point, after all the beer and well over half the whiskey, he proved his inability to hold his liquor, by barely making it to the mattress he had pulled over into James’ little corner of the warehouse. He somehow managed to kick his boots off, peel off the tank top (The sweater lost somewhere somewhen earlier in the evening) and pull a sheet over himself.Now, we find him sprawled, still, on his belly, the sheet draped haphazardly over lean frame. His arms are tucked under his head, tangled in the sweater that ended up used as a pillow, curls in tangled disarray, over his eyes, those along his jaw shifting slightly with every breath. There’s a bandage on the right side, above the lower ribs, though it doesn’t quite cover the wound (not an easy place to manage to dress yourself, and all) and the bruising is purplish-yellow surrounding it from the rather... vigorous... expulsion of the bullet at Decker’s hand. It’s healing well, but is at the stage where it looks horrid and much worse then it really feels before starting to look better again.
Otherwise, he’s the same kin we all know and love – pretty, relaxed, having been sufficiently liquored up into a dreamless serene sleep.
(james)
James had successfully ignored whatever state the two kin had drunk themselves into - he slept a Warrior's sleep, which was near instant and uninterrupted by anything but panic in the voices which floated to wash up against his subconscious mind like waves from a low-tide sea. Since there was no panic of any registering volume during the course of events, it's safe to say the Ahroun slept fitfully all the way through until morning.that's when a bag of fast food plops onto the ground between the mattresses
accompanied by a large, steaming, coffee
two, actually, of three total, in the carry-out container
he had gotten enough for Lexi, too
but somewhere during his trip she woke and disappeared
so the excess of food should suffice and, in fact, supercede, any alarm clock on this earthmeanwhile, behind the quiet thesad of Bone Gnawer strategy.....
the trench shrugs off
landing beside his mattress just before the sweater and (sniiiiiiff) wifebeater, too
(it is definitely coming up on laundry day for the pack)
landing on his mattress is one Ahroun
deeply ashed scars leaning up against the Alice pack which serves as headboard
another of the books "borrowed" from Chicago's library opening across his lap
helluva lot easier to read now that the black eye is little more than a dark shadow
and the split across his cheek no longer showcases bone beneath(tristan)
Ohhhhhh.... the Gnawer equivalent of an alarm clock. It doesn’t take long before there’s a deeper inhale, slight stretch, that hitches and halts a moment as lungs expand and muscles accommidate the movement, before it’s exhaled and fingers curl under the sweater, knee bends slowly, and the kin begins the motions of returning from the dreamless land he’d escaped too......cooooooofffffeeeeeee.....
lashes part, and there’s a wince, even though the light is far from bright, and a hand manages to untangle itself from thick sweater and push the curls away from his eyes. He squints and focuses, and then the other scents filter through and a lazy, still hazy grin flits over lips. Voice low, gravelly, murmurs. “Mmmmmm, you’re too good to me...” as gaze finally settles, and focuses on his friend nearby, even as he’s pushing up to rest his weight on elbows, then slowly pulling his legs up and rolling up to sit. Head hangs a moment, grin sheepish as he rubs his eyes. “Woman tried to kill me last night...” muttered, good-naturedly as he reaches for the closest cup of coffee.
(james)
"I know."perfectly flat as some of his answers before
dark eyes don't even pull away from the book's page
there's barely any pause from his read save the tilt of his own cup to lips"Y'allrigh'?"
good guess he's not referring to the hangover
(tristan)
He pops the top and lets the steam wash over his face as he inhales the scent, before taking a sip of the barely cooled coffee with an appreciative sigh. He looks up at James and studies him for a moment at the flatness of the comment, sliding his hand through tangled curls before running his hand over his face, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes only to rest his gaze on James once more.A moment, another sip, then with a nod. “Yeah, m’fine... question is – are you?”
(james)
the Ahroun is silent for a few moments
studying the finer points of indoor plumbing as outlined by Time Life
there's a new water heater sitting just inside the main cargo door
and he's jonesing for a hot shower
but at the end of the page, his eyes just stop moving
or maybe drift to a place where there are no words or diagrams"Yeh. Jus...... on top a th' maneat'r thing..... way she phrase thing got t'me."
(tristan)
feet cross and pull up closer as he leans for the bag and digs inside for the first bit of fast food that he comes in contact with, unwrapping and taking a bite or two as he tries to shift through which her he’d meant. Finally, a stab in the dark and finally just asking... “Imogen....or? And what in particularly...” Has an idea what, but well – better to ask and be sure, then to stick his foot in his mouth.More awake now, dull thudding at the back of his head ignored for the more immediate worry sitting across from him, and of course, breakfast. Could use a shower himself, probably, and will be more then willing to help with the plumbing job that looks to be in the near future from the book being read...or more... stared at.
(james)
"Huh?" a moment of confusion pulls his eyes towards the kinsman "Oh..... nuh. Im'gen will alway be th' mos' aggr'vatin' woman a Hood c'n ev'r run 'cross. Meant Lexi." shoulders roll press back against the rough canvas of the pack in what may be a shrug, shadows playing on the brand of raised skin on his chest. "Remin' me ain't seen Luc since a night I broke Eva's arm." ... and he nearly killed me ..."Rune gone six month." .... and I may have already lost a second mate .... "D'nno where Tuck 'r Kemp are anymore."(tristan)
There’s a slight chuckle in acknowledgement of the first, and then he just listens. And watches. The way the shadows play over him in that roll of shoulders, the way it highlights the brand along his chest, and how much darker the shadows in his friend’s eyes are. He finishes the sandwich in hand, downs a bit more coffee, then sets it aside before he rubs his hands on his jeans, and then with s shift of weight rolls enough to his feet to turn and settle – uninvited, but well, that don’t matter – on the mattress next to the Gnawer.He’s always been a creature of touch. For comfort, for contentment, for happy, for sad, for any emotion there’s a touch that mirrors what sometimes can’t be said. For now, he stretches out next to him on his back, propping his head on bent arm next to the below the pack turned headboard, placing his head around the level of James’ hip. Dark eyes look up from under long lashes, and free hand nudges against his friends thigh. Just an – I’m here. I know. I understand.
And I heard all of what you didn’t say.
There’s a slow inhale, (slight adjust, better position on the back, relax) then an even softer admittance. “I know there’s not a damn thing I can say to make it better, either. Though I want too. I want to say it ain’t your fault” Luc. “that she’s ok” Rune “that they weren’t ready to be pack after all.” Tuck and Kemp, And though we worry, we can’t do a damn thing about it. “But in truth – th’hell do I know? I can’t even duck right.” Slight grin, but it fades a bit. He’s got shadows of his own, as well. He’s been getting drunk more often then not before bed ever since they got to town.
(james)
"Course not." mockingly chuffed "'n she c'n take care've herse'f." appropriately interjected "'n they their own dest'nies."they're both creatures of touch
physical affection between Gnawers is not an uncommon thing
it's the modern adaptation of the primal instinct which subconsciously drives them
therefore, there is no outward reaction to the company save scooting to make a more comfortable space
Tristan, after all, is the one with a bullet wound, not James
there's a brow-raising glance at the latter comment
specifically, the brow above the fading bruise and healing split
but instead of looking away
the deep umber gaze holds"Though we agree t'leave'r sorrows in Jersey."
the book closes, slowly
to each their own distraction(tristan)
His hand still slides over the side of James’ thigh, idle contact, connection, as he nods to all the appropriate interjections. He doesn’t look away from that gaze as it’s held, though many would. He knows of all the Garou he knows, James sees him as close to equal as possible without his having rage to back it up. The slight grin slides even further towards wry. “Yeah. Thought we did.” Brow cocks over dark gaze, before he just shakes his head, slightly, and sighs, breaking eye contact for just a moment. Two. “Guess they up and decided to follow me.” Us.He doesn’t look back up, some space in the distant corner of the warehouse instead gathers his idle attention, before softly admitted. “I miss him. And I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Though it goes for both of ‘him’ that were lost in Jersey. Diego, whom he’s finally given up for dead, and the mourning continues on some deep level, for Connar, who must surely think he hates him for leaving without a goodbye – when gaia knows he was falling fast and hard for the King who chose to slum with the pauper.
(james)
"Ev'r thought 'bout goin' back.... say goodbye?" the Garou's voice is strikingly soft in it's suggestion "Was only way I cou' say it t' Jenna."(tristan)
He sighs, softly. “More often then I want to admit... I said goodbye to Diego when I locked up the apartments, and made arrangements to have his things put into storage if he didn’t return. I left a letter that I know will never be read, and I cried more then I ever want too again while I wrote it. And then there’s him...”There’s a moment’s pause, and he finally lifts his gaze to meet James’ again. “But I made my choice....” the way it trails off though, suggests that there’s more to follow, even as he tries to form the words.... “part of me is too afraid... that if I go back, and if he asked me to stay, I would. Which...” hand lifts to cover his eyes a moment, before pushing curls back with a growl of frustration... and in an explosion of confused breath... “is just stupid because I don’t even know his name... Here...” hand falls again to rest on James’ thigh. “...this is where I should be. Can’t leave you to face the Get all alone and all. Know you functioned just fine without me but Family is family and I want to be here. I want to be the one you can talk to, confide in, all of that shit.”
His grin appears, fades a little, but remains. “Jim called it, you know. Right off. Said he could feel the connection in just talking. It’s the –jump on a grenade without a second though, even knowing you’d ressurrect me just to kick my ass for being stupid in doing so – connection. family. So no.. I can’t go back.. because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll find him.... I’m afraid that I’ll loose all sense and not be here when you next need me too, or when I need to be here with you... that I’ll get so lost in all he makes me feel that I forget that I’ve got family who cares about me.” Who needs me still.
And worse... barely murmured “and I’m afraid that I’ll find out he’s not what I want him so much to be, that the reality is something different and that I will have made a mistake. When I know that being here with you and the pack is right.”
(james)
"It ain't..... easy.... lettin' go."it's only offered after a long silence between them
filled only with the hum of the generator a few yards away
the crackle and buzz of emergency lights
distant sounds of the city's ever-present white noise
the all but nothing sound of fingers picking through curls
stretching them elastically before allowing the fall back to Tristan's forhead"Took me two year a leggo a Jenna 'n the oth'rs. Wa'n't til some'n show me I had 'nother reas'n...... remin' me a my faith in what I born a do." there's a pause, in a low sigh "Remin me a my path 'n purpose... 'n that I dun make a mistake wi' what I chose. Sometime yeh move on. Those that're mean' a keep up wi'h yeh will."
doesn't mean he ever stopped missing them
that's easy enough to see in the Ahroun's dark eyes
no matter what inspires the playful warmth of smiling light in their depths
no matter how long that glimmer lasts
there will always be sorrows and regrets
choices made for things they never had the power to change
some battles in the War were never meant to be won
but for even the tiniest reason - they continue to struggle on"So'ta like nah."
momentarily, the familiar smile returns
a genuine expression that spreads, however lopsided, across his features
finally succeeding the climb to show in deep umber
and fingers ruffle fondly through curls
the creature's touch communicating what words themselves cannot
(he is not yet ready to let go of his hope that she will someday return)
something deeper than gratitude surfacing for a breaththen the book is placed on Tristan's chest
and the Garou rises to retrieve the water heater from it's wait
no more cold showers for Eagle packPosted by james at 12:00 AMNovember 24, 2003.11.24.13. - maneaters [imogen-tristan-lars-lexi] *me[riverfront]
(imogen)
It was barely this cold in the dead of winter, in New Jersey, she reflects bitterly. Possibly not this cold elsewhere she's been, either. But everything is relative, and perhaps she'll get used to this soon enough.It's not just the cold, really. According to the thermometre it was twenty eight degrees. Her skin was convinced it was much colder, by the wind. It whipped through the city blocks, creating corridors of wind, and slightly more pleasant alleyways of windless refuge while the wind screamed on either side. The pack warehouse was in one of the corridors, unfortunately, not one of the refuges, and the wind nearly tore the car door from her hand as she pushes it open, and sends her hair spilling into her face, into her eyes as she shuts the door behind her, pausing by the cab's driver side door to pay the man, tipping him, despite the annoyance that the mediterranean man would not shut up throughout the entire drive to the riverfront. Talkative drivers are usually considered pleasant. Unless you are someone who craves the silence.
Her jaw sets briefly, gloved hands flexing slowly in the chill. She glances down the block, dark eyes picking out where her car was parked. And that it was not yet on cinder blocks, so she might leave it an hour or two more. And then she crosses the street, glancing behind her as the taxi driver sped off, one hand reaching up to catch the wind tossed strands of hair to push them away from her face, hold them back as she walked to the warehouse door. Hair spills free to catch in her eyes once more as her hand leaves to knock solidly against the warehouse door, her dark eyes sliding upward toward the dark sky and the scatter of stars, half hazed by the city lights.
(james)
her hand, slender as it is, knocks solidly against the warehouse door
beyond the wind's keening course through the buildings, the sound echoes
bouncing up against the consistently low hum of the generator
then filters off into silence
for there is not shuffling response of someone heading to answer
in inside of the warehouse, for the better part, is empty
the spiders and moths resident in the sky-high rafters uninclined to pity her slow popsicling just outsidein fact, it seems as if the good Doctor is going to freeze to death before she gets inside
at least until a set of keys jangles off to her left
they're accompanied by a boot's scuff on the cracked and windswept walkway
announcing the presence of one Bone Gnawer
(he knows better than to surprise her)
returning from.... wherever he went.... the previous night
looking much the same save the near emptiness in the hang of the pack
and the yellowing black eye that accompanies a healing split across his cheeka grin - lopsided - flits over his features
but chilled as the redhead must surely be
he doesn't waste any time on salutations
instead concentrating on unlocking the door
fingers moving a bit more uncoordinately than normal surely due to the cold
but soon enough, the door swings - noisily - open(imogen)
She'd been about to turn away, hand lifting to cross her frame and rub briefly against the opposite shoulder; the sound of James catches her attention instead and the good Doctor's change of weight, turn on the axis of her balance, abruptly alters, reverses and turns to look at him. Her hand falls away from her shoulder as she looks him over. Hers is the type of complexion to pale when cold, as if her blood retreated inward, seeking warmer climates, farther from the chill.She dispenses with speech, until they get inside, before raising her voice, low and quiet, as she begins to remove her gloves, finger by finger as she arches an eyebrow at his back, "Who hit yeh?" mildy query as her hand, now free of the leather binding of her glove, digging through her thick hair, finding some control at least in pushing it away from her eyes.
(james)
just within, James bends down to pick up what looks like an old candle
after a moment's squinting inspection, lips purse, cheeks puff, then air blows away some offending speck of dust
one of those inch around columns that had once been probably twelve inches tall
it had been reduced to about three inches over some period of time
and now the Ahroun is about to make it shorter with a... slow.... retrieval of the Zippo from a pocket
but as soon as the wick is lit.... whatever chill the warehouse grew in his absence begins to dissipatenifty little trick, that
half a minute strolls between them
then flame is blown out, and leaves a smokey trail following the candle's return to the floor
only then does he turn to answer her query"Ov'er'hub'rant bum....."
on the way towards the pile of boxes holding what could be called their kitchen
carefully plucked through to retrieve a pot that's been blackened enough to have a shiney surface
it's scrubbed against his thigh before beginning it's tour of duty as a pseudo-mirror
lip curls in mild distaste, to finally see the mark he only splashed with blood-removing water earlier
it won't leave a lasting mark, by any means, but the neat impression of the pipe isn't pretty
it traces the outward curves of skull structure that met the length from temple diagonally down
luckily James is not the lesser man the likes of such aim would have knocked out".... dun b'lieve I wa'n't there a steal 'is liquer."
pot's dropped back into the box
now begins the process of peeling away the gloves which are actually stuck to his palms(imogen)
Moments like these, it's stark reminder that Imogen is kin, and Imogen has spent much of her time (that he's known her, anyway) purposefully keeping herself ignorant. The candle lights and suddenly it is warm, and Imogen's eyes, dark and suddenly reflective of the candle's mellow orange flame, turn toward him sharply, lips parting for speech, only to exhale with a half sound that is perhaps amusement, or awe. Surprise. "Your trick," she says in a way that is not a question. "Very useful, that." Her fingers flex freed of the leather and move slowly as to work warmth back into them, as she glances quickly around the warehouse, before starting to walk toward one of the makeshift tables, one that has become a bit of a central location for the pack's dirty laundry. She has a good many skills, does Imogen, and acting is one of them, the ability to hide her thoughts beneath a veneer of impenetrability, either deflect it with an icy remark, an offputting phrase. Turn suspicion away with quick thinking; a false smile. What she has yet to manage, however, is the ability to disguise movements that are hitched by aches or pain; keep her walk from showing it, hide away that her ribcage keeps her breath shallow, or that her shoulder keeps her gait stiff because one arm does not move as the other would.She makes up for it with non-chalance.
It isn't laundry she picks up from the flat surface, but her gun, holding it in her left hand, and twisting it briefly in inspection.
"Most men're more jealous o' their liquor 'n they are their women," she notes, mildly, inhaling of the smell of burnt gunpowder and dropping it back to the table with a hollow clang, turning to glance at him as she begins to unbutton her jacket, one handed.
(lars)
*Without much other fanfare there is a loud rap at the door of the warehouse.Outside, a certain german man was waiting trying to get at an itch on his back. The bullet wounds were all but healed, but those darn things itched.*
(james)
"'sa rite." offered over the sound of a trashcan (yes, they do possess one, sort of) being drug towards one of the sortofchairs "c'n make anythin' warm'n waterproof. Even a cardboard box."something about the way he says that - he knows the last part for a fact
probably explains why James has never been one to worry about a place to stay
no matter what the time of year or the state of the weather at hand
it was Tristan, after all, which Imogen had to procure a room for
not the Ahrounhe's settled onto the sortofseat with the bucket turned trashcan between his feet
elbows resting weight on the tops of his knees
but only the bloody and shredded gloves get dumped to the bottom
distraction arises with the rap on the door
and whatever commentary he was expounding upon the state of men and liquor is replaced:"Dare I as' why you 'r bleedin?"
offhand, more than anything
his attention is on the door and the fact he has to get up againonce seeing it's the Forseti outside
there's a nod up which leaves him standing in the open frame
James is heading back to his sortofseat and bucketnowtrash(lars)
*The forseti walks in at the nod with a nod of his own, and closes the door behind him keeping the blowing winds out of the place.He nods his head to Imogen, and seems to be looking around the room for something. Not quite yet taking his seat.*
(imogen)
"Can it, now?" it's the perfect reply, perfectly british and absolutely unsurprising from her. It says utterly nothing about her opinion or curiousity on the rite, or even if she has any.She glances over James's shoulder to Lars as the petite woman continues to unbutton her jacket, a brief flick of her eyes all that really works for a greeting, eyes sliding away and downward, passing across the concrete floor, an absent search for something that comes up fruitless, before she answers James, the muscles of her jaws flexing as a movement is not quite pleasant.
She puts quite a pause between his question and her answer, long enough to unbutton the wool coat and pick up her gun again, uncleaned so far, and still smelling of smoke, and resettle it in her shoulder holster (the movement results in a suppressed frown, a wince that becomes nothing more than a tightening of her lips) a soft click of the safety clasp being forced into place. The movement causes her hair to spill forward, loose and free over her shoulder, against a pale cheekbone (and it's not just the cold that pales her), strands catching in the corner of her mouth. It's easy to forget how long her hair is, so often bound. Loose, it spills over her shoulders, a riot of curls and waves that will not quite still. Her gaze flicks upward as her left hand slides upward, catching the flamekissed strands between her fingers and glancing toward James, and then back toward Lars and his searching gaze. "Because I was shot," she says, clearing her throat, her chin lifting to gesture in Lars's direction, some subtle difference between that and the ghetto nod of the pack. She means it to gesture, not to affirm, "What are yeh lookin' for?"
(lars)
*The man's hair was long, and spilled out over his shoulders, only his bangs were pulled back at of his face. It swayed slightly as his head spun to look at Imogen. The intensity in his eyes strong.*"Did the kin child make it? After my attack, I ran a different direction, in the hopes some would follow me."
*He explained his absense from the the end of other evening.*(james)
the Fenrir has been at the warehouse before
so James leaves him to his own on the seating arrangement
he's once more taken up the pose of what most would consider a drunkard's
but he's not heaving his guts into the recepticle
rather: diligently picking shards of glass from his palms
(seems he did end up removing the alcohol from the bum after all)
having depended on the healing time to begin pushing them from their comfortable embedmentdark eyes lift in casual observation of Lars' poking around
the path strafing off to check on the kin for her answer, then down again
mostly timed some strange cadence with the tink of each glass piece into the metal bucketnowtrash"Got it look at yet?"
a perfectly flat reply to her perfectly flat answer
there is concern somewhere behind it
but not in the dramatic assessment of whether or not she's allright
if she wasn't - she wouldn't be here on her own mobility
it's more the unspoken offer to fix what she may not be able to for whatever reasonif he can smell the blood, for some reason, she's still bleeding
"Erik was'ere.... lef' with something tha' smell human." broad shoulders roll in a shrug, supporting the last part which functions as excuse at the lack of details: "Been Um'ral."
(imogen)
James speaks before Imogen has a chance to, and she only adds a small bit of her own explanation as the fingers of her right hand flex, slowly, a study of movement, "She made it."She glances back toward James, taking a seat on one of the hard made benches, the movement slow and deliberate as she rests her right elbow on her knee, and leans forward, fingers of the same hand lifting up to push back her curling hair once more. Her answer is half muffled by the motion, her head turned downward, "I did," look at it, apparently.
(lars)
*Lars nods his head at James' words and finds himself one of the junkyard functional art pieces and sits down.He was pleased that the child did survive the hellish scene it was trapped in.*
"good."(tristan)
He, with his excellent timing (ha!) picks that time to grab the handle of the warehouse door and give it a twist. Finding it locked, he knocks instead and slips his hand back into his pocket. The other is occupied with the violin case, the wind whipping through his curls, tangling them into serious disarray. His coat is buttoned up over a thick sweater, over a t-shirt, fingers protected partially with fingerless gloves, jeans and boots. The hat, well that was given a certain little girl kin before she was sent off with the Blood Eagle.He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits for one of the voices inside to come and get the door..
(james)
"Did you get it." delberately slowed down for the utmost of slurred clarity "Fixed. Answer 'at."the last tossed at the Forseti
he's on his way to where there's a gathering of several tool boxes
one with a red piece of tape on the handle chosen
and carted back to his seat(lars)
*Confusion goes over the forseti's face.*
"huh? Did I get what fixed?"(james)
without even looking up: "The door."(lars)
*ahh, Lars nods his head once and goes to answer the door. Seeing it's Tristan he says Hi, and then walks back to his latest in junkyard deco chair*(imogen)
Her temper is brittle today, and it's something only barely registered by the brief flare of dark eyes as she glances at James's back.Her answers are slow in coming. She's finding words, or preferring not to find words at all, or at worse, finding herself without the energy to form them. "He's askin' me," she explains for the Forseti's benefit, "did I get m'arm fixed." Tristan might be thinking he's to be left out in the cold to freeze, before Imogen pushes her good hand against the bench, and starts to straighten, her gaze leaving its glance toward James long enough to look in Lars's direction to see if he'd answer, or if her motion would continue.
"S'fixed as best as it will be," flatly stated, as she starts to sit back down, Lars having gone for the door.
(tristan)
While Imogen is the type to pale with the cold, he has the misfortune to redden. Cheeks, nose, tip of his ears, all show signs of the chill he walked through.And underneath it, is the faint scent of blood.
The flannel was ditched, the jeans changed, the t-shirt shredded, the wound cleaned, but it still seeps a bit into the bandaged that he finally managed to haphazardly get taped in place. Not exactly the easiest of places to reach on your own, after all.
He’s lifting his hand to knock again – he can hear them inside, maybe then didn’t hear him, and about then the door opens. He nods to Lars with a quick. “hey.” Before scooting inside to the welcome warmth of James’ rite. He kicks the door shut behind them, thumbs the lock automatically, and heads toward the little domesticated island in the big cement sea.
Eyes find Imogen first, and a quick look over her to check – much as she does but without the expertise behind it – and see if she’s all right, sees the tightened jaw, the flash of annoyance, and just offers something of a grin that fades. “Hey, Imogen, James” before he finds a safe shelf to stash the warm violin case. He treats it better then he does himself, it seems.
(james)
"Thank'."tossed after Lars
her temper is brittle today
after the amount of flesh-peeling glares he's endured
he doesn't have to look up to feel that flaring glance
he knows he's pushing her limits
and there might even be the breifest flare of amusement
getting backhanded with a steel pipe makes one brittly tempered, toobut instead of lecturing the good Doctor as a part of him is tempted to
James opens the toolbox to reveal it's contents as a med kit
rummaging a few cotton-tipped applicators from its depths"Tris." there's a hint of annoyance as the word draws out, whether it's at Imogen's icyness, the additional scent of blood, or that he's using one of the lengthy Q-tips to clean out a particularly stubborn sliver of glass at the bottom of a gapine laceration which isn't easy with one eye only beginning it's return journey from being swollen completely closed - it's up to them to decide "You in on th' night's fun, too?"
(lars)
"Sure."
*Lars answers simply. Never one to waste words he sits back down and watches the interaction between kinfolk and James*(imogen)
She watches, idly as James works out the shard of glass from his hand, watches the blood begin to drip from his palm to the concrete floor. There were other blood stains, too, and were likely to be more in the future. The benefit to this warehouse in comparison to the cleanliness of the condominium is that the blood spilled does not look as bad. It's almost expected. After a moment, she draws breath, like a signal, and stands to depart.The interaction of this kinfolk, and James is come to a direct halt.
She had looked at Tristan, a brief up down glance that was more clinical than the look he'd given her. Something practiced in the gaze. Her left hand tugs through her hair again, before she starts to button up her jacket, walking toward the door. "'ave a good night," is tossed over her shoulder as her hand leaves the collar of her jacket to unlock the warehouse door, the click of the lock soft and hollow.
(tristan)
“Yeah.” Comes the somewhat terse reply. Tempers all around it seems – though in all honesty, if Tris had a tail it’d be tucked right about now. “Was the driver and babysitter till Erik picked up the kin early this morning.” Glance to Lars, then. “Glad to see you made it, man. Got pretty hairy there when I stalled the damn truck. You can bet it won’t happen again.” And it won’t. He and a new friend down near the park who had lifted a car tore up some parking lot in making sure the kin can handle himself confidently in a standard now.Panic is the best teacher. Cold remorse factors the same.
“Little girl was in good shape when Erik got here – fed and dry and finally not screaming.” General info offered, in case Lars had yet to find out. Gnawers make due – and when Erik took to long with the bottle, emptied, cleaned, filled with milk beer bottle with a well cleaned condom nipple worked just as well. His own spare sweater and hat kept her warm for the trip.
Imogen stands, and he nods. “Night, Imogen.”
(james)
blood drips into a little puddle on the floor
soon enough it's moved over the trashcan where the applicator - with glass sliver! - is dropped
dark eyes lift slowly to watch Imogen take her stand and leave"Watch yer back.... maneat'rs out."
(imogen)
A quick glance over her shoulder, a brief arch of an eyebrow, that stills, and she raises a hand in acknowledgement, and steps outside into the cold, wrestling the door from the wind, one handed to shut it once more.Maneaters. Beautiful.
(tristan)
He unbuttons his coat, and slides it off, but leaves the sweater in place for now. He watches James, as blood pools under him then he ditches the sliver into the garbage can... a beat, two. “Need any help with that?” Nods, indicating whatever glass might be left under the skin, or clean up, or whatever.“Maneaters – you got Jim’s other messages then. Talked to him early this morning, got the skinny on the imposter, and the warning of the man eaters. Said he’d send message through soon as I took off.”
(lars)
*Lars' eyebrow raises, and he sits a bit more straight up at the declaration*
"Maneaters?"(james)
yeh
maneaters
just. fucking. peachy.this could also explain the Ahroun's shortened temper
"Break a seal a that."
quick followup with a new bottle of isopropyl that's sailing through the air at the kin
much easier to open and unseal with two fully functioning hands
the pad of James' other thumb is pressing over his palm to check for leftover slivers
blood wells in the aftermath - must've been quite an impact to penetrate the drummer's callouses"Yeh, hear'm when I got back fr'm spirit side bit ago." gaze flicks to the Fenrir "Know their story?"
it's not something he'll explain if he doesn't have to
(lars)
"A little. After all it's a lesson of why that part of the litany is there."
*He replies.*(tristan)
He snatches the bottle from the air, he opens it easily, peeling the seal off the top of the bottle as he moves to James’ side. He glances at Lars, then back again as he holds the bottle towards his friend. He only knows the vaguest of the stories behind them, but knowing why the rumors have started is enough to give one pause.(james)
"Ain't'n ev'rybody lit'ny."his voice softens a bit, at the admission
taking the bottle from Tristan in the pause
not exactly looking forward to this next part"Leas'..... wh'n I was a cub, th' 'weilers tol' me issa part a th' lit'ny some chose t'forget cause they got too hungry. Thought they top a th' food chain, 'n all tha', so i's allright a break the Banaman an' eat manflesh. Ain't easy a tell'm 'part fr'm th' res' of us.... less ya got some'ne tha' knows the Rite."
the last part hisses between his teeth
mostly due to the liberal amount of alcohol dumped across his hand
fist clenching a few times to work it into the wounds
but a clean wound itches a helluva lot less when it's healing
deep umber gaze lifts to Tristan"What'd Jim tellya 'bout it?"
(tristan)
There’s a sympathy wince as James pours the alcohol over his hand, having had most of a bottle poured over/into his back the night before. Blunt nails scritch over the line of his jaw before he answers, letting the information of the eaters sink in fully, before he fills in what pieces he knows.“Said there’s been disappearences. No Garou or kin yet, just regular folk at random from what he’s heard. They turn up later with bites taken out of them... folks are blaming it on rabid dogs – but he fears it’s man eaters instead. Figured they’re setting in because of the weakened caern and pissed off spirits..”
(james)
Gaia that burns
the Ahroun is quiet a moment
he's... uh.... thinking
waiting for the subdermal sting to subside"Make sense. Happen a mention if he know've anyone wi' th' Rite?"
attention turns towards the departing Fenrir
"Keep y'r mouth shut 'bout this 'til I find out more, 'lright?"
(lars)
*Lars nods his head*
"I didn't hear anything."
*He smiles slightly, and then heads out the door*(tristan)
He shakes his head slightly. “Didn’t mention it, no, and I didn’t think to ask. Didn’t know there was a rite –but I owe him breakfast, will ask then.”He looks over at Lars and lifts a hand in a wave. “Night, Lars.”
It’s gotten too warm in the warehouse for the sweater, and he takes a seat on one of the makeshift chairs, and pulls off the thick garment and drops it near his coat, pulling the tank top away from his back lightly, before searching his pockets for pack and lighter, shaking one free, lighting, and offering the pack and lighter to James.
(lexi)
She walks up the street. Intimidating looking to the normal person. She is not far from 6 foot. Long blond hair pulled up into a ponytail. Eriks green burlap backpack on her shoulders. One of the straps MacGuivered together from when it fell apart a few nights ago. Thank Gaia for duct tape.
Jeans, flannel shirt and denim jacket. She would be pretty if you could see through the intimidating look. Eerie feral grey eyes peer along as sshe heads to teh werehouse she had last left Decker and that other girl. Erik still hadnt been in touch, her guess, the monte didnt make it.
Might as well see who else had come. Finally she had earned a place in the pack, even as kinfolk. [Merely kinfolk]
She had proven herself..to everyone even Erik, everyone ecxpet herself...she was never truly happy with herself..she always wished she had been more..truly a pure blood. Even with the pureness in her blood...she still wasnt Truly one of them.
She opens the door and walks in...looking around...
"Hey anyone here?"(james)
there's a wave after the Forseti
mostly it's further drying the alcohol on his hand
blood's still dripping into the bucketturnedtrashcan between his feet
and nasty as that split on his cheek is
that can itch all it wants on healing
washing it out earlier was good enough, thank you
but damn it makes his skull ache"Yeh.... Rite a Man Taint. S'pose a be able t' make the manflesh come outta th' body shortes' route possible."
ain't that a pretty sight.
even if he can hear the kinsman approaching
Tristan being on his temporarily half-blind side makes his head snap in that direction
it's more instinct than actually being startled
taking the pack with a nod"Thank." a pause. then quietly. "You allr...."
it stops as the door abruptly opens
(gotta work on that fucking lock)
and a brow over the deeply bruised eye lifts
(.... ow)
seeing just what blond bombshell walks in"Only strangers....."
(tris)
He blinks and stares at James, and then shakes his head with a disgusted grimace at the mental picture.. “now there’s a stunt for Fear Factor.. thats revolting man..” he can’t help the slight chuckle at the whip of head around, before he nods his welcome...He’s about to answer, the almost completed question when he too turns to the blond bombshell.
And he might be gay as a three dollar bill and pretty as a picture, but you cannot blame him for the low whistle.(lexi)
"Holy shit" she stops and the backpack hits thr ground...She doesnt exactly smile..her face would probably break if she actually fully smiled..but she does smirk slightly...the other person she doesnt recognize...
She doesnt waste time with a lot of small talk or happy greetings - but she is happy to see a familiar pack face.
"You seen Erik yet? I swear that fuckin monte aint gonna make it"(james)
she doesn't exactly smile for her face may break
James doesn't have that problem - his face has already been broken
that would explain the slur caused by bones that didn't heal right
but explaining that will come in time
needless, with the last night's injuries added, Tristan is the far prettier picture
so the Ahroun just laughs, soft and low"Ain't thatta sight f'r sore eye." mostly at his kinsman's reaction "Tris.... that's Lexi, Erik's Tribe." words chosen specifically because that's right, she's been accepted among them, and he knows how much she wanted to be of the Chosen - but to him kinfolk are just as good as Garou when it comes down to pack "Lexi.... this my kin'man, Tristan. n' he made it while 'go.....who y'think fund this place?"
head tips in gesture
warehouse that's mainly empty save the little island of bedrolls and meager amenities
all powered by the make-shift generator
and his Rite that keeps the place warm even with the broken windows
this is not a Rune-style condo(tristan)
He chuckles and grins at James. And well, if that doesn’t answer the ‘are you allright’ question, nothing he says will. He has no problem grinning, and he’s far from broken. Just... slightly... mangled? And the only thing wrong from the neck up is the sore spot on the back of his head where Decker smacked him one. That’s covered by those mismanaged curls that tickle under his jaw, across the nape of his neck.“S’a pleasure, Lexi. And yeah, saw Erik this morning briefly. Don’t know about the monte, though.”
(lexi)
This is NOT a Rune style condo...and she takes note that there was no Rune style car outside as well."Tris" she nods..a greeting of sorts...
Looking back at James.."sight for sore eyes..what the hell happened to you?" she tilts her head a bit...pulling the backpack towards her..."wanna beer?" she reaches in...the offer was to both of them...
Pulling one out for herself and holding out another, in case one of them wanted one.As private as Rune and James had been about certain unspoken things...as much as Decker and Imogen were barely affectionate in public, thats how Erik and Lexi were..no one knew truly if she was mated with the alpha, or if he had just taken her under his wing and believed in her...and for some reason...no one ever asked..
probably better that way..she had proven herself in her ways and was accepted, even by some of the tougher of the pack.
"You saw him?" she shakes her head and actually barks out what seems like a chuckle.."Fucker made it and im the last to know" she shakes her head..."good cause the money i got from him got me a shitty fuckin hotel room and its about to run out anyways...so im glad he finally got his ass here.."
(james)
the Ahroun huffs what could be a laugh"Bum thought I w's gonna take 'is booze.... dun b 'lieve me 'til I crush it infron' a him that all I wanna as' is quest'n." palm littered with lacerations held up for case in point "Backhan' me wi' is pipe."
then chin tips up in an affirmation for the beer
(allright, one beer, then sleep this headache off)(tristan)
“Oh and she brings beer! Lexi? You are my new hero.” Chuckled as he steps forward and takes the bottle gratefully, popping the top and tipping it back. He’s gotta play his corner for a while before he can stock up the warehouse proper with enough beer to see them through a couple of days.James and Rune were private – as is the pain James is now in, except with his kin. Erik and Lexi is a new one on Tris, and well no one ever questions Decker about Imogen. Or vice versa. Unless you enjoy the paint peeling stairs and the smacks upside the head. On the other hand, everyone knows that Tris is James’ kin, and there is a brotherly love, worry, throw yourself on a grenade for the other kind of connection there. Probably the only reason all them damn Get put up with the pretty boy kin.
He arches a brow as James gives the short and dirty version of what happened, and he can’t resist the grin.. “What, ya ain’t learned enough to duck yet?” mimic of what was said just the other night in reverse.
(lexi)
Giving Trustan the one beer in her hand, she tosses the one beer towards James, a nice toss, he shouldnt have much trouble catching it, and it is tossed [not like a girl] so it remains neck up and doesnt shake up...
a talent of sorts...
"Id hate to see the bum now.." she nods..then kinda chuckles slightly at the ducking comment.
Pulling another beer out, now for herself she opens it and drinks it....wiping her mouth on her sleeve [classic erik move]
She looks to Tristan.."I always bring beer" she nods..
and she did.
"So everyone pretty much made it i see...Ive been here 2 weeks...Chicago aint bad...it aint the south, colder then a witches tit in a brass bra, wind is a motherfucker....but better then Jersey thats for fucking sure"
(james)
the Ahroun stretches, and with his good hand catches the beer with a lot of give"Fuck you, Tris."
knowing he full and well deserved the dig
it shows in the (forever) lopsided grin that passes over his face
though at the mention of everyone showing up.... well...
he downs about half that beer before speaking"Erik, Deck'r, Im'gen, Tris, n' me made it, 'bout over pas' two'r three week'. Rune in Cali..... n' the res' sorta dis'pear."
(tristan)
He chuckles and spits back “tease” even though he’s chuckling too. Until there’s that drowned half of beer, and even tristan looks down at the bottle in his hand before he finally takes one of the decker made chairs (which tells you just how comfy it is) and sits, propping his foot on the edge, arm hanging over his knee.He feels for his friend – because he knows the feeling.
But he can’t help but chuckle a bit at Lexi’s comments about Chicago. “Money’s better here, so far. They were generous in Newark, but someone playing a street corner in sub zero gets extra coinage for having the balls to stand in the wind.”
(lexi)
She nods..."i dont do street corners well, i dont like people enough" she shrugs...
that was true enough..."But you got the tourists here, you hit Michigan ave, you will make good coinage.." she nods..drinking from the bottle.."How long you been here?"
(james)
the chairs are something else
mostly constructed by anything that would hold the upside-down U shape
and stress the ANYthing - boards, pipes, palettes, plastic, crates
it's a serious competition for Junkyard Wars
the couch and coffeetable pilfered from the condo about the only two things that look like real furniture
but, well, without Rune's pampering influence, the boys chosen by Eagle know how to live with minimal"Im'gen brought us ov'r bout..." an askance glance at Tristan "Two week 'go?"
(tristan)
He chuckles. “Doing street corners has kept me fed for the past 3-4 years now. All the way cross country and back till I met up with James in Jersey n settled down for a bit. I’ll give Michigan ave a try tomorrow. Thanks for the tip...”With James’ handy dandy warming rites, they only need the minimum. As long as there’s warmth, as long as there’s a place to lay their head, it’s all good. Everyone’s picked a bedroll, but Tristan. He’s not Eagles chosen any more then Lexi is, though seems a far cry easier about his status. He has a corner of a shelf that’s out of the way where he can keep his violin... other then the occasional night on the couch, it’s still ratty hotel for him.
He nods, slightly, confirming James’ time frame. “Bout that... just before that first cold snap. Damn, never thought I’d miss Jersey’s rain..”
(lexi)
"Well shit we been here ame amount of time and havent bumped into each other yet...funny i saw Decker the first day i got here, but no one else was here yet"
She looks around..."n this place wasnt so...furnished" she gives the place another look over..
She wondered why Rune was in California...but doesnt dare ask...
She hadnt been stayin here, erik said syat in the shit hole hotel till he got there, and so she had been...that was about it.
Never really even thought of stayin here..."Thinkin i should stick around here till Erik shows up here..."
(james)
it's probably not a good idea to ask why Rune is not here
it's probably not a good idea to ask how long Rune has not been here
by the way James bolts down the rest of that beer (it's a slender moon)
and the haunted look that lingers deeply hidden behind the umber of the un-black eye
it's definitely better not to ask
at least - not ask him"Think Deck'r thought 'e saw a ghos' firs' day I show up in Wick'r."
chuckled in something of a strange amusement at the memory
the actual hug from the Modi is not something that happens on any plane of reality
now that his hand isn't dripping anymore, the lanky Gnawer stands"I brought more'n 'nuff mattress fr'm the Newark place." chin lifts, nodding towards a corner beyond the bubble of light that the emergency stuff creates for their little domestic island "Pro'lly bett'r if ya both stay here 'til we get this Maneat'r thing sort out. Gonna sleep this headache off...."
empty bottle dropped into the bucketnowtrash can that was between his feet
some excuse offered for why he retreates to his bedspace
bcause it's not just the headache and bitter temper that propagated the sudden sketchiness(lexi)
"Maneater?" she looks at Tristan..."what the hell is he talking bout?" she drinks from the bottle...looking slightly perplexed...(tristan)
He looks up, and then just nods. He’ll make a trip to grab his pack from the hotel, and find one of the mattresses and bed down here. He don’t mind staying close to James – not with that haunted look in his eye and the way he slammed the beer. “Sure thing, Pa.” Tossed at him, with something of a tease.But he lifts his beer in a g’night to his friend, before nodding to Lexi. “Yeah, been some attacks, they think a cults setting up shop...”
Posted by james at 12:00 AMNovember 22, 2003.11.22.03. - friendly fenrir hello [imogen-decker-tristan-lars][riverfront]
(imogen)
It's interesting that changing cities, changing states, changing licence plates does very little to actually change the style and form of the state issued vehicle that she tends to drive when on call or when in poorer parts of town (mostly, because she's on call). Perhaps all medical examiner offices are required to have the same boxy bulky black looking vehicle. Perhaps because they drive the same. One medical examiner can move from one office to another, and not have to worry about any surprises with their vehicle, drive it within minutes of starting their position without any hassle.Hell, maybe it was part of her education. How To Drive Big American Made Cars... 101.
Alright, maybe not. In either case, her car is the same, and it is could be here, or New Jersey that she steps away from it, except that it is not New Jersey, it's Chicago now, and the car and person is where the similarities end. At some point, somewhere, somebody must have gotten used to this decay, here. Complacency. When the broken window became alright, and fixing it was no longer an immediate concern.
Look at the riverfront, brick warehouses and more modern buildings beginning to follow the path of their earlier brethren and find complacency. It comes and goes in spurts. Sometimes fading into a whirlwind of activity, bills passed, buildings restored. But it always returns again. A cycle that could be studied by economists, were they not effected by the same disease. The concrete sidewalk is cracked and worn beneath her booted feet as she walks up to the Bone Gnawer, seated on some doorstep, on some curb, against some wall, standing at some corner, and smirks crookedly (take a few years away, and maybe once that was mischievious; now, it is wry) as she offers him a bag, grease of food staining the bottom with one hand, as the other hand pushes back flame hued strands of hair from her face, pushing them out of the way, tucking them back into the errant chaos of her braid.
"I owe yeh for the ride up," she explains, and it's not quite how it sounds, since of course, she was the one who drove him and Tristan for the most part. It was, however, James, who brought breakfast.
(james)
the Riverfront
a rebuilt cesspool caught in the mediocrity of time and place
just as soon as it seems something is restored to the proper expectancy of civic pride
an event of monumental trivialties causes the attention of public office to shy away
that would be why the Gnawer is sprawled on a neatly painted bench of dark green hue with complimenting brassy bolts
and the sidewalk beneath is cracked and worn to match the railing upon which battered Cochran's cross
the meandering patterns of the cracks making some artistic reflection upon the patches and quilts of his trench
dreads, however, clash in their heavily tangled drape over the back of the benchhe probably recognized the sound of the engine cutting a few years down the road
some government behemoth that, by the sound of weight on footsteps, was reined by a deceptively slight figure
but it's the smell of the food that draws his eyes from the book resting spread across his palms
dark gaze lingering on the grease-lined bag then jumping up to the wry twist of her once-possibly mischevious smirk
soon enough a brow hikes in mild surprise
and a glance pinpoints page before the tome snaps shut
it's weight set to the side to compensate the reach for bag"Wha's the 'ccasion?"
(imogen)
Her attention flicks, habitually, to try and catch the title of the book he was reading, as he sets the book aside, her dark eyes flicking back toward him as he speaks.It's warm, comparatively, at fifty six degrees tonight, and the wind is still, the sky obscured by clouds, a thick cover that allows no light from stars or moon to shine through; black as pitch.
The bench he sits on has a street lamp that works (and perhaps this is why he chose it) and it casts it's yellow-pale weak rays, creating grey shadows and dimly lit crevices.
She shakes her head briefly, the smirk fading comfortably. "Finally 'ad th'chance t'get 'round t'it," she replies, dismissively.
(tristan)
Saturdays in Wicker Park. Nice. Weather is a nice comfortable 56 and cloudy. Winter’s chill is present but not overwhelming, and people still are out and about enjoying the last few days before some big storm buries them under masses of snow and ice. Light and tattered jacket over flannel open over tank tucked into jeans. Scuffed worn boots across cement, and tumbled disarray of curls glinting in the lamplight. It’s the every day Street player ‘uniform’ fare, of course.Stumble into the light from pathetically nasty little hotel room that’s still better then the cement in some alley, part with some hard earned cash to fill always grumbling belly, grabbing extra salt and pepper packets to tuck into pocket thanks to Jim’s tip of the day, chow down on the way. Set up, play for 5 hours, with breaks in between for flirting, talking, fueling, resting fingers, etc. Close up shop just before 7 with a promise to return for those who are upset at the afternoon’s impromptu concert ending.
Stash the cash, and we’re off toward the Riverfront, the warehouse.
Jim’s gift is cut in half with a stop at the am/pm. Half rack of beer, bag of chips, two dogs with everything, all shoved into a bag – ‘cept one dog that’s inhaled along the way – and steps resume through the Riverfront. Somewhere, near, there is a bench with gnawer spread on it, there’s a pretty redhead bearing gifts of food. It’s toward them his steps lead to share the bounty of a good days play.
(james)
there's an expression crossing his features which speaks ....fair enough even if his lips do not
it's written in the flux of shadows cast from the weak rays of the oft-flickering streetlamp above
deepening the wells above his eyes, darkening the fact he needs to shave
boots pull off the railing separating him from what must be water off in the nightblack distance
a subtle reach and twist of wrist turning the book on the benchseat right side up
(A Cartographic History of Chicago)
the crinkling surrender of the bag it's greasy contents"Thank'."
(decker)
Down the street, not too far away:With a clattering din the bay doors of the brick warehouse crash up and open. The Modi hangs onto the inner handle a moment, arms flexed into pull-up position, letting the momentum of the (too-)heavy door pull him up off the ground before he lets go and lands solidly on both feet. It's a strange sight inside: bare concrete floors, bare concrete walls, fogged and clouded windows, a few gaping broken like an idiot's teeth. Overhead the rack of halogen lights are dead, but the dimmer, paler emergency lights glow off a generator putt-putt-putting off in the corner. The exhaust pipe feeds into a crack in the wall. It's dark, and it looks dank and cold.
It's actually quite nice and warm inside. This may be why the Modi's in short sleeves, the black of his tattoos stark on his powerful arms. There are also several incongruous pieces of Rune's condo strewn about the floor: a couch here, a mattress there, a coffee table and a few choice items from the kitchen (microwave, coffee maker, toaster), all of which were hooked into the generator by a large bundle of wires sprouting out of the back. These amenities of home are clustered in a fairly small island of domesticity, mostly dwarfed by the dimensions of the warehouse, its space, and the car(s) parked inside it.
A tarp is still stretched over the bed of the Tacoma, but it looks like Decker's been unpacking. At least, in his floorspace, there's a stack of girlie mags that, for whatever reason or nostalgia, he still hasn't thrown out. Next to that is a sleeping pad, and next to that a box of clothes rumpled together. A few more items are seen nearby. His utensils and his pots and pans he's gracefully decided to share, and they're in a jumbled mess near the kitchen items.
Decker stands in the bay door, shoulder to the frame, head bent as he lights up a toke. Not necessarily with the bare sliver of a moon still clinging to light, but sometimes it's nice to get a buzz. 'Round now's the only time the buzz really lasted, anyway. He raises his head on the puff of an exhale, dropping his matches back in his cargo pockets, the baggy garment lashed low on his hips by means of the same old white(ish) canvas belt. Drags the joint out of his mouth between thumb and forefingers and - fooweeeeeeeet! - whistles sharp and piercing to get the attention of the folks down the way, on the bench.
(imogen)
"Don't mention it," replied as she picks up the book, narrowing her eyes briefly at the cover, or perhaps the subject, "Acquainting yourself?" the question is rhetorical, she isn't looking for an answer.Decker's whistle has the effect of a gunshot. Sharp and piercing, it catches her attention (and likely everyone else's), turning to look toward the mouth of the warehouse, her free hand reaching up automatically to push back strands freed from her braid, tucking them behind her ear. On the motion, she catches sight of Tristan, and his own offerings. It's hard to say if the suggestion of a smirk was for the beer, or for the piercing whistle of the Fenrir as her eyebrow lifts, faintly.
The lanky Gnawer doesn't particularly need to glance down in the direction of the whistle to know who it was, and why. The benefits of pack, and the bone deep knowledge it breeds. He balls up the wrappings of his greasy meal (only Bone Gnawers and particularly starving adolescent boys can eat. so. fast.), shoving it into the bag as he stands.
(tristan)
The violin case swings from where hand wraps around grocery bag in his arm. First dog down, and fingers are licked to gather the remnants of ketchup cheesy oniony goodness that dripped from the last bite. Garbage tossed in can as he walks by – there’s enough time for a nod of hello for James and Imogen though before words follow, there’s the piercing whistle from a little farther down.“brought beer.”
Is what is said, tossed out to confirm Imogen’s glance toward the bag, even as a quick glance sees that James is fed, Imogen....does she ever eat? Presumably fed herself before, and Decker, well, he’s been unpacking so that leads to the second dog with everything grabbed and he inhales as steps turn slightly to head toward the warehouse and the warmth inside.
(lars)
*The walked casually down the street. His trenchcoat swinging with his gait. He wasn't in any especially great hurry. But neither was it in him to just lolligag around. As such he walked forward, barely giving a glance to the people he passed by, although habbit caused him to sniff the air just once as he passed.He was not overly tall at 6 ft, and today he didn't bother to wear his hat. His long brown hair hung to his shoulders, the bangs pulled back and held in place with a simple leather strap.
The most striking thing was an old healed scar that ran across his face from the left side of his forehead and ran diagonally down from left to right across his face in 4 distinct slash marks. A claw mark for those who might know. Lars was lucky however, at least he always thought so, in that it missed his eye. The top two lines of scar tissue going just around his left eye.
Where was he headed? To the warehouse that his tribemate told him about.*
(decker)
For another moment or two he, in the yawning bay door of the warehouse, looks in the direction of packmate and kinfolk. The thought of going out into the cold occurs to him, but is summarily dismissed. Fuck that. Nice and warm in here. He hasn't felt air on his bare arms for weeks, seems like. Always swathed up in seventeen layers and still the wind got through and froze him to the bone.Drag and exhale, ash the joint. His eyes are narrowed against the smoke, and in anticipation of the wind that howls off the river but somehow cannot pierce the bubble of preternatural warmth laid upon the warehouse. After a while his attention shifts, and he watches the Forseti approaching instead.
His stance is relaxed, which is different from the typical arrogant laziness just as a smile is different from a smirk. Or at least, he's as relaxed he'll ever be. Shoulder to the metal doorframe, thumbs hooked into his pockets, the joint waggles from side to side between his teeth. A pause. He flicks a grey glance over his tribesmate. Then the joint waggles up and down and he nods up.
"'Sup Lars."
(imogen)
'brought beer', says, Tristan, and it's a phrase that might almost be as familiar as he is. She smirks, "So I see," her gesture flicking toward the two Fenrir at the warehouse, one known, the other not, before she gestures toward James with the book she holds, her dark gaze flicking on the raggedy Ahroun an eyebrow arching in unspoken question. Do you want it back now?Tristan is walking toward the relative warmth of the warehouse, and a beat after, the petite woman follows. Neither Tristan nor James would be considered particularly large men, but they have head and shoulders over her (at least) just the same.
(lars)
The forseti walked up to Decker and stood before him before he spoke. His muscles were a bit tense, as if ready for an attack at any moment. Of course, he was new to the scab. And the smells of it still put him on edge some.
"Hello Decker-rh..uh Decker."
Some old habits die hard in the forseti."I thought, I'd see where you lived at. And it's good to spend some time with those of the family in this place."
(tristan)
He flashes a boyish grin at the (much) smaller (though never, ever, less intimidating) redhead. He doesn’t say anything else, really, as he’s busy inhaling second dog, and eyeing Lars. Swift up down, manages not to choke at the almost said rhya, tosses back the last bite, and licks fingers, garbage summarily done away with as they move past a can.Hand wipes on denim across thigh, then digs into back to grab two bottles, both offered to Decker as he passes by and into that bubble of warmth. “Hey Decker.”
(decker)
The smell of the scab.The stink of it, which, like any cancerous stench, has a certain nauseating appeal of its own. The crisp of oil-drenched fast food. The pungent scent of gasoline and axle grease. The sour stench of urine in the alleys; the infertile, sterile no-smell of glass and steel. And the scent of concrete wet with rain, which is somehow all the smells of the city rolled into one, and none.
Lars will get used to it.
(no he won't. their kind never did.)Decker watches the Forseti a moment, a critical, assessing gaze. His glance flickers aside to take in Tristan. Just a nod up.
Then, straightening, he nods over his shoulder in the direction of the interior to Lars. "Yeah." The movement is measured rather than quick, not quite a jerk of the head, and it leads into his pivoting with the doorframe as his axis, walking into the warehouse. "C'mon in." Hit and inhale; hold and exhale, and then he crushes the joint out on the sole of his boots. "Home sweet home."
(Boots?)
Yeah: boots. The steel-soled ones he hammered out himself in the Catskills. Uncomfortable as hell, but tough as hell. Looks like Decker wanted to go somewhere tonight. Do something.
(james)
"Think I get'n th' way a 'is unpackin?"quipped only after the mouthful had been swallowed and the wrapping tossed into the nearby can
(manners, and all)
dreadlocks tipping in wave with the nod towards the gunshot whistle
there might, if she cared to note, even be a lopsided grin that's partially offered as he turns
the tattered and torn tails of the long coat swirling about his ankles some fabric dance
it's adorned by the bend which pulls a small pack from beneath the bench
what's.... borrowed..... from the University library weighting it down
further drooping by the addition of the cartographic reference taken back before it's slung over a shoulderthe other dips following his hand in the procurance of pack and Zippo from pocket
all in the course of the two strides it takes to catch up to her already retreating form
shaken (not stirred) to bump up a Camel held in offer to the kin in turn before he lights his own
what he and Tristan lack in sheer brawn they make for in wirey height
rare is the Gnawer that has a few pounds to shed
but James tops Imogen by a foot (seems more with the dreads) and the other Gnawer tops him by a few incheschin jerks up after the distance had closed, silent greeting to the two Fenrir guarding the proverbial gates
James hasn't quite claimed the amount of space the others have
his little corner consists of a mattress, few blankets, and his Alice pack worth of wordly possessions
soon the smaller bag of books finds an uncerimoniously chosen spot on the mattress
quickly followed by his trench.... now about that beer...
(imogen)
A sound, low in her throat, non-commital, amused at the garbled quip from the gnawer, her shoulders lifting briefly in an equally non-committal shrug.Her fingers flex briefly as he relieves her of the book, tendons stretching as the weight of the not-inconsiderable tome is taken from her, a movement of slight fingers, slender and delicate, before her hand falls to her side, and she begins to walk. A moment later, and the Gnawer falls into step beside her, and her gait modulates. Often, one will change their gait to suit a smaller person. Imogen, herself, often changes her pace for others; often, if someone changes their gait for her, they find themselves meeting her somewhere in the middle in length and speed of step.
There's breeding here: it's not in just the superficial terms, the fact she moves smoothly, and has good posture. That her accent is british, and her words (when she uses them) well schooled. There is something deeper that speaks of family heritage and a good death of an ancestor. Or three. That in her line there is Garou blood spilled, and honourably (gloriously) so and that blood has made its way to her veins to sing for all to see and hear.
It would not take an inhalation of her scent to know her for her blood.
Her hand lifts again, as she takes the cigarette, "ta," truncated thanks, and reaching for her own zippo to light up. Another smell to join the cancers of the city night.
(lars)
The forseti nods back to those that past by him, and then walks into the warehouse when Decker invites him in. By habit his eyes case out the place. Slowly taking in exits, where people were, etc.With a slight grin, the most that generally crosses his face, he turns to Decker.
"Nice place"(tristan)
Decker doesn’t take the beers, and hell – just leaves more for the rest of them. A corner out of the way is found to tuck away the violin where it won’t be harmed in any sudden exhurberant display of manhood. Hey – it happens more then you think around the Eagles. And then to the area that serves as the kitchenette.James ditches his stuff, and by the time he looks around for that beer, an opened bottle is already held out in his direction. With Decker, no one know what he’ll take when. With James and Imogen, there’s always room for beer. Another bottle opened and held in the direction of the redhead with a smile.
(decker)
Decker grunts. "Smartass."Whatever he said, though, it was at least inhabitable. What with James' gift giving warmth to the interior, it really was almost nice. Almost.
There are three doors to the place. The wide-open bay doors in the front for loading and unloading, and the smaller double-doors beside it. And around back, another pair of double-doors with a glowing EXIT sign over it, which led out to the dumpsters in the alley between this row of warehouses and the next around back.
Inside, there are no chairs. There are a few strange-looking seat-high objects, however, hammered and bolted roughly together from industrial refuse. Pipes, two by fours, sheet metal, put together in shapes vaguely resembling upside-down, square-edged U's. Postmodern industrial chic. Ikea, eat your heart out. Decker pulls one of these makeshift stools up and sits on it, nodding toward another one a few feet from Lars.
"Siddown." And as the others made their way in and about, "Y'all met Lars? 'S a Forseti. That's James, my packmate, Imogen 'n Tristan."
(lars)
Lars sits down the moment he's told to. No hesitation, such was the lessons beat into him, many times literally, in regards to a higher rank and sinple orders.The only pause was when he pulled out the large maul like hammer from under his jacket coming almost from no where, such was the magic of dedication, and placed it on the ground next to him. And it was only right for him to show his weaponry in the home of another.
The long haired man nodded to James, who he's just had the opportunity to meet before this evening. And a wave to Imogen and Tristan.
(james)
two Ahrouns and a Forseti walk into a warehouse...that's the equivalent of two and a half moons in an enclosed space
luckily, the one shining above the blanket of clouds is but a bare sliver of silverone nod of thanks to the pretty-boy kin
and dreads hanging to mid-back seem to lengthen as his head tips back
almost half that bottle poured and drained in a single action
(common now, this moon's when the buzz actually sticks around, regardless of the fact James can't hold his drink)the place was.... spartan and straight out of Junkyard Wars, but certainly inhabitable
James made sure a decent amount of Erik's roll was leftover
but for now if they could do without he didn't bother with it
at the very least, the warehouse rent is covered for the next month or two if they don't come up with more cash
if they do, then they can begin collecting amenitiesgiven the effectiveness of his giftly rite, the warehouse is damn warm inside
and soon enough another layer is stripped away
thermal paring down to a wifebeater that had seen whiter days
from beneath creep the darkened stripes of a savagely scarred back
ashed a striking black in comparison to summer's fading tan
shirt's sent in a careless arch towards his bedspace
then the Ahroun pulls up a... cha.... no, this one is more a bench"Yeh.... mettim las' nigh' in Wicka.... long wit'a coupla 'ther Garou n kin."
(imogen)
"A pleasure," she answers, automatically toward Lars, a nicety perhaps more normally meant for truly human encounters, but what is still habit, now. It doesn't matter that it's meant or not, as she takes the beer from Tristan as it's offered, taking a swallow that is considerably more controlled than James's half drain of his own bottle as her attention flicks across the interior of the warehouse, the changes and the furniture, thrown together (literally) as it is.Tristan smokes, so she does not bother worrying about the exhale of grey smoke as she raises the bottle in thanks, before finding a seat, herself. She is, perhaps, mindful of the fact that some here do not share her addiction to cancersticks. She gives some distance to Lars.
(lars)
*Lars appreciates the distance although honor demands that he would not complain in the house of another.
But he nods his head again, and his voice, with it's slight germanic accent and nearly perfect (definately taught) english replies back*
"The honor is mine, Imogen."(decker)
As the maul appears, Decker glances briefly at it. Traditionalist Fenrir, obviously. If the carefully chosen words didn't give that away right off the bat, the weaponry and the actions did. Beers are getting passed around, but Decker passes it up and nods at the maul."Y'any good with that?" It's almost a rhetorical question. The Forseti, after all, obviously earned his deed name by it.
(tristan)
“Hey Lars.” Easily tossed as he nods welcome in Imogen’s direction. James downs half a bottle, Tristan chuckles, grabs the bag of chips and a beer for himself, as well as a second for James, dropping the latter off on the way as he pulls up....uh...something to sit on... comfortable enough, sort of. He’s sat on worse though. (WAY worse. Heh. Different story, that.) and then in afterthought to Lars he waves to the rest of the beer. “help yourself.” Before he pops the top off his own, tosses back a swallow or three, before opening the bag of chips, handful grabbed, the rest offered around.(lars)
*He nods his head to Tristan as well at his greeting to him.*
"Thank you, but I am well fed."*His head turns to answer Decker's question.*
"I can hold my own, Decker.." *slight pause as he forces himself to not add the suffix* "But I am still working on getting better with it."
*He replies simply and honestly enough.(james)
he pulled up the bench specifically for it's vague proximity to Decker and Lars
since the Forseti was liked by at least one of the pack, might as well listen and learn, eh?
not quite as considerate as Imogen, however, on space granted
at least he exhales ceilingward rather than at face-level
besides the length of the somewhat uneven platform allows a table space for beer...s ("Thank'.") and ashtray
(seriously think any of these guys are going to vaccuum?)otherwise, James sits quietly
(decker)
The Modi nods slowly. Thoughtfully, almost. Then he shifts on his seat, reaching down to give the rawhide laces of his boots a tug. Up on his feet, then, the Modi walks away without explanation.All the way to the bay doors, reaching up. Like Lars Drammenstein, he isn't particularly tall for one of their tribe. Six feet, give or take, and he stretches up to grasp the cord on the door, yanking it down in a flex of arm and back to send the heavy door rattling down. Normally, these things are operated by hydraulic pumps. Machinery. The machines are long dead; it was the Garou that moved the door now, pitting brute strength against sluggish half-frozen hydraulics.
The door thumps down resoundingly and Decker comes back, him and his thuggish shoulder-swaying walk, pausing to look down a pile of debris they'd salvaged from the dumpsters after last week's cleaning blitz. The larger chunks of drywall are here, as well as the less rusted pipes, the good hinges, some of the industrial hooks and pulleys. A minute passes. Then he sees what he's looking for.
Decker stomps on a board, a crack of steel soles on wood, and seesaw mechanics flings a six-foot length of pipe resting across the other end up into the air. The Modi pulls it out of its trajectory, whirls it once in his hands to get the balance of it. The steel pipe slaps solidly into his palm when he stops it. Now he had a makeshift fighting-staff, and he starts back toward the Forseti.
Stop fifteen feet away in an open area with plenty of room to wave large weapons around.
"Show me," he says simply.
(imogen)
A brief glance toward Lars as he says he's honoured. An eyebrow arches, and then settles, and she dismisses it.Dark eyes, an indescribable shade of blue, flicks toward the maul as it presents itself, and her interest in it is markedly different than Rohl's. Consideration of the shape, weight, make of it, rather than interest in the skill of the one who wielded it. The imprint the weapon would make on flesh. The damage on bone. Her mind traces it out and comes to conclusions as Decker stands and walks towrad the bay doors. The sound draws her attention, as she draws the cigarette from her mouth.
The woman, attractive though she may be, has a tendancy toward being unreadable, expressionless. There is very little expression now, but for a brief flicker of a coppery eyebrow as she unfolds from her seat to walk over to James. And ash her cigarette in the ashtray (because he's right; probably no one will vacuum here), and as an afterthought, grinding it out, crushing the ember beneath her fingers and the soot-smeared glass.
(lars)
The fenrir grins, and stands picking up the maul easily.He gets into a comfortable ready stand. One hand held up near the square hammer head, the other held near the very base of the handle.
In an instant he moves and begins to swings at Decker, he blocks with the middle when necessary. The top hand offering more control to his swing, the bottom hand pull and the swing of his hips giving power. From time to time his top hand slides to the end of the handle next to his other hand for power.
They are Fenrir, this was a battle not to the death, although outsiders watching might thing it was. No this was fenrir dueling, and to give any slack was to weaken those you spar against in the long run.
(tristan)
Show me, says Decker, and there’s an amused slide to the pretty boy’s always ready grin.
See, it does happen regularly. Tests of manhood, teaching, learning each others skills and weaknesses. Speaking of which... to James. “Found an old gym round here yet?” May as well resume boxing lessons at some point – new city and all, no telling what they’ll run into.There’s a glance toward where the Violin is stashed, to be assured it is indeed far from harms way and closer to himself then the dueling fenrir.
(james)
"Shou'da brough' popco'n stead'a chips, Tris."the domesticated island of the warehouse is truly small in comparison to the rest of the cavern
however, James has been witness to more than one Fenrir test
and he's especially cognizant of Decker's methods of schooling
not to mention the disrepair left behind because it always ends up involving furniture
(sometimes, it only involves furniture - he remembers the day the lacquered coffee table pissed the Fenrir off....)case in point: couch and coffeetable are moved
it doesn't matter that, as of now, the Modi is twenty feet away from them in the open space
it doesn't matter that, as of now, the Forseti would have to also move away and into the open space
James. Just. Knows.
very few of their furnishings are actually completely comfortable
he's going to make sure they lastbut other than that breif pause, he's not too concerned about what's going on
settling back on his bench, dark eyes are on the sparring Fenrir
(watch and learn, Jamey-boy)
though the comment is cast aside at his kinsman"Neh..." elbows rest on knees, almost empty bottle dangles from one hand, the smoke held loosely in the other "...'nuff space 'here, though."
(decker)
No, it's not a battle to the death. At all.The last time he fought a tribesmate with a hammer, they were both in warskins, and it ended with chunks of flesh missing. That was friendly sparring. This? Homid-formed, no gifts, no rage? This was just saying hello, Fenrir style.
Decker holds the makeshift staff by the center, his hands reversed - one palm down, one palm up, the grip firm but not white-knuckled. He holds it like he knows how to use a staff, when in truth his experience is almost solely with an axe. The resemblance is superficial at best. The balance is completely different, as is the style - the broad sweeping blows and the rapidfire thrusts of a staff, compared to the brutal chopping motion of an axe. He watches the other's ready stance carefully for cues, noting the placement of the hands and how they denoted Lars' intention for speed and precision rather than power, and how they would shift when the Forseti meant to unleash a devastating blow.
They fight not as men do, steadily and stubbornly, but as wolves do - wary circling for moments on end, interspersed with sudden, unpredictable bursts of furious motion almost too fast to see.
When Lars breaks suddenly into the attack he's ready for it. The first swing comes at him from the right and Decker snaps the staff around, swatting down to knock the blow aside. They move in a blur. Metal clashes on wood; a cataclysmic instant of impact crashes by, startlingly fast and vicious, and then they spring apart.
Back to wary circling again. Balance low, weapons held low.
Decker waits for the Forseti to attack, and when the next blow comes straight down he throws up the metal pole, blocking with the middle, grunting with impact, twisting the staff around the axis of the hammer's shaft to swing around over the deflected attack. The end of the staff slams sideways into Lars' head. Tough as a tank, the Forseti takes it without a wince. There's another blow coming; the staff rebounds off the side of the Forseti's head, reverses, and rams straight forward --
-- and is deflected by the center of the maul, forcing Decker to stagger a step back.
Another blurring sequence of actions ends. Quiescence, the wary watching of the opponent.
(imogen)
There is something to be said of non-chalance. James and Tristan hold a conversation that Imogen's attention flicks to, and then dismisses, because surely, the woman, only slightly over five feet, would not be sparring with the Ahroun or his kinsman.She rubs her shoulder idly with her free hand, as she steps back to her previous seat, as Decker and Lars circle each other, boots whisper-quiet against concrete. Her head turns when the first sound of the blows echoes off the high walls and ceiling of the warehouse, an automatic reaction as metal clashes on wood. Things are too fast to catch each motion, and too fast to seperate them into details and information.
The slender woman's interest in the fight is detached, at best. Clinical interest of not-quite-human creatures following not-quite-human laws.
(tristan)
He chuckles and nods, finishing off the salty treat in hand, fingers brushing at the denim across his thigh before that bottle is tipped back again. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”It’s grinned, easily, as he too watches. James moves the more comfortable pieces further out of harms way, and Tristan judges the differences between the two fenrir. Thuggish gait is deceptive really when it comes to the power with which the Modi can attack. No movement is spared, there is no pretty-ing it up, it’s just power. Raw. Sharp. Strong. The other, the Forseti, shows youth, power, and spirit. There’s something to be said about the heart that is put behind each swing.
It’s no battle to the death, of course, but it’s enough to give anyone pause.
Beer is set on the floor at his feet so that he can slip from jacket and flannel draping them over a thigh, leaving him in tattered tank top. Cigarette and lighter found, the former lit with the latter before they’re tucked away again, and then beer is retrieved. A nod for the comment of enough space, and a chuckle. “Yeah, there is. Course, here people I know will see you wipe the floor with me...”
(lars)
*Lars bends his head from one side to the other cracking his neck. The Modi was what he expected, strong and skilled.His teeth bare, and a low growl escapes his lips even in homid, as he charges forth once more. This time swinging as hard as he could at the middle of the staff, and then pulling his swing with his hip, to hook the staff with the ledge of the hammer.
And old tactic. Stun the hands, then try to pull at the weaken grip. If the grip is too strong, reverse again and punch forward with the hilt like a fist sliding across the staff.The fenrir way, power, strength and skill. And if it didn't work, he'd be pounded up against the nearest wall. But he was prepared to accept that risk.*
(james)
there's a low chuckle at Imogen's breif glance
surely the slight kin, barely over five feet, would not be sparring with the Ahroun or his kin
rather, the slight kin would unload a gun in their face, or drive six inches of silver into somewhere tender
just like the Modi's thuggish swagger - certain things can be exceedingly deceptive
(after all, James never made a point to clarify just how that Spiral died out in the woods....)"What.... y'ain't learn 'nuff a duck yet?"
view askew beneath a lifted brow
harshly accented words further mumbled by the newly lit Camel perched between lips that does nothing to help the lockjaw-slur
the pack's offered to Tris, then tossed over to Imogen
who with her negligently quiet "ta" yet remains out their conversationit's a varied peanut gallery, watching this friendly Fenrir hello
Imogen's clinical objectiveness
Tristan's critical judging
James'... literally picking apart every strike and block and blow
the Ahroun's quite familiar with the staff
but a hammer or axe is totally new territory"'ll track dow' s'me glove, then we c'n sta't ag'in."
(decker)
Such an old tactic, and yet it works. Perhaps it wouldn't have if he held his grandfather's axe - if only because he would never let that be taken from his grip while he was still alive. But this was just an steel pipe, and when the Forseti yanks hard, Decker, who had been bracing instead against the forward thrust, drops the staff. It clangs to the ground, one end striking first, then the other, then bouncing between the two until it comes to a complete stop.(Ladies and gentlemen, you may NOT unfasten your seatbelts...)
"Clever trick," growls Decker. Pipeless, but not weaponless. The Modi cracks his knuckles by making fists, and then falls into ready. It's not the curled agility of a boxer but the devil-may-care, have-at-you slouch of a bareknuckle street brawler: fists clenched at his sides, slouched deceptively to belie the tensed readiness of his muscles. In a flash he brings his fists up and pounds his knuckles together.
"Come on, Forseti."
Looking at him, grim and murderous, you'd have no idea he was having a good time.
(tristan)
He chuckles, and takes a drag of smoke before he bothers to answer. “Occasionally.” In truth, it’s been a while since he’s been knocked on his ass during their sparring. He doesn’t get in near as many hits as James does, but the ones he does land make their mark. His bruises fade in a few days and he’s not been dumb enough to spar on a full moon again... at least, not lately.Ouch.
Bout all he remembers of that night. Bright light, red glove, sweet darkness, bright light again.
And he loved every minute of it.“You do that..” grinned at James, before his attention is grabbed by the clatter of the pipe pulled to the ground. It’s bare knuckle time, it seems and he continues to watch. Little things can be learned, even by the boy who prefers not to fight with his hands (have you ever tried to play with swollen knuckles? He has. Once. Recently. Hurt like a bitch, it did. So now he protects them – well.) by watching those well used to thuggish ways.
(lars)
*The forseti grins, and even as his own hammer is dropping to the ground, Lars leaps forward at the Modi. In battle he would pound the advantage into his enemies corpse. But in sparring there would be no honor in it. And it's been awhile since he's gone bare kn uckles.*(decker)
And then it's just pandemonium.There never lived a Fenrir who didn't know how to brawl. There have lived a surprising many Fenrir, perhaps, who didn't know how to brawl well, but theirs was a culture of fist and foot, tooth and claw. Decker's not one for battle cries, never has been, but he's one for a good ghettostompin'. Lars charges and so does he, surprisingly fast for all his muscle mass. For the next few minutes it's a chaos of blows raining in from any and all directions. The boxing association would have an apoplexy. Feet are stomping, knees are kneeing, clothes are grabbed and used as leverage to throw one or the other into a wall, the floor, the junk pile, the truck ("Scratch the paint 'n I'll kill ya," inserted panting and grunting somewhere in all the mess) eyes are poked, elbows go flying into teeth and teeth snap for ears. To finish it all off there's always a good helping of knuckle sandwich on both sides.
When the rain of blows lets up and they draw apart out of what had to be sheer exhaustion, the casual bystander would have a hard time saying who won. Hell, with both of them looking like they'd been on the wrong end of a train collision, was there a victor at all? Decker makes his slow way back to his rough-made stool, sits, and pulls his shirt off.
(Any excuse to strip down in front of Imogen...heh.)
Mops his brow with it. Pulls it back on. "Pass 'em," he says to Tristan, meaning the beers, and he tosses the first bottle he gets to Lars. "Ain't half bad, Forseti. Question is, kin ya do that with Wyrmspawn the size o' a three-story house starin' you in the face?"
(james)
head tips when the pipe clatters to the ground
this, perhaps, is one of the few common threads he and the Modi share
a certain penchance and past for brawling in the street
no padding. no excess weapons. no quarter.
(ah, the good ol' days)Camel's pulled from between his lips to dump ashes in the tray
cancerous stick scissored between two fingers to point at the Fenrir
each movement accompanied by soft (slurred) words to structure
footwork. balance. pivot for power. leverage for block.
.... well... as much as he can in the whirlwind"Hear an'thin' more'n that impost'r Garou?"
(lars)
*Blood dripped from many wounds, and he would have to shift later to heal the wounds.
He takes off his own shirt, well what's left of it, and just drops it to the ground.*"Thank you Modi-rhya. I have in the past in the face of wyrmspawn. Although perhaps not as large as three stories, and I will again if Gaia grants me enemies and the guilty to punish before me."
(tristan)
in.fucking.credible.He watches the brawl with something akin to awe, really, though outward expression is still mild, closely watching what he can, listening to James, chuckling. They pull apart, Decker strips down (and without showing it outwardly, pretty boy here enjoys the view. ) and demands. Two bottles grabbed tossed one at a time, easily so they can be caught and opened without loosing half of them to foam.
Brow lifts at the question from James, curious. This was new...
“Can’t say as I have – what imposter Garou?”
(james)
"Good ques'n." muscular, scarred shoulders roll in a shrug, and now that the boxingtornado has ceased, he makes sure the words carry far enough to Imogen's ears as well "Warnin' came through th' Chain oth'r day. Impost'r Garou. Pr'tect kin. No oth'r detail. No location... 'n no follow up. Ain't been able a fin' th' sender. D'no if yeh heard anythin' streetside."
(tristan)
“Hm.” The all encompassing comment. New in town he’s not got the inside line on things on the street yet (give him another week, and very little will happen he won’t have at least heard about..) before after a few moments. “I’ll grab Jim and see if he’s heard anything. He and his hang in Chinatown. I’ve a sudden hankering for some decent Chinese food I’ll have to appease tomorrow first thing.”A stretch brings cigarette to an early death in the tray on James’ bench, last bit of smoke exhaled before he finishes his beer and grabs and opens another.
(decker)
(sorry man, i somehow missed that you'd posted)Decker smirks a little, popping his own beer open. "Yeah well, ain't seen a three-story wyrmlin' neither, myself. But was gonna head down to Wyrm Park later on, see if I kin find some ass t' kick." Knocking the beer back, he's quiet for a while, his throat working down the amounts he's chugging. Lower the bottle and his head together, grimacing against the upswell of carbonation. The belch shoots it right up his battered nose and Decker grabs it. "Ngh."
Then, looking up and over at James and Tristan, his attention caught briefly - "Imposter Garou?"
(imogen)
Cigarettes are thrown at her, and caught in the air, as the sparring goes on, something from which her attention never quite wavers. It's part interest, part survival instinct. If one wants to avoid the fists, one must know where the fists are and get out of the way.Her movements are automatic as she taps out a cigarette, catching the filter between her fingers and drawing it free of the package. She lights up, attention flicking toward James as he speaks about imposter Garou, an eyebrow lifting as she leans down to pick up her beer bottle, exhaling smoke through her nose. The bottle almost empty, she takes the cigarette from her mouth, and drains the amber fluid. The beer bottle will now serve as an ashtray.
Everyone has steadily been losing clothing. James, his shirt. Tristan, his jacket. Decker, his shirt. Imogen remains as she was outside, despite the warmth, one hand even absently tugging briefly at the collar of her jacket, pulling it absently up over her shoulder, listening, as her attention flicks toward Lars and his blood, bright red, and pausing briefly on the Fenrir Modi. Her dark gaze rests there a moment, before glancing toward James, perhaps waiting for some elucidation that might give her something - anything - to go on.
(lars)
"I would be honored to join battle with you and your pack Decker-rhya. IF you would allow it."
*He says. BAh, they were inside now, he's using his taught ettiquette.*
"But first, I should probably shift and heal to be fully prepared for it."(james)
chin nudges up in a half-nod
dark eyes slant towards his packmate"Exten' I know. Tris'll dig t'morra. 'll go wi'h'im if'm back'n time."
all of this said as the Ahroun rises and strolls across the island living space in the concrete sea
rummaging through one or two as-of-yet unpacked boxes until he finds the buried treasure
a towel balled up and thrown at the Forseti
okay, yes, Fenrir glory to bleed honorably and all that
but if nobody's going to vaccuum, they sure as hell aren't going to mop
and just because it's a warehouse.....(lars)
*The forseti catches the towel and holds it against his wounds. Even as he shifts up to glabro. No sense in wasting time that could be spent healing if they were going to hunt the wyrm tonight.*(decker)
"N-hnh." Some sort of agreement, an uh-huh mashed flat and stripped of all but the most rudimentary vowel sounds. His head was still down, and a bloody hand rubs over the curve of his skull. But look upon the beast and the beast looks upon you. He turns on the instinct that he is watched, meets Imogen's stare head-on. The impact of his glance is a train wreck. Just for a moment.Moving on, moving back, "Jus' Decker," he reminded the other again, if only because at ninet--no; strike that, twenty.
Fuck, twenty. Two whole decades on this earth. More time than he'd ever thought he'd had. Digression. Subject: at twenty, a human kid would be just getting into the swing of things in college. Still partying hard. Still drinking hard. Him, he's out crushing monster skulls. The idea of being a rhya to someone was still a little beyond the grasp.
Nod to James, wordless. Then the Modi gets to his feet as well.
"Got some shit to take care'a, y'all." He pulls his bloody shirt away from his skin and then lets it snap back, sodden. Fuckit. Throw a jacket over it, who'll see? Huh? Directing this to Lars, "You stay put."
Then he heads to the doors, a quick shift to Glabro en route reknitting flesh and cracked bone.
(supermarket run! be back in 30-45.)
(tristan)
A nod agrees to James’ going along, (as if he’d disagree) but he remains quiet other then the steady drain of his beer. Decker makes his normal exit, just up and goes, demanding Lars stay put for the time being. That gets a slight chuckle, but all in all, he’s quiet again.(imogen)
It's a clash of gazes, for a moment, because Imogen simply, never, looks away. And then he does, and she does, and she gives some sort of vague movement of her head, a half nod acknowledging what James has said, more absent than actually because she felt he needed her feedback.She shifts, in her seat, before she too, stands, glancing over her shoulder as the Modi leaves. Her rising to her feet is not quite the same motive. She isn't intending on moving, so much as finding outlet for energy. Her action is even and slow, economical. Grace stripped to its barest requirements as she rubs absently where her neck meets her shoulder. The moment the action is recognized, the hand drops away, sliding down to pull her pager free from her hip, glancing at the small display. Checking the time, or checking the batteries, perhaps.
The other hand holds her cigarette, burning slowly, a pale sullen ember. Reminded of it, she rehooks her pager to her pocket, and lifts the cigarette to her lips, listening to the silence.
She breaks it, lifting her chin toward Tristan in a gesture - not a nod, there's a difference, "'ave any more beer?"
(tristan)
There’s a chuckle and nod. “For you, Imogen, I always have more beer.” Playful grin as he reaches into the bag, checks what’s left, finding five more, he grabs one, pops the top, and offers it to the pretty redhead.Some would be offended by the minute flirtation. Who knows, Imogen may be offended. But she’s used to it, none the less, and no one expects him to be anything other then what he is. A good old fashioned dawg, through and through. Course, it helps to know he isn’t into pretty redheaded women anyway.
A stretch lengthens torso before arms fall again to rest elbows on thighs, bottle of his own tipped back and near finished.
(james)
the other full moon's response was a flattened grunt translation of understanding accompanied by a nod
(your basic Modi-speak 101)
though James' explanation wasn't all that excurtient to begin with
however there's something between the packmates that doesn't necessitate lengthy explanation
to see them in battle would make others wonder if they even communicate at all
but something functions deeper than instinct which makes the pack operate as a well-oiled machinethe Gnawer never returns to his seat
after the progressional stripping - he, on the other hand, is returning to his layered fashion
Camel's crushed in the tray en route to his corner
thermal's pulled over the once-white wifebeater
patchwork quilt of a trenchcoat covering that
faded grey bandana used to tie back his dreads
smaller pack of books and papers dumped out onto the mattress:there's the cartographic history Imogen had vaguely inspected earlier
a few newspapers that may or may not contain pertinent articles on the stranger side of revent events
a Thomas Guide to Chicago and its suburbs
various other books which would only serve to acquaint one with the town
including a selection of things from the tourism bureau
and last but not least: a book on do-it-yourself indoor plumbingso far the one thing the warehouse lacks is a fully functioning bathroom
the closet-sized space once dedicated to the job is in need of some repair
at the very least, a properly installed water heaterand it doesn't look like any of the volumes have a due date card on them, either
James may be a born and bred Hood, but he hasn't forgotten his Frankenweiler mentorship
from the Alice pack are plucked a few choice objects which refill the space in the small pack"Tris.... shou'd be back by mornin'.... look me up 'fore yeh seek out Jim. Good job, kid."
the last shot towards Lars as long strides take the Ahroun to the door
Imogen gets the patented chin-lift nod of a departure((just had ONE more post *mutter* I'm outta here, thanks for the play folks!))
Posted by james at 12:00 AMNovember 21, 2003.11.21.03. - grand central station [...everybody][Wicker Park - Yuliya, Sputnik, Katya, Tristan, Lars, Jim]
(yuliya korjevna)
muttermuttermutter
Under her breath as she walked was the low sound. It wasn't even in English, though in these cities thats not really all that remarkable. Steady walking (...stalking...) pace into the park, head sunk down into the collar of her heavy leather jacket some to keep the wind off her neck as she muttered.
That meeting had not gone as well as she would have liked. At least she had only gotten blood on her hands. That was easily washed off.
Dark eyes watchful as she moved. Body on that fine line of readiness. Manner was... offsetting (cold) and she watched as much for the enmy as the law as the curious who got too curious... or maybe they all were the enemy.
The chill was making her left leg ache some though.
Damned scars.(james)
last night and this morning consisted of unloading
while the others of the pack - and affiliates - had tended to cleaning out the warehouse
James had to make sure his Family was taken care of, too
he took longer to get to Chicago than the others
he had to clean up loose ends back homeone of those loose ends was the condo
the other was the pack's warehouse at the Port
certain things had to be cleaned out and stored
who knew when they were coming back, if they were at all
while the holding is still unavaible for subsequent lease - thanks to Rune's kin - there's no evidence of its inhabitants
it's nothing more than an unused warehouse
now, a portion of the furniture and amenities had been delivered to Chicago
(you think he used up all that cash on the digs alone? should know James better than that, there's a load leftover....)
he spent the majority of the last twenty four hours moving it from van to new homethen? the Ahroun slept
a Warrior's sleep
out cold in thirty seconds or less or your first dream is freethe Full Moon's stomach was what woke him up after the sun had dutifully slept
a Warrior's appetite
scratch that - a Bone Gnawer's appetite
it's good enough to convince him it's time to venture out into the cold nightcollar on the patchwork trench snugged up around the back of his neck
dreadlocks hanging heavy and free to further insulate against the cold winds sneaking out of the Northeast
tatty secondhand BDUs planting his ass firmly on a bench in the park
hands warmed by the kilbasa dog coaxed out of the cart's owner juuuust before "shop" closed for the night
dull Cochran II's settled on either side of a steaming cup of coffee on the ground(sputnik)
Cold, but not as cold, compared to the near arctic temperatures that he'd grown up with. Windy, just a tad, did that stop him from standing outside at this time of night yelling into a payphone. I don't think so. The loud, deep bellows of Russian echo into the night. By the bright shade of red, depicting anger on the hairy man's face, you'd suspect he was swearing at the caller. The only words in English that can be made out or a few names. One of which being Wicker Park. Una. Fuck You, and brat. Oh, the joys of parental love. Sputnik, since he is called that, stood dwarfing one of those little phone boots that stood out on a lonely sidewalk. He towered over the booth, resting an arm on the top of it. The metal ringed phone cord getting twisted more and more with the constant jerks and turns he made, a poor attempt at pacing. Thick, long black-grey dreds fell past his shoulders, a full beard and mustache covered his face. Giving Sputnik the impression that he appeared far older than he was. Tattered clothes of denim, flannel, and a leather jacket clung to the massive Russian's form.(yuliya)
A little bird told her.. or maybe it was just the sound on the wind. What ho? Russian... always of interest to the Russian born girl and her path altered some to at least come to where she might see said speaker.
Hands were shoved deep into her jean pockets, worn blues wrapped around well toned legs like a second skin. God how she loved her favorite jeans. Its a small miracle they aren't stained to the point of being conspicuous by now. Dark hair hanging in windswept wild abandon around her face as she walked nearer the sound of the shouting voice, eyes flickering over the others out that night.
Flicker and flash
And stop on James as he walks. Or rather what he wore as she paused a moment not far from a telephone booth to look James over more.
Now that was interesting... she'd been keeping the low profile because some people didn't know where she was.
Gorsha migth have the boys out to bring errant gunrunner back home. Family love and all that jazz. He might be mad she took her interests with her move.
But James certainly didn't look like any of the ruskie boys who toed the line in Toronto... and he looked to be family. Then again, she'd run afoul of the best and worst of such in her work. Trust did not come easily and she was a cold cold bitch on a good day.
That was not today.(james)
there's something about the instincts of a predator
sharp and alert and always on the lookout
or, more appropriately at the moment, what what's looking
even with the innermost volcano quelled beneath the waning crescent high above
sometimes you can just feel those kinds of things
the smattering of Russian rolling thickly on the waves of wind was enough to partially pull his attention from the all but gone dog
it's been inhaled in the proper Bone Gnawer way, of course
but it's the lingering study from something else that actually draws his eyes skyward then phoneboothwardthe proverbial bear dwarfing the booth had been intent on his own conversation
this, however, was quite different
and deep umber eyes stroll the sidewalk towards Yuliya
casually watching her as she watches him
discerning her eyes are more on his jacket than his face
which may give away what, exactly, she's looking at
some things are National, others are strictly Familywhen her gaze roams more towards his features
chin lifts up in a trademark nod
last bite of that dog placed on his tongue and chewed
but his attention doesn't waver this time(sputnik)
there's something about the instincts of a predator
sharp and alert and always on the lookout
or, more appropriately at the moment, what what's looking
even with the innermost volcano quelled beneath the waning crescent high above
sometimes you can just feel those kinds of things
the smattering of Russian rolling thickly on the waves of wind was enough to partially pull his attention from the all but gone dog
it's been inhaled in the proper Bone Gnawer way, of course
but it's the lingering study from something else that actually draws his eyes skyward then phoneboothwardthe proverbial bear dwarfing the booth had been intent on his own conversation
this, however, was quite different
and deep umber eyes stroll the sidewalk towards Yuliya
casually watching her as she watches him
discerning her eyes are more on his jacket than his face
which may give away what, exactly, she's looking at
some things are National, others are strictly Familywhen her gaze roams more towards his features
chin lifts up in a trademark nod
last bite of that dog placed on his tongue and chewed
but his attention doesn't waver this time(sputnik)
Bear, indeed, more like a giant neanderthal. His height topped him around 4 inches taller than six feet, someone would wager. And, by the broad bulk under the leather jacket, it's a surprise he manages to find clothing. Tattered and half-stitched together in shoddy repair work. He pulls the phone away from his ear, continues to yell into it. Something about telling the girl on the other "NO" for those that can understand Russian. He, then, out of sheer ventilation, slams the phone down several times on top of the cheap, aluminum covering, placing a nice dent into the frame work. The phone gets tossed away, left to dangle near the sidewalk, as the Ruskie pushes away.Large hands seek out the warmth of coat pockets. Brown eyes, hidden beneath the volumes of dreds, slide across the street. Nostrils flaring out briefly to take in the different scents. His own, unbathed smell, wafting in the air around him, marking easily for a vagrant of some caliber. Beer. Grease. Weed. Vodka. Women and more vodka. One heavy boot planted in front of the other, making his way across the street, up wind towards James and Yuliya.
(yuli)
Lacking in the advantages some of her brethren, she relies on her eyes, her reflexes, and survival. Its really amazing how much someone can learn in these tenets alone. Her attention on james, one hands untucks from tight jeans pockets to run throuhg her hair, forcing it back off her face. Thats a futile battle as the wind begins moving it agian once her hand had resought its warm place. It did free her eyes long enough to look clearly at him.
clang clang clang of the telephone on a booth nearby, jarring metal on metal and roared Russian tore her attention to that way and it must be her night.
Or maybe not, depending on one's view... since the one leaving the booth looked startlingly like someone she'd been laying low from.
Of all the cursed damned luck.
She looks back James way and that answer 'sup nod and her path is set for the moment at least, walking his way, glances tossed back towards where Sputnik was coming from.
Yeah this could be a looooooooong Friday night.(katya)
Despite the propaganda disguised as the tourism bureau, the streets her expensive heels clipped upon were broken and dirty. Chill bumps adorned slender calves, and subtlely shapely thighs beneath the conservatively cut black skirt clinging to her form. A black leather jacket obscured her slim waistline and slight feminine swell. Lustrous hair, the color of a moonless night, was an interesting counterpoint to clean pale skin, flushed with the comfortable (to her) chill. The weather reminded her of her homeland.Then something else did. Eyes like grey ice, shifted beneath thin eyebrows (russian high arch tilt) to fall upon the unignorable bear with his utterance of the word, NYET! so loudly on the payphone. Slim fingers played about the strap of the purse over her shoulder as she considered the man speaking in her native tongue..
(james)
(NYET! slamslamslamdentslam)
it draws a wayward glance from the Ahroun
(no is something even he understands of the foreign language)
maybe, even, a glint of amusement which considers curving his lips
(can't help it, reminds him of his packmate)
but that's muted in the twinge of.... something... that's in dark eyes
(can't help it, reminds him of his other packmate)it's gone by the time he catches Yuli's nod
steaming cup of coffee's picked up in one (mostly) gloved hand and moves with him
boots planting on the sidewalk in deliberate sliiiiide to the left
subtle invitation in response to those repeated glances back at the bear
the other (mostly, damn they need repair) gloved hand searches the pockets of the patchwork trench for his pack of smokeshe looks relaxed, yes
but the subtle ripple in the ever-present sphere of crackling Rage that encompasses him speaks otherwise(sputnik)
~the little trouble maker could be up to anything. It was your idea to bring her along you know. ALL your fault if anything happens to the poor girl. Remember Toronto, eh. Yea, you remember Toronto, you sick furry fuck!~ Internal dialogue chattered away inside the brain of the Nyet yelling bear. At least, Sputnik didn't see goblins running amuck! His voice, growlish and gruff, rumbles once more in mumbled Russian to the air around him. It was hard to say what he heard, especially as the wind seems to tousle a little more violently through the tattered fringes of his pants. Dark eyes fixate on the two new comers, that have acquired his attention.Yuliya garnered an unrecognizeable glance. James, on the other hand, was looked over with critical eyes, studying the patterns in clothwork. A chuckle gargles in his throat, continuing to head their way.
(yuli)
There's nothing in that face, set of body, demeanor that said she was in the bit bothered by James as she drew close. There's barely the impression of a smile. She's being awfully polite, for her as she did that much though. The prickling sense (...not unlike fire ants marching and biting along the skin...) noted, marked for later process and she stops. Body coils to ready stillness and she gives another nod.
"Its nice jacket, you have."
Not nearly as broken as some's English but no where near very grammatical. Good mixed accent there too only mad eit more unrecognizable as English in her throaty low voice. Head turns to glance ove rher shoulder, dark eyes trailing off Katya to Sputnik again and yes, it may wel be a looooong night before her attention comes back to James.
Girl had a measure of spunk it would seem. Some called it grit. She just preferred heinous bitch.(katya)
Eyes lingered on the rear arch of the russian bear, before following the next logical course of action. A deliberate pan located the agitated one's line of sight. The terminal was James. The former had been angry. Pissed even. The latter was burning with something more than the momentary passion of adrenaline arousal. Gaia's Fury.Ice grey eyes narrow, as the clip of her expensive heels becomes silent; her graceful stride of feminine sway became cautious and slow. Coiled.
Yet, she did not stop moving in the threesome's direction. Ears perked to hear what she could over the chill breeze.
(james)
there might be a measure of relief that the woman walks right up
or at least doesn't let it show she's affected by that invisable sphere he's more than aware is there
the measure is limited, however, for all the kindness in those deep umber eyes he remains just as cool in regard"Thank."
the last letter of the word left off
it may be from the Camel long that's dangling from his lips
it may be from something else entirely which he hasn't let on just yet
he's not letting on to a vast majority of things at the moment
the roiled Russian was moving closer
the clack of expensive heels had stopped
James still seems rather at ease, considering how new he was in this territory
battered bronze Zippo whpCLACKS sparkage to the flame of the smoke
and the slim cigarette is pinned between two long fingers to gesture towards the approaching storm"He both'rin' yeh?"
the accent is pure New York, born and bred
but it's filtered by something else which clips it more than necessary
responsiblity may lay in the misalignment of battle-scarred jaw that causes the salutory grin to be a bit lopsided(sputnik)
~Ol'Mother Hubbard went to the cubbard, to get poor Sputnik a bone. When she bent over, hey! Sputnik took over and rode Yuliya's ass all the way home... Nice piece of work, Ruskie, gotta love chasing after her clear cross two continents, three countries, and too many provinces. At least, she doesn't like Ricky Martin, We hope~ more internal dialogue, pounding away at the frontal lobes of his brain. The corner of his left eye twitches slightly. Brown eyes, turning finally to slide over to Yuliya. Recognition comfirmed. The soft, sweet sound of her voice washes over Sputnik's ears, drowning away the annoying chatter in his brain for now. He seemed more relaxed now that he had sights of her. His long-legged gait slows down, approaching the bench. The rolling waves of rage, noted and filed away into his brain."'Cuse pardon. No mean interruptions. Have smoke, da?" the thick voice rolls out broken words of English. His accent, rather thick, upon his tongue when he spoke. Brown eyes roam over to the girl once more... her name spoken with familiarity. "Yuliya."
(yuli)
"Nyet."
Short, simple and to. the. point. She shrugs offhandedly and glances at the approaching Sputnik. Katya had earned her glance and until she became more interesting or invovled the attention lay between the two men. One she knew, and one she suspected she should be getting to know. Soft inward draw of breath as Sputnik closes and she looks over his way, ghost of a smile there.
He thought he'd caught up. The chase had only begun because she'd fight like hell not to be stuck back in the wool wrapped confines of familial love that was her family in Toronto.
"Misha..."
Wonder given where his other half was before she looked back ayt James. Its a damned touchy place between two of them. She managing well enough for the time being.(james)
musician's quick fingers roll the pack of Camels and zippo in offer to the bear
if he's not bothering her, James could - at the very least - be cordial
even if the tension between them is thickening
he's figured out she's Yuliya, but that guy probably isn't Misha
(there's the barest niggle of interference as his own inner Fury clashes with the meager amount of the bear's)
and until further introductions are given or requested
the dreadlocked Ahroun basically stays quiet
he is new in town, after all(sputnik)
The other half, as it were, being of sound mind and trouble, was held up in a motel room with cable t.v.(so Sputnik hoped) Money spent quickly between Una and himself, Sputnik's consumption out weighing his petite partner in crime. His head bobs in a quick nod to Yuliya, eyes still studying her, staring, but not boring into her (just yet...)The click of expensive heels over pavement, finally, had time to register in his slow brain. Or was it slow at all? Brown eyes, sliding back over a black-grey dredlocked-covered shoulder. His nostrils flared out once more, as if, he could smell her scent. Expensive. Pretty. Not his type, but Katya still drew his eyes for a brief moment. Attention span wanes slightly, moving over to James once more.
Big hand breaks from his pocket, stretching out to pluck up the offered bit of nicotine and lighter. Poison in a paper stick, it wasn't going to kill him any, same as the vodka. Clickflicksnap shut all in one motion, red and orange burning embers, smoke inhaled to fill massive lungs, expelled through his nostrils. Eyes squinted as the smoke stings at his eyes. That will teach him to have a keen perception while smoking. He hands the lighter back to James. "Sputnik." thumbs up at himself. "Yuliya." bobs his head to the girl. "Family?" gestures to the familiar patterns in James' clothes. "Wander and know street? Find good place to catch next meal, da?" again with the broken English.
(katya)
When she first felt the blast furnace of Luna's fury coming from the american, it was first thought to bypass and spy from a distance. Garou? Yes, most likely. But, that included the possibility of the Enemy..
But, the random meet between the pair changed her mind.Instead she approached. Her scent she allowed to carry before her. Clean, perfumed. Her graceful stride was poise, meant to accent what should be regality in the face of the street people. But, her eyes of glacial ice had trouble maintaining contact with the one who exuded the furious energy.
A cigarette appeared between slim fingers, "Pardon me. Might I trouble you for a light?" Her voice was slavic from the first syllable. A rolling lilt of guttural vowels, and soft consonants that spoke of bleak, picturesque tundra.
Her own Rage was a small thing. Marginally, more than the bear's.
(yuli)
She needed a god stiff drink.
Bad meeting. Good meeting. Just a lot of business and not enough of anything else. That was never a good way to start things.He probably hated her nickname, but then she hated his too. Sputnik sounded ike some name a geekboy sspace wannabe would have, not her cousin. Not as if he hadn't heard it allllllllll before. Silence reigning from her after the perfunctory introduction and listening. It goes from two (as if thats not enough) to three with Katya and she's planning a vodka run after this. More would require violence or sex somewhere down the night's road too... just for stress relief. But the veritable crowd with their little or large furious feelings broiling beneath the skin made her trigger finger itch.
Thats never good.(james)
"James" speech slowed down to accomodate sharp accent and clarify the slur, given their broken English, he'll take no chances on their misunderstanding him on the important stuff, and chin dips in nod to take the brown dreads (it's a bloody accent and dreadlock convention - his, however, are far longer in nearly reaching the bottom of his ribcage) in a little dance over his shoulders "Am if yeh reco'nize summa these."with the arrival of the sleek and expensively perfumed one on the scene
he's not taking his chances blurting anything out
especially given the warning that came through the Chain the other day
(and the added flux his rage-dar's giving off....)
regardless, the Hood is nothing but cordial unless given a reason not to be
and Momma taught him his manners
soon as the lighter's back in his hands
fingers twist to SNACK it open and offer a flame to the Slavic wolf"Bout what'm doin'." tossed back at Sputnik, even if he's making sure he doesn't set Katya on fire "New'n town.... these ya digs?"
(katya)
It was a show of civility. An icebreaker in the initial stages of greeting. Warily, the smaller wolf leaned to concentrate on the flame, it somehow paling in comparison to the fire of the Garou before her. Eyes keeping the two males in her peripheral vision she puffed the long cigarette to life. Yuliya garnered her attention as well, but with her manner of being standoffish she was marked as Kin. And an intelligent one at that.A blue-white stream of smoke poured breathily from soft full pink lips, "Thank you," her English was flawless. Not broken like the bear's. Eyes flicker to both men, gauging mood.
"I recognize the patterns as well," she said low.(sputnik)
Cancer stick hangs from pressed lips, the only stark contrast to the dark brown foilage of hair that covers his face. The beard narled with tangles, almost as badly as his dredlocks. Didn't Una ever make him bathe?? The cigarette almost never leaves his mouth, inhaled deeply, held for a what seem like minutes, and smoke, finally, expelled through the nostrils. The Russian bear of a vagrant moves himself off the street to the nearest edge of concrete in the vicinity of the bench. Somewhere closer to Yuliya, to protect her, if anything happens."Recognition confirmed, cousin. Luna swells like pregnant bovine, and you carry great waves of intensity. I feel it." points to himself, "She feel it." nods his head back to Yuliya. "We all feel it." a chuckle garbles in his throat. His body hunches over, arms pinned on bent knees, drawn up so his boots scuffed over the asphalt. He looks upward at Katya again. "Princess." nods his head in greeting.
(yuli)
She had been thinking exactly the same thing. Didn't Una ever make him bathe... when she wasn't around to bitch. Not as if she's the paragon of cleanliness... the soft coppery tang of blood was still faint on her hands. The things she did for the family business... She doesn't move away from Sputnik or closer, or away from anyone else. She's staked her own little piece of the asphalt by that bench. Make them move her if they wante dit. Dark eyes watch them all and that ghost of an almost smile still lingers.
"Hard not to feel..."
Muttered comment in her thick accent. Not quite broken like Sputnik. Its fairly intelligible that time.(tristan)
On some street corner, in a galaxy far, far away....
Or, you know, just out of hearing distance from the parkThe strains of violin finally fade into silence. Lanky pretty boy kin accepts the last of the applause for the evening with a ready grin. He slides to a crouch, money in the case is scooped up and tucked into the depths of denim with just a glance and quick count. Not bad for a days work, really. A soft cloth wipes down the well loved instrument, a check to insure that the inside of the case is warm enough, the bow and violin tucked away and locked up into its case.
He stands then, and stretches one more time, case hoisted in hand, and he heads off through the park towards the hole in the wall diner that exists on the other side, as well as the seedy motel called home for now.
Long steps eat the cement with even, unhurried strides, while he whistles softly.
(james)
"Welc'm"the Ahroun's chuckle is low to wrap around the word on an exhale of smoke
he'd be surprised if they didn't mark him Garou by the rage
it's the integral details of "Family" that had him most curious
you can't always judge a book by it's cover, and all that
(plus reflection that someone, months ago, unbelievably, had him pegged as a certain firey kin's Fenrir mate.... now just because he packs with a bunch of Germans.....)"Jukebox. Drum' on Skull'. Fos'ern fullmoon a Eagle'" just as casually offered as the pack of Camels and that light, and so quiet it doesn't go beyond their ears - civility and manners, of course. Given present company, perhaps an exploration of formality would continue the whole good first impressions, and there's an subtly expectant raise of one brow towards the frame of jungle-vine dreads they do the same "Th'n I correct the Pa'k's unclaim...."
(katya)
From this vantage she was taller than the vagrant russian. With bent knees, and hunched over frame he nods to her. Fitting, somehow. Princess?
Ice grey eyes regarded him neutrally. Regal. Poised. A nod of her own, "Greetings," But she bestowed no title upon him.Eyes pan slow, and careful, between the two. Her stance shifts with a graceful motion that changes her feminine lines. Cigarette dangles betwixt slim fingers leaving smoke to wisp in the breeze, as she keeps the pair in her vision.
"I am called Katya," she answered in a hard-yet-soft tone that seemed at home in the chill of the air. Though, she did not risk saying more so publically, as James did. One eyebrow arched, "Eagle? With an individual known as Decker?"
(sputnik)
"Sputnik. Christian name by homid relation. Misha Croviik. But, I, Sputnik, cleeath, Spirit walker. From overseas, no claim land. Only claim kinfolk." he replies in a low rumbled voice. The jarbled words hard to make out.(lars)
*The man walked down the street. His body covered in a columbo styled trenchcoat, his hair falling out of the hat that he wore on his head. the brim of the hat was pushed low as if trying to cover his face.*(yuli)
It makes its usual rounds and she's not been one for etiquette, manners, subtly in some things ever ..Yulya, you have to be polite... in someone else's wet dream.
"Yuliya... many call Siberia. Misha kin."
Its not very well said but maybe the point gets across in her low throaty mutter as she looks between the three with dark (...bored?...) eyes. She extracts her own pack of cigarettes and lighter, cheap and dirty does the trick with her nicotine and one is duly lit and drawn upon slowly.
Yeah, thats the trick.(sputnik)
His head tilts back, turning brown eyes upward at Yuliya, which seem to soften upon contact. He offers her a grin, finally, the cigarette pulled from his mouth, before it burned off his beard. "Been looking for you, trouble." he replies in a teasing tone. "Not escape so easily, da."(james)
(Princess? Ice-Princess more like it....)
inner monologue aside, his chin dips to register the name
noting she did not take the calculated risk that he felt necessary in the situation
luckily the park is mostly empty at this time of night
else he wouldn't have uttered the words
to each their own, of course
prime example being Sputnik's jarbled response
it takes the Ahroun a moment to translate
evidenced by the slight closure of the space between his brows that soon spreads in comprehension
(allright, so he is Misha.... good assumption there, Jamey-boy)"'ll stick wi'h Sputnik'n Yul'ya." easier to say with the slur, and that's what they introduced themselves by anyway "Claim fam'ly.... n some squattin' space ov'r by th' Riv'rfron'." and when his eyes draw strafe back to Katya, there's an aire of play lingering in deep umber "Yeh.... made'n impression, did 'e?"
it's more chuckled than accusatory
rather amused by the phrasing she chose(tristan)
As he moves, free hand works through pockets, finally locating his batter pack of smokes, one shaken free and propped between lips before the pack is tucked away again. Afterwards, the search resumes to find the lighter that always seems to run to pockets other then where his pack ends up.Probably because of the light offered that pretty young thing earlier in the evening.
A grin, it’s located, and flick of bic sets flame to tobacco and paper, inhale taken as lighter is tucked away, heading towards yonder group that looks to hold at least one, possibly two familiar forms.
(katya)
The barest knitting of her pretty brow indicated her dislike of such a public announcement. Her eyes glanced around as she tapped ash upon the already dirty pavement. When no one was near, she modulated her tone to not carry above the breeze, "Katya Valentinovna. Merciless Vengence. Cliath New Moon of the Shadow Lords," Accent was similar to Sputnik and Yuliya, but it was obvious her grasp of the language was greater.Her head canted with her answering nod to James, "Da. Rather memorable," she said dryly, before placing the slim cylinder between her soft lips anew. Ember glowed as her eyes narrowed to avoid the stream.
(yuli)
Long draw on her cigarette and dark eyes drift to Sputnik and lips finally pull into a smile. Its still not warm and its bordering smirk.
"Not caught because found Misha."
That vague hint of challenge and she seemed nonplussed by the fact she's in with a group of garou to her kinfolk status. Eyes finally leave him to look between James and Katya, Katya and James and she nods, cigarette dangling between fingers for the moment while she's speaking.
"Is fine."
He could call her worse and she'd barely bat an eye. He was family. Another drag, inhale, smoke drifting out lazily. That helped the tension that strung shoulders a bit tight.(sputnik)
"Nyet..." a growlish garble sputtered from his mouth. Face, quick with emotions, twists into a scowl up at Yuliya. He flicks the cigarette from his hand, away and high, in an arc through the air to the other side of the street somewhere. The red cherry a distant beacon of light. "Found. Come with Sputnik before night pass." more barked out than asked. He turns to focus his attention on the other garou present.(james)
his chin dips again
drawing the feature - in need of a shave, by now, five o'clock shadow this early in his day - towards the layers of clothing insulating his chest
a subtle show of appreciation she decided to make the announcement even if her disdain was telling
months spent packed (mated) to a certain rapier-tongued serpentwolf made one aware of such facial microexpressions
and, dare it risk the Lord's further ire, her clarification has him laughing softly again"'e's a habit a doin' tha'." grinned in a lopsided and even jovial street performer's way "S'why I do comp'ny PR."
the verbal sparring beginning between the other two Gnawers doesn't seem to phase him
regardless of Yuli's kinfolk status - James looks at kin differently than most other Garou
in fact he probably wouldn't know what to do with a kin that didn't hold their own ground or act like a Garou themselvesit's a measure of habit that has his own eyes straying
looking out past the gathered group
(one guy in a trenchcoat, one guy carrying a rather familiar case)
but soon enough his attention turns back to those at hand
long log of embers flicked to top the neat pile of ash that had been growing by his left Cochran(lars)
*The guy is fairly muscled, a fact not hidden by the coat. And as he walks by people he sniffs the air unseen under his jacket.He gets to just past the group, and stops. Blinking*
(tristan)
James looks at Kin differently – thus the willingness to follow him to ‘greener pastures’ here in Chicago. Smirk. Yeah. Greener, or something. Anyway.
(We won’t even think of other pastures enjoyed in Newark. No, of course not. He misses him. Sigh)Anyway! Back to the present, and the dredlocked brother up ahead. Strides carry him to the group, there’s a nod up for James (hang around them long enough, you’ll pick up the habit too..) but he doesn’t interrupt, just rests his hand on James’ shoulder as he sets the violin on the bench next to his friend before tucking his hand into his pocket. Slight nod for miss bitch....um. Katya. The others, he doesn’t know.
(yuli)
"Nyet..."
The rapid lingual shift into something more comfortable then English, and gutteral harsh tones in low throaty voice. She's never been one to simply knuckle under for the fact he's garou and she's kinfolk. Call it that spunk in her that just doesn't quit. Russian coming now as she faces Sputnik's scowl with a faint frown of her own.
Not too emotional, this one.
"I am not about to be hauled back to Gorsha because he's worried I can't handle it on my own, Misha. If you think I'm going back, wel... this won't be a pleasant meeting. Besides, I have my shit established here now.."
Rattling off in cold russian and if she cares others can here or understand its not shown.(lars)
*Lars stops and turns, and then starts walking toward the others, his body a bit tight, just prepared for action just in case..*
"Hello?" *He asks a slight german accent to his words, even as he looks them over*(katya)
Grey eyes held silvery facets as she regarded the jovial, American Bone Gnawer. A slow smile began to adorn those soft full lips, "PR, ah?" a drag. Smoke blew slowly, "I suppose that would not be Decker's duty," she conceded with a slight dip of her chin with her smile. Dark hair blew forward. Fingers brushed the locks back, with casual ease. Eyes pan to the pair on the bench in their argument. Katya, unlike James, did not have a modern good-natured view of Kin. They were either worthwhile, or they were not. Useful breeding stock, breeding stock, or dead. Those were the only ways they came.A newcomer approached and passed. Noted. As was his hesitance. Most of the sheep approached only cautiously, and when passing scurried to hasten their departure. Anything other than that attracted her attention. Ice grey eyes peered over her shoulder at him. Shapely legs shifted beneath the clingy material of that skirt. Possibly to relieve the chill of the air.
Eyes fasten upon Lars as he speaks with a neutral expression. "Good evening," her voice was cool in its slavic sound
(lars)
*A hand moves up the brim of his hat. The scar that could only have come from a claw marrs his face, going from the top left of his face, just going around his eyes and across his face. The blue eyes look at those gathers, a touch of mirth in them, but that is drowned out by the intensity in them.*"Good evening...cousins."
(sputnik)
Ah, for the love of Mother Russia. The burly Russian bear, tilts his dredlocked head up at her, thick brows narrowing. He shifts his weight forward, grunting softly, pulling himself up to turn and look down at his kin. The Russian flowing from his mouth, fluent and smooth, unbroken like his English. "I am not here to haul your ass back to Gorsha. Una and I are here to keep your pretty ass out of trouble, Yuliya. Whether you like it or not. I, no leave. Nor wish to uproot you from what you have here." ah, the bane of twisted affections. So many sleepless nights lost to this pretty girl.His head, snaps around, breaking off the Russian to look over at Lars with a critical eye. He replies to Yuliya in English. "We finish later. Private." Sputnik regards Lars with a raised brow, tilting his head, a hand comes up to scratch at his bearded chin. Eyes traveling over the newer faces of Tristan now.
(james)
and now the Russian begins
consider James out of that conversation
he can understand yes, no, and a few cuss-worthy phrases
but that's about it on his repetoire of that language
but Tristan's arrival is a good enough distraction
and that mostly forgotten about cup of (still steamy) coffee raised over his head in offer"Fam'ly I talk 'bout claimin'." interjected at some point when the other two Gnawers take a moment to breath, just to be sure he's heard "Trist'n..... Yul'ya, Sputnik - cousins - n Katya."
nodding at each in turn
direction taken by the top of his head clarifying names to faces for the kin
he doesn't see the slight nod since the tall kin is standing above him
so has no idea they've met before"Mmhmm." still warmth in his tones, a certain fondness for his packmate even if they are, basically, poking fun at his expense "Manners 'pparen'ly a not in his bag a tricks. Make up f'r it in oth'r way."
that's when his attention falls on Lars
and while he's all easy smiles and seems rather approachable in the way he interacts with the others
you can bet there's some intense studying behind those deep umber eyes
(recognition, as something unseen clashes)
knowing as well as the pretty Lord that rare is the body that would approach such a group undaunted"Evenin." obvious NY State accent clipped further by a strange slur "... cousin."
(yuli)
Some days it was a pain in the ass to have family. At least today wasn't on the high end of that list. He stood (...subtle ntimidation factor that doesn't seem to work...) and she faces him, resolute... trace defiant, that becomes unnecessary with his words.
"Fine."
So verbose when she doesn't need to be and looks to everyone else, face falling back into cool impassivity. She didn't stand around waiting to make the next generation. She got right into the thick of it. She'd lost a lot of the fear factor a long time ago.(lars)
"I am Lars."
*He says simply. He offers Katya a hand in handshake, and then the same to James*
(tris)
“Pleasure...” To the round of introtuctions. Yu’ya, Sputnik (wasn’t that some russian spy station or something?) and of course, richbitch. “Katya and I’ve met – Madoc get your car working for you yet? I forgot to ask him during our drinking contest yesterday.” Easy grin flashed at the ice queen, the boys rather fond of the burly scots. Unfortunately, the scotsman is fond of anything in a skirt – and Tris doesn’t do drag....(katya)
The unspoken clash of Rage, caused the slim, pretty wolf to step slightly to the side. James and Lars was not an area she stood in the middle of.When Tristan arrives on the scene, her ice greys flickered with recognition, "Tristan," she stated, with a nod, before disregarding him as Kin.
Mention of Madoc.. And her attention turns back, "Nyet, I have not called upon his services yet," she responded, "I have been busy," Quite frankly, she could very easily have a thing for burly scots under the correct circumstances. Tristan was pretty, but he set of Katya's 'Gay-dar'.Then the boy-Kin was truly disregarded as the Rage-born newcomer gets close enough to make contact.
Lars' strong grip finds her slim hand. Cool from the night breeze, "Katya," she nodded, after reclaiming her proferred hand.
(sputnik)
A low growl erupts from Sputnik, swear words tossed to the Heavens in deep, gutteral Russian. His head shakes, taking his eyes away from Yuliya. The sensation of Rage did not bother him at all. He felt quite comfortable with it. One born of his nature knew about the essence of rage. Good way to kill one's mom.... "I, Sputnik. Yuliya." he offers, stretching a dirty, big hand to Lars.(james)
"James. Nice a fin'lly meetcha."the burnt out Camel long was flicked away to the wet grass across the pathway as the Lord and Lars shake
then the hand taken in his own, padded by the mostly fingerless glove
by the tempered strength in the shake - seems he could crush Lars' if he wanted to
luckily, the boy's given him no reason for aggression
and while Katya may move a step away from the newcomer and his Rage
James, pointedly, doesn't(pack with Decker long enough, it takes quite an amount to actually impress the Ahroun)
(lars)
*Lars is strong in his own right, but feels no need to impress his strength on another. His grip is firm but not crushing.
And at the offered hand he shakes Sputnik's hand as well.*(yuli)
Her reponse to his cussing and aggravation? To finish off her cigarette before its snuffed out and she's left to pay attention to them even more. Lars gets the lookover and then dark eyes travel over Tristan and that 'sup nod results.
Its family afterall... and less ragey the better at the moment. She'd going to end up with an ulcer or an aneurism by 30 at this rate.
"What he say."
In response to Sputnik's offered greeting as she looks between the two newcomers she'd not noticed in the midst of brief russian spat.(sput)
On the other hand, the Russian bear of man, that is Sputnik. Sometimes doesn't know his own strength. (Still towering over some people at 6'4...) His grip is firm, strong, power and strength tossed behind it. Almost unexpected for one of his auspice. "Pleasure in meet."(tristan)
Rage. Clash of the Titans. Something like that. We got Jamey boy here, whom he’s well used too, the Ice princess that he’s trying to avoid, Sputnik, and lars. The kins a bit overwelmed, skin crawling, muscles twitching, but, well, he don’t back away at all. In fact, seems he doesn’t mind it –too- much. But he remains quiet for now after the snorted smirk after being dismissed by Katya.(lars)
"The honor is mine." *He says to sputnik, and then turns to James.*
"hmm, James... you don't happen to know Decker do you?"(katya)
It was all she could do to keep the smirk from coming to the fore with the way each of the males seemed to measure their grips with one another. Her own diminutive strength hadn't even attempted such a thing. Ice grey eyes regard Lars neutrally as she inquires about the (in)famous Get Fostern.Slim arms fold, as the 5'6" frame of the dark-haired beauty becomes a shadow, perhaps unnoticed, in the newer conversation.
(james)
the Ahroun looks rather amused at this point
he may be the PR guy for the pack
but damn if the Modi isn't the one making all the (lasting...) impressions"Yeh, better'n's healthy."
since everybody else is standing
James keeps his seat on the bench
(relaxed, in the face of such a gathering of beasts)
Cochran II's that desperately need a shine planted on the ground a space apart
elbows hooked in lazy sprawl on the top of the backrest
dark brown eyes still on the young Fenrir framed by not-so-dark dreads"Broth'rs 'n arms, so t' speak."
(sputnik)
A ragged sigh rumbles from the bear, moving to drop down upon the concrete once again. Comfort seeped up through his tattered jeans. He listens, silent, mostly to the conversation. Observant, for the most part. A hand stretches out to brush fingers along Yuliya's calf. "Smoke?"(lars)
*Lars nods his head*
"I thought I recognized your name from my talk with him."
*The man/youth says things in a very straightforward manner, wasting little effort even in speaking.*(tristan)
oh yeah, smoke. Final drag is salvaged off the all but forgotten cigarette, dropped and ground to death before he climbs over the back of the bench James has claimed, nudging one of his elbows off the backrest, replacing it with his ass, feet planted on the bench, violin resting in it’s case between James’s hip and his own foot. Elbows rest on knees, and still he remains quiet, the easy grin in response to Decker’s recognition by just about everyone. Boy gets around, that’s for sure. Not always in a good way either.(yuli)
She followed Sputnik's movement and the cigarettes pulled form her leather jacket... that thing looked heavy and followed it with her lighter. She was almost always good for a smoke on any given night. The items handed over to the hulking mass of russian male and her attention shifts between him and the rest. Voice coming in Russian again because it was just easier.
"I need a shower and a drink. where are you and Una at, or do you want to invade my place?"
She was the one who had established a haunt and had the cashflow most of the time anyways. She had fun toys too... her job did well.(sputnik)
Cancer stick with a grunt, lighter flicked alive to bring flame to end, before lifting a hand to offer it back to her. He takes a few deep puffs, cigarette never leaves his mouth as smoke expells from his nostrils. "Una and I at cheap ass motel. She has the van. I come with you back to your place." His words, flowing smooth in Russian, moving to stand up once more. He takes the cigarette from his mouth, attempting not to singe the hairs of his beard. "You have vodka, Yuliya?"(james)
once again, that chin drops in a nod towards his chest
unlike Lars, James has a certain flourish with words
it comes with the territory of being a street performer
lately, though, with that battlescar slurring his speech
his eloquence with speech has been hindered
not that any gathered save Tristan would know"Yeh, 'e made a mention a you a time'r two."
there's enough breath in him to continue the phrase
and perhaps he has intention to
but the way the smile spreads warmly over his features
seems now is not the time or place(yuli)
Waved off the offer of her pack back to her. She had more back at her pad anyways and the way he smoked them it'd be easier to let him have it. Listening to him as she glanced around the small gathering and gives a silent nod.
That must be goodbye in her own little lingo.
Then eyes go back to Sputnik, still in Russian.
"Vodka and some other things. You can call Una from there and give her directions if you want. I just want to shower the stench of a stupid thug off me."
Her less then nice way of saying lets go.
(sputnik)
He grunts at Yuliya, raising thick brows at her. "Best be dead man. Or I make dead man when found." the words growled out in his broken English. The cigarette pack slipped away into a safe pocket inside his jacket. He turns around to face the others. A large hand thrusted outward towards James, nodding his head.
"American brother, James, we meet 'gain. On less busy street. Shoot shit over vodka, da?" he nods his head back towards Yuliya. "Bitch demand Sputnik presence. I go."(lars)
*He grins through the scar on his face, and nods his head*
"Another time perhaps. I too should be heading out."(yuli)
A smirk and roll of dark eyes. Yeah thats nothing new from him and she shifts some body in motion to prepare for the walk to her car. The new ride was rather nice.
"Stone cold Misha."
As if anyone who messed with her would be anything else. Giving James and Tristan more of a smile then most get. Its a bone gnawer thing or something.
"Yah yah... I make demand. So much demand."
Its almost amused as she turns for the dirdction opf her car. That trace smirk still there though.(james)
the departing two get a belated nod up
attention snapping to the side at the offered hand
soon clasped firmly in his own"Pleas're, Sputnik.... y'know where'n how t'fin' me."
note he makes no comment about bitch calling and big dog going
he'd rather not have Tristan falling off the bench in peals of wild laughter
absolutely NO way he'd be able to explain it
plus he'd rather not risk Yuli's wrath quite yet
they did, after all, just meet
thus, he offers a smile instead
(Bone Gnawer thang, that's right)
which next turns to Lars"Yeh... 'm sure we'll meet 'gain, Lar'."
(sputnik)
(*LMAO@James*)
Big hand pulled back, seeking the warmth of his coat pockets. He looks off towards Katya with a nod. "Good Night, Princess. Meet 'gain." he calls to her, moving off to quickly catch up with his kin in a few long strides, walking with her.(tristan)
No comment made, and it’s a damn good thing, because the kin is already grinding his teeth together, smile tugging at his lips attempting to pull them into full on grin followed by laughter. But he nods to them all as they depart. “Later.” Managed before he clears his throat and does NOT look at his friend less what’s dancing in his gaze find someway past the barrier of his lips.(katya)
And as is a measure of her auspice, she did become quiet, and unobtrusive enough to be ignored. A glance and nod was given to the departing Gnawers. Regal, and slight all at once.The undefined 'Lars' departure was also noted, before ice grey eyes wash over the remaining.
"You were speaking of claim, James?" one high-arch tilt brow raised.
Eyes turn to nod slightly at her new title, Princess. She got the feeling that would stick.
(james)
somehow, he knows that Tristan is about to hurt himself in restraint
somehow, he does not need to see the dancing gaze to know what isn't exactly said
James indulges in a slow stretch
that, since the kin is right at his elbow, serves to knock the poor boy backwards off the benchsending him falling and sending him sprawling are two completely different things!
quick reflexes wrap a fist in the baggy shoulder of the pretty-boy's coat
and catches him before he sprawls onto the ground
barely leveraging against his own weight to keep the boy fairly upright
Katya, however, is treated with that same, easy grin
rather unrepetant, considering what he just did"Yeh.... talkin' grounds 'r..." Tristan given one final shake to make sure he's upright and stable "... kin?"
(tristan)
Slow stretch.... the curls are still hiding the face that’s properly ducked but he sees that hand coming and there’s a bark of startled laughter as he’s knocked backwards off his perch, hands grasping (flailing!) for that offending arm even as reflexes save him the less then dignified sprawl on the ground.He’s leveraged, and belly crunches to help keep him teetering in that fairly upright position, even as he’s shaken and stablized. He doesn’t even try to hold back the laughing mutter. “Oh you’re gonna pay for that one, boy...” He even manages a convincing growl, even if it’s lost in the laughter that quickly follows and is swallowed down to a rather amused grin..
Claimed. Whee! What will the neighbors think?
Fingers run through curls, smoothing them over until the slide back into complete disarray. Oh well, it’s part of his charm.
(katya)
Her outward look was neutral regarding the odd, boisterous display. Not even blinking. "Here, then?" her look around the park area was accompanied by a casual gesture with her slim hand."I do not think any have claime this as territory, for either packmates or kin," very traditional to note the difference.
(james)
he didn't exactly expect a reaction from the icy Lord
she simply didn't seem the type
that didn't stop his (lopsided) smile, though
but a lean towards serious softens it on his features
even if a smirk is tossed at the pretty-boy's threats"Good..... dun' wan' a impose'n not know it." the glance to the surrounding area either habitual at her casual gesture, or reinforcing it "New'n town 'n all. Any oth'r 'dvice?"
(tristan)
His grin is unrepentant in the face of that smirk, but he can be a good boy. Honest. He quiets down, and listens to the conversation.(katya)
Slim arms slide from their folded posture. Stance shifts as fingers lightly smooth her skirt over her thighs, before slowly drawing the purse more securely over her shoulder.Thoughtful. Then decisive, "No. None that your packmate does not already know," the last was accompanied by the slavic shrug of her homeland. "I am sure you are aware of the .. uniqueness of this city?"
(james)
faced with such a pretty picture
most men would probably be allowing their gaze to wander
most predators would probably be following the directions given by her movements
following the way hands smooth skirt over shapely thighs and slender calves
watching how the purse straps sets itself against the curve that shows through the thick winter coat
studying the way the wind tosses dark hair to play across pale skin defining her featuresJames?
pays attention to one feature
and by the time her eyes raise to his once more after her adjusting
deep umber is right there waiting
whatever reason he has for (seemingly) pointedly ignoring the fact that Katya's female written in some sad shadow deep within the orbs colored by Gaia's deep, most earth"To a degree." instead of a nod, now, his head shakes "'preciate if you'd expan' on it."
(tristan)
The fact that Katya is female isn’t lost on him either, but where James has reasons of sad shadow that allow him to ignore it with ease, Tristan just doesn’t care. All the preening in the world doesn’t melt the Ice Queen. Nope. Specially when it’s clear she thinks of him as –just- kin. Times like this he really does appreciate James and the fact that he’s family.Doesn’t say anything outloud, just digs the pack out of his pocket, lights a cigarette, offers pack and lighter to James. Listens.
(jim larson)
Jim wanders through the park smoking a bent cigarette his left arm resting on his Duffle bag. his hair was long shaggy and matted and his beard was scraggly and coarse. His clothes were torn and stained. he was wearing a thick warm coat and that was the nicest peice of clothing he wore and even that was ratty and frayed around the edges. He strolled past a park bench and recognized tristan and Katya, he approaches and flicks the butt of the cigarett down on the sidewalk and crushed it out with his toe.
He looks up exhaling his last puff of smoke and nods "'Sup"(katya)
"Of course," a slow shrug. It was common actually. Most male Garou were self-consciously aware of their own steps they take so diligently to remain focused upon her eyes. They tend to think it will make her feel more respected.. treated as a person.. or show some sort of restraint, or diligence on their own part.But it was a gesture brought on by fear. Fear they would project some sort of lapse of control due to the traits they pointedly (overly?) ignore. Fear they will be seen as a charach
Fear that can be exploited, in other ways.
"If you could tell me what you do know," a slight nod accompanied her gesture, "I can add."
Or maybe, like every other person in this war, he had lost someone close, and was grieving. The War goes on. Everyone has lost, and will lose.
(james)
he doesn't hold her eyes out of fear
common knowledge to stare a dog in the face is challenge
he didn't bow or scrape or think of some appelation in reference
could probably care less that she was Garou or what Tribe she claimed
it doesn't even have anything to do with Rank
the Ahroun has a habit of looking at whomever he's talking to regardless
it's a measure of being polite and some notion of respect
hold the dark gaze long enough, and it's clear that James has lost.... and lost recently
and something of that loss is devastatingly incomplete(she reminds him of someone....)
The War goes on
someday, someone will lose him
it is a weight they bear
and the measure of their strength is surviving it for as long as they canwhatever response his breath was going to support is exhaled unused as the newcomer arrives
dark eyes framed by dreadlocks tick to the side in ascertation"Evenin'...."
(tristan)
He looks up as Jim joins the group and that easy grin slides into view once again. “Evening, Jim. How’s it goin...” it’s the grin for family, as he rests elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling between them from his fingertips. “you know Katya here... this here’s James.” Gesture back toward Jim then, negligent flick of fingers to complete introductions. “Jim. He helped Deck, Madoc and me clean up the warehouse.”(katya)
"Jim," she stated, giving more weight to his name than the one syllable would seem to be due. The overemphasis makes the name seem all the more small.. less significant, somehow. Her slim fingers interlace idly, as the Kin does the introductions. How apropos for the more servile caste to do such. Eyes move from James to Jim as the two Ahroun greet.(jim)
Jim nods to James with a grin "Nice ta meetcha." he offers him his hand and nodded to tristan "How's that setup working?" He barely spared a glance for katya's uttered sylable. if she wanted him to fall down impressed she had the wrong gnawer.(james)
the hand is taken into a strong shake
accompanied by a smile that's a lot warmer than Katya's reception"Pleas're. Doin' fine withit..... my thanks f'r yeh help."
(tristan)
He laughs and shugs. “Have to take James word for it – haven’t checked back in yet. Been busy playing for my supper.” That grin though. Something in it suggests that Katya’s posture doesn’t get to him either. Least the all the other high bred women he knew as part of the eagles had fucking manners AND a sense of humor – oh! and class too! Something severely lacking in those he’s met so far here in Chicago.(katya)
He was a gnawer. His fall would not be far, in Katya's eyes. Though, she did note the rather growing population of the omega tribe. But, that was always the way. Peasants ever outnumber the nobles. A slim hand idly brushes back locks of dark hair, grown unruly in the evening breeze.(jim)
Jim shrugs "Never hurts ta help out family." He looks to tristan "If yeh ever need some food if i ken i'll split my meal with yeh, if james here don' mind. I ken always spare some for those who have less."(james)
"Nev'r mine a helpin' han'.... keeps the mojo nice'n clean."it's offered with a lopsided smile
soon followed by a matching tilt of his head
just before the lanky Gnawer stretches to stand
patchwork quilt of a coat hangs and dangles just about his ankles
dreadlocks tumble in jungle-vine ropes to mid-back
tips swaying with the movement and night's breeze"Dun mean a be rude." there's that trademark easy grin again "... but duty call."
he's sure they'll understand
chin jerks in nod-up
and the raggedyman moves to head south on the pathway(tristan)
Now that is the epitome of class. You’ve got those drowning, and then you’ve got the Omega’s who are always willing to share what they have, give up what they’ve got, make sure that everyone is taken care of before they are.That is the way it should be – the way Momma Grace raised him to be. He may only be kin, and only Gnawer kin at that, but he knows the basics of human – and garou – kindnesses.
“Much appreciated, Jim. I’m doing all right for now. Not too sure when it’ll get good and cold again, s’when the playing doesn’t pay as much as it does the rest of the year. So far so good, and the offer goes both ways.”
Others need, the hoods provide.
James stands, and Tristan nods with an easy grin. “I’ll be by the warehouse tomorrow morning to help.” Knows there’s a lot to be done still before it’s Liveable for the Get. Everyone was a bit spoiled by the digs in Newark, but with James and Tris working on it, they’ll be living comfortably again soon enough.
(katya)
And somehow Katya escapes giving information freely, for no gain of her own. Funny that."I do hope you two will forgive me as well," her slavic tone rolled forth to the pair of Gnawers, as she nodded in return and secured her purse more easily upon her shoulder, "The hour grows late. Good evening," the barest of smiles crossed her full, soft lips, before she turned and moved away with a graceful stride of eye-catching (yes even the peasants who hate the princess) feminine stride.
(jim)
Jim nods "yer forgiven" He waits until she is out of earshot then out of sight and a few minutes later and mutters to tristan in a gruff quiet voice as he sits "Fer bein one stuffy sanctimonious bitch." he looks up at tristan "So how're yeh gettin along?"Posted by james at 12:00 AMNovember 09, 2003.11.09.03. - synchronicity of pack / dangerous times [decker-gretchen] *sd[wicker park - chicago]
(james)
there's a strange little dance of fingers poking out from mostly fingerless gloves that ties bandana around dreads
the tangle of jungle-vined hair on the urban primitive tucked nice and neat beneath faded grey
tips of the locks spilling down in some assortment over the shoulders of patchwork trenchcoat
they say that a body loses a lot of heat through the top of the head
so far be it from the Gnawer to go about uncovered and risk a death of chill that'll never happen
seems the same can't quite be said for the Modihe can practically hear the shivering from the steamed up Tacoma
deep umber gaze strafes right-left behind the sheild of little black sunglasses
crossing the lacquer black paint that's glazing with chilling condensation, climbing the foggy windsheild
admittedly, he's.... fairly amused
it shows in the curve that's beginning to form around the Camel long clenched between his teeth
temptation's suggestion guiding finger to draw a little smiley face in the crystalization driver's side
right before lifting up the wiper and letting it SLAP! back onto the glassHoney, I'm home.
pack's slung and dropped at his ankles when hip pitches to lean against the fender
(not exactly standing in the line of fire, is he)(decker)
The rocking of the truck wakes him. The squeeek-squeak-squeeek of a finger drawing the smiley face makes him scowl like a thunderhead.[What the fuck is th--]
SLAP!Oh, that's it. The back door of the Tacoma flies open and the Modi doesn't so much climb out as he barrels, explodes, flows out to land on his feet. This is his HOUSE now, thank you very much, and he didn't take kindly to some idiot kid drawing happy faces and...
(recognition)
Stare. A snort of disbelief. One edge of his mouth crooks up. Then the Modi slaps his hands down on James' shoulders, and until he does what he does, it's hard to tell whether he's going to chuck the Gnawer five miles into the lake or - even more shocking - drag him forward into a brief but hard embrace, pounding him once on the back for good measure.
It's the latter he chooses, letting James go after a second to step back and look the other over, crook of mouth turning into a smirk. It's one day after the full and their rage crackles like live wires brought together, but beneath it all flows the smooth synchronicity of pack.
"Hell took ya so long?" - careless sorta drawl as he takes a step back to slams the back door of his Tacoma shut. "Been freezin' my ass off."
(tristan)
Chi. Fucking. Cago.
Not like he’d turn down the ride, not like there was even a seconds thought before the decision to hop in the car and go. Not like he’s anywhere else to be (....one place, but can one truly place occasional ecstasy ahead of familial bonding? Of course not.... all that was missing was the final fling before goodbye. There are always regrets.) and Momma didn’t raise no fools.Of course. If one thought it cold in Jersey... So he does what he does best. Explore. He hasn’t been playing yet, but local talk says Wicker park is the place to see and be seen. Good Nuff. He don’t have enough to keep a hotel room for long – even as seedy as it is, and he’ll be damned if he lets Imogen spring for a night though the offer was made. In order to find some more permanent arrangement, the pretty boy needs to find a good place to play for his supper. He doesn’t have the advantage of living under the rage warmed full moon inner fire in cardboard palaces, after all.
Knit cap keeps curls in some suggested order, as well as the tips of his ears warm, fingerless gloves do somewhat the same for his fingers, though they are chilled from wrapped around the violin case. Thick wool coat falls to mid thigh, under that a sweater, and a couple other layers. 37 freakin degrees. Brr.
He just keeps walking, exploring, gathering the lay of this new land. Not anything he hasn’t done a thousand times before, and likely will a thousand times again. Though if he’d had a choice? He’d have waited until spring. At least.
(gretchen heidreich)
The sound of a door closing echoes across the rudimentary sounds of a cold Chicago night. Heaving a deep breath, Greta turns and starts down the concrete steps of an apartment building much like all the others lining the Wicker Park area. Digging deep into the pockets of the wool navy coat she comes up with a wrinkled pack of Winston's and a lighter. The wind is denied the idea of toying with her long blonde hair tonight as it's kept pulled back neatly in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Without real direction, she starts down the sidewalk, cigarette lit and held securely between two fingers.(james)
three.... two.... o-
the back door of the King Cab explodes open
the stiff and slowly freezing form of the Modi just seems to suddenly appear out of the cavernous depths like some extremely grumpy leviathan (when are they not?) ready to surface and crunch on a hapless sacrifice left by villagers desperate to appease the grumbling, thunderous monsterJames?
crooks a grin
given the state of his jaw, they'll always be crooked
but this one's kinder than any in the past months
ready to be chucked five miles into the lake as he is
(note: all meager valuables and non-solubles are in the pack at. his. feet.)
notably startled - he doesn't pull away from the embrace
in fact, dares return it in his own way, even if the overlapping Rage may just detonatecause you see, the Ahroun's missed his packmate, too
more than words could articulate
it's the primal sense of completion
the final bolt that slips into the perfect (killing) machine"Wan'd ya be really happy a see me."
and now it seems like the time apart was nothing more than a few seconds
James slips right back into routine
cause out of one deep pocket of the coat comes a wrapped up paper bag
contents: one burger (still steamy), one beer (still cold)(tristan)
A pause in his steps as he sets the violin case between well-worn boots as hands dig through pockets until he comes up with a cigarette and lighter. Seems the boy picked up some of the packs bad habits, slow but sure. Battered bic is flicked, flame sheltered behind hand as it is set to paper and tobacco, first drag taken deep as lighter is tucked away again. Lean form folds, fingers wrap around case once more, and heft it easily and smoke trails in his wake, hanging heavy with breath as he starts to move once more.Steps arrested by the scents wafting from McD’s just down the way, and belly grumbles it’s complaints of poor treatment, threatening on claiming malnutrition if demands aren’t met in short order. Who’s he to argue with such threats? He wouldn’t be what he is if he ignored the chance to eat when it presented itself. Thus, teeth clench cigarette, hand falls into pocket to check to be sure he remembered a spot of cash, and footsteps shift to head in that direction.
(decker)
The sound of the door shutting echoes down the street. Something odd about cold air, that: makes the sounds so much clearer. It's a phenomenon born both of the silence of the city on a cold night when everyone's indoors, and of some obscure property of the air itself. Denser, colder air carries sound faster. Better. Something like that.Leaning back against the back door of the king cab, the Modi makes some sort of pleased grunt at the sight of burger and beer. Good deal. He was down to his last $3 and handful of pennies. Seemed the ports around here started shutting down as winter set in and the lake froze over, and he hasn't found the landroute shipping centers yet.
"Erik comin' yet?" - and briefly distracted is he by the blonde pure breed coming down the street. Windnarrowed grey eyes follow her a distance. Looked like one of his blood. Then his attention goes inward. Totemphone is a wonderful thing:
Shit's goin' down. Got a caern rottin' from the inside, no fuckin' Sept, bunch'a scattered packs 'n Wyrm everywhere.
Just like home, right?
(greta)
Though she walks like any other woman on a cold, winter's night ... beneath the surface Greta is much more. Her features are feminine, yet strong; the shape and line of her nose is regal, the natural arch of her brow lends her an air of nobility. With balanced, graceful steps she smokes her cigarette and peruses the night with crystal eyes of bluish-green. The 5'8 flaxen haired woman seemed more suited for a backdrop of Renaissance tapestries rather than the dreary cold concrete city behind her.Breathing out a puff of smoke she crosses her arms beneath the swell of her chest, perhaps in an attempt to keep warm.
(james)
worn-out, beat-up, tattered and begging for mercy Alice pack is hefted off the ground
it's ordeal not over yet, soon it - and all his wordly possessions - lands in the bed of the Tacoma
(gent. ly. though two long rebar sticks rattle their complaint)
James climbs to sit on the rim and place his Cochran's firmly on the well
ankle-length tails of the trench dangling like some technicolor cape
(if only he were so holy)
pointedly facing away from the appeased levia.....Fenrir
because it's an unspoken thing, the way they place themselves even at rest
constantly guarding each other's backs
especially in unfamiliar territoryfirst question only gets a nod of answer
prettyblondpurebreed - who knows how sharp her ears are
but she doesn't get much more than a passing glance from the Gnawer...... peeeeaaachy. funny, that, how his voice seems to clear up over the Totem Phone, the Yankee accent still thick as hell, but now it's lacking the slurring gift a mishealed jaw left him - of course, it's not that out of place, Decker's voice is strikingly different, too. Sounds like we got here just in time for the party.
out comes a tin whispering with papers and padded with baggie
fingers busy themselves in another level of construction
Imogen and Tristan were stuck in a car with him for 12 hours on a rising full
is there any question of whether or not he'd come prepared?
'sides.... he had to make sure the condo was fit to be empty for winter "vacation"
(Walker kinfolk will keep the rent up no matter how long they're gone, it's unspoken they may never come back)
amazing the amount of "secret stashes" so well-secreted they were forgotten(vashton lenneth)
He pushed himself off of that brick laid wall as he looked over Imogen one last time with a worried eyes. (..modi's can feel..) But he brushed it off, (..dismissal..) just as she did with his words.Glacial, the aire of her attitude was colder than the chilling of the deepest night of the darkest winters. (..strangely kinky too..)
The winter lockes of hair lift up with a rise in the breeze that caress his rage enbued body.
...Volcanic, he was ready to snap at moments notice, he was young and dumb and one leathal machine in the world of the Garou.A turn of his eyes
(..coming of the storm..) met with her own eyes since she wanted to be all unaffected the hell and brimstone he was forged of and just let her petite be swallowed into the fray.Good, hopefully you can get something good...or rather helpful and figure what the fuck is going on around here
...cause when I looked at tree, it wasn't looking like it was getting any better....
Time short, just about as short as his fuse getting. Still so close to his moon, immolation for all that would lay a hand on him.
(..conflagoration..)
(imogen)
He looked her over, concerned, and his gaze was returned, steadily, as if daring him to find something wrong that she had denied.Imogen lights another cigarette. Fire flares from her zippo, a pale hand cupping the flame, and touching the tip of the cigarette to it, paper and tobacco and poison lighting to burn sullenly and orange in the now dark.
Her attention flicks down the street in time to see Tristan walk into the macdonald's nearby. Fast food industry was likely going to improve with some of these folks in town. Burgers and beer sales surely will see a jump. She watches, out of the corner of her eye, to see him depart.
He moves, and her attention shifts, wary, back toward him. A brief light shrug. "I c'n jus' say what's happened. I'm not sure 'ow important'll it'll be in the long run." Her words spill out in smoke, the last of it exhaled with the tail end of her breath.
"We'll see."
(tristan)
12 hours. Rising full. In a car with the Ahroun (..family..) and the ice queen.Is it any wonder the boy needed to get out and just walk it all off? Never has there been so silent a car ride. Well, silent after they threatened him with castration if he even thought of singing show tunes, that is. The majority of the time after that was spent dozing, just as some sort of relief from it all.
Back to the matter at hand, however. Food. Belly on revolt. Empty grumbling demanding fulfillment. Into the McDonalds he swings, pausing to hold the door open for a harried mother and her kids before disappearing inside.
Dollar menu is glanced over, change counted, bag filled. More then enough for two – or for dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast, whichever comes first. Bag is grabbed and the pretty boy winks at the young counter worker, chuckling as she flushes red all the way up to her hat. He turns, then, and heads back outside, already digging a burger free and opening the wrapper, that first bight coinciding with the closing of the door behind him.
(decker)
A faint snort. Just in time for the party. As usual. After all, if there wasn't a wyrm-bashing party, they wouldn't be here. While James busies himself with his smokes, Decker uncaps his beer and unwraps his burger. Steam drifts up from the pile of bread, lettuce, meat and cheese. He wolfs it down like he hasn't eaten anything all day - and hell, guess what? He hasn't. Wadding up the paper wrapper [that's it?], Decker resists the urge to root around for more. Then he tosses it over his shoulder into the bed of the truck. Once in a while, he even cleaned out the junk back there - though usually, they had a way of making themselves scarce on the back of a passing gust of wind or something like it.The Modi wipes his hands on his jeans and shifts his weight. Pulls out his matches and tosses them to James. There. He's made his contribution. Now he can take part in the bounty.
Sip of beer. He's leaning against the bed of the truck; James is sitting up in it, facing the other way. It's as natural as magnets sticking together in opposing poles: always watching each other's backs. Gretchen comes by and the Modi gives her a once-over, a nod up.
"'Sup."
Suhthern boy.Might be easy to mistake him for your average lowlife street thug, mackin' it up to someone way outta his league. The lazy lean against his truck; the apathetic sort of arrogance with which he observed the world. The powerful muscles, lithe speed; cracked knuckles, oversized Raiders jacket and sagging jeans. Wallet chain, buzzcut hair hidden beneath a knit cap jammed down over the tips of his ears lest they turn blue and fall off. Sheeiit, this fuckin' winter thing...
Might be easy to mistake him for that, if it wasn't for the unmistakeable tension of rage in the air. His, and his buddy James'. Enough to blot out the sun on a night like this, so close to the full. Might be easy to mistake him, except for the unflinching purpose in his hard grey eyes.
Making contact.
(vash)
If she keeps daring
...he will tell. His eyes never lied to him. (..no matter how much she was hiding it..)But she was really his concern, only part of his blood. Just another kin to his kind. (..pure as they come too..) He looked at that cig and just smirked slightly on his lips and he started feeling an itch, he needed to get a rush. Or a b33r. Something needed to be threathing his life right about now are he was going to start lossing his mind.
Eyes drawn from her to move elsewhere, off in distance. he didn't care, just away from her.
...a snort coming from his throat with the ever present boredom, he was hald temped to go over to hide park and just start shreading thing for the fuck of it. (..damn young'in)yeah, we will.
...I think I'm gonna bail for little bit...
They never had anything to talk about and probably had nuthing in common. And small talk, it just didn't seem like it was the number one thing to do on her list. (..or even on that list at all..)Not a bother, keep everything at a business level and just move on Vashton, thats all. Just go...
...and so he did, he didn't say hello, so couldn't expect much of a good bye from him.(greta)
Wide, fair eyes immediately shift to peer at Decker. Even before he speaks, her eyes are drawn to the thug life kid like a moth to a flame. Taking another drag from her cigarette, she offers him a nod as well and withdraws her eyes quickly.A shiver.
To her credit, she doesn't scurry past and away like she wants to. Greta continues forward with the same slow pace she held since she walked out the door of her home. The footfall of booted feet and the faint scent of Chanel in her wake.
Her breath came quicker and quicker as she approached and was close to passing Decker. Nerves.
(frankie oceans)
Maybe in a distant dream or phase in and out of reality.. White dred locks along soft skin.. Short, as they dangle softly in front of round, ever changing eyes. Somehow gentle, kind, yet innocent as they beckon the fresh new pasture of life and destiny...Pleasentries..
She was not in for. While her pack mates left her anew in the moment of connection, the acceptance, she knew for once where she felt most at home... And it was not in the city.
But it was in the city she had to live. Pack residence, all that fun stuff never vanished from her thoughts as she moves up closer to the McDonalds with a sniff of her nose, nostrals flaring to the unhealthy, though oh so tasty food. She was bathed and dressed with more proper clothes.. but she hardly looked the part of someone who had a home.
(rage 4)(tristan)
Of course it wasn’t the time. Which was why he suggested it. After all – this is the pretty boy kin they know and love or love to hate depending on who is being considered at the time. Movement down the way catches his attention, and who could miss the spill of red hair, the straight posture, the purposeful movement. It still brings a grin to his face (since Decker isn’t close enough to see it.)He’s scarfed the first burger, and licks his fingers, grabbing the box of fries and closing the bag, some rearranging resulting in the violin case, bag, and fry box all held in the same hand, the other used to make rather quick work of the deep fried salty treat. There’s something of a salute in Imogen’s direction, and he even turns that way, before all but running into Frankie.
“m’shi...” mumbled through mouthful before he swallows and chuckles. “Sorry about that – didn’t see you there.” A little tug the crackle of familiarity, but he doesn’t move away like so many others would. “You allright?”
(decker)
A shiver.
Right.Decker doesn't say anything to James. He doesn't have to. It's all in the subtlest shifts of posture. A settling back against the side of the truck, muscles loosening a notch. That he's stepping out of this one couldn't have been more evidently announced if he'd grabbed a megaphone and shouted it from the rooftops.
Let the PR man field this one.
(james)
matches in a box rattling - he doesn't look to the side when he catches them
other thumb smoothing down the llllaaaasssttt little bit of the paper
(perfect)
he doesn't actually turn in the least until that joint's sparked
match waved out then it joins the discarded wrapper
Camel's flicked away to the moist grass beyond the tailgate
slow half-stretch to pass the roll to his packmateone lowlife thug
one.... bum?
patchwork trenchcoat, torn BDUs, fingerless (mostly) gloves, surplus Cochrans, and don't forget those dreads and the fact he needs a shave on the growth since yesterday
James looks like he'd fit in living in the park rather than be passing through save he seems rather... clean... beneath the multiple layers of raggedy clothes
the only thing that stands out as different between them is that frosty Tacoma that's got to be less then a year old
or the fact the two fullmoons symbolize the very polar opposites that works to bond them
long curve of his back seems relaxed as Decker's sprawl is coiledwhen his gaze slips over the woman
the weight she bears suddenly seems to double
(what's it like, with two predators focusing on prey)
her quickening breath plumes and coils short blasts into the night
James' leaks out long and slow on exhale of fragrant smoke
glance to the Modi, glance to the Kin
interesting mix... with that Chanel"Tha translate a good evening"
the last part slowed down to make it past the slur
he's even managing a... lopsided.... grin
is there any reason the Gnawer is PR guy for the pack?(frankie oceans)
The bump.. Startlement rings in her eyes quickly and her youth.. (16) little more then legally able to make judgements for herself, poses slightly nervous in front of the young, graceful kin that stood before her. But could she tell? She stares at him a long moment, gently brushing her hand up her cheek as if to recompose her little frame.. She couldn't possibly be, could she? The look of her makes her that much more a mystery, with blue eyes phantoming across his form to see if he might be some sort of danger.. She slinks back some, wrapping her arms around her form, "Yes." Her voice is soft, shy in it's wake..And to the eyes of Tristan her own travel curiously, glowing in the passing of the full moon with life and yet so much more unknown.
(greta)
She pauses mid-step and manages to do it quite gracefully. Gretchen is not beautiful, though she carries herself beautifully. She's in her mid-twenties perhaps, though her two toned eyes (bluish green) make her seem far older.Smoking was a habit she hated. Were it not for her nerves and current situation, she wouldn't put one near her lips. But difficult situations weighed heavy on her shoulders, so she takes the last puff of her cigarette and flicks it unbidden in the gutter, where a dozen others lay waiting for the street sweeper to come tomorrow and carry them all away.
"Yeah ... " She nods again, leaving the waist length pale ponytail to come to rest over one shoulder. Despite the uncomfortable feeling filling her, she manages a smile.
(tristan)
He chuckles, again, and shoves finishes off another bite of the frys in his hand, glancing down and rattling what’s left before looking up. A slight slide of soft dark gaze takes in everything from white dreds to feet and back up again before meeting blue gaze evenly. Playful boyish grin remains. “Good, hate to have run over and hurt someone my first night in town.”Soft, shy, her voice, and the tingle of slight bit of rage tugging at his senses. There’s no threat of danger, just easy good looks, somewhat graceful in for, long and lean and 6’2”.
(frankie)
She was surely looking up as her frame carries 5'6 or less. Eyes wide and gentle, shifting slightly in shades with a hint of green blossoming around her pupils. Funny how it was so opposite...
Rage filled monster shy and delicate..
Little kinfolk tall and graceful.
She found herself staring, watching him closely as she gulps a little and shakily extended her hand to him, taking his hand in her own and holding it a moment. Testing the waters, maybe.
She wasn't really pretty, per say. But there was surely something special about her.. Somehow gentle in all the Rage she might endure.. And kind in the same sense.
The waning Galliard came into being and it's effects play upon her tiny frame as she snaps her head to Imogen, then Decker and Gretchen and so on.. So many to be seen in the wake of the evening, "Are you ok?" Her brow wrinkles softly with concern.(james)
since it seems that things have changed
James shifts weight to turn around on the lip of the bed
heels of his boots snagging on the tread of the Tacoma's tires
he doesn't exactly look threatening, now does he
all (crooked) smiles and warm brown eyes beneath that faded bandana holding lumbar-length dreads at bay
high amount of Rage on a barely waning full moon is another story entirely
but we're looking past that, right?
right."James." one hand stretches towards her (reaching out of the sphere of crackling energy) in a proper gesture to shake "'scuse'is lack've etiquette.... moon seemsa grabbis tongue when a pretty la'y walk by."
luckily he handed Decker the joint to occupy the Modi
else he'd probably get shoved into the truckbed at this point
but the street performer's charm is backed up by his smile(tristan)
She takes his hand and holds it, and brow arches, corner or lips twitching in amusement as he awaits her verdict. She watches him, and isn’t really pretty per se – or at least so she thinks. He, however, is far too pretty for a boy – as he’s often been told. She asks her question, and he chuckles, nodding. “Right as rain, ma’am. Why do you ask?”He shifts the violin case into a more comfortable hold, letting his hand remain there as long as she apparently needs too.
(decker)
Decker snorts like a motherfucking bull at James' little quip. Steam actually blasts out of his nostrils, though this is more an effect of the weather. He snatches the joint up from James and straightens up. Doesn't push off the truck. Doesn't ever push off, and doesn't ever need to.He just straightens. A symphony in grey and black: the heavy folds of his winter clothing that don't quite disguise the honed weapon his body was. The switchblades, the brass knuckles, the fetish axe coiled into a black tattoo on his right arm - it's all incidental.
All he ever needed to kill, he was born with.
A long hit off the joint, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing with the burn of hot cannabis-smoke. Then those gunsteel-grey eyes flicker over the kinfolk once. It could shatter self-esteem, the callousness in that stare.
"Quit flinchin'," he says on a drift of smoke. "Yer fam'ly."
Cryptic tonight, Decker. Or simply untalkative, as always. Then he passes the toke back to James, clasps him briefly and familiarly on the shoulder [pack. together. good.], turns and stalks calmly up the street.
Hurricane: eye of the.
(frankie)
Her shoulders sank softly as if somehow hope was lost by his response and a gentle kiss presses to the top of his hand, "Ok." She slinks back again, focusing on the violin at his side. Curiously, almost surely animal like, her head cocks to the side and stares at it. Her hands sinking down into the warmer depths of her pockets, watching, "Y..you aren't afraid of me?" The voice is like a child lost her way, gentle and yet there's the faintest hint of a tremble there. He was beautiful.. in her eyes.. But what would any man like him want with a frightened 16 year old? He didn't flee, but some mortals simply don't flee from the Rage she carries. Some have the tolerance, though even less have enough balls not to feel uneasy around her.She pulls her arms around her again, bowing her head slightly like a submissive animal checking something unfamiliar.. Her tale would be tucked between her legs if she had one in this form.
(greta)
Treading through the slur of his words she manages to piece enough together to make sense of them, only to have Decker's interruption disturb her thought process. Upon his back her eyes shift to narrowed slits, he reminded her of ...A gloved hand extends and shakes James' hand. It is not fear that pumps through her pores and permeates her scent. Rather, an uncertainty of whether or not she wants to be anywhere near either one of them.
"Gretchen, nice to meet you James" Her voice is deep and raspy, while maintaining a wholly feminine feel. Withdrawing her hand she crosses her arms over her stomach to combat the cold threatening to bite through her heavy wool coat. "It's okay." Is all she offers in reply to James playful excuse for Decker.
(tristan)
She. Kisses. His. Hand.
The other brow shoots upwards not, but he doesn’t exactly pull away, instead chuckling a bit. She lets go of his hand, he finishes the fries, and tosses the carton in the nearby can. Afterwards, while she’s stil contemplating her next question, staring at the violin case, he rolls up the bag that contains the other burger and frys, offering it easily toward her.
Others need. A hood provides.“Hungry? Got some left in there...” That easy grin seems pretty well situated, by far his normal expression. She continues, and he actually laughs and leans down to whisper, playful, as if some great secret held in his words. “No.... you’ve yet to give me a reason to be afraid.”
What would a boy like him want with a girl like her, anyway....
He straightens, and nods. “Name’s Tristan.”
(imogen)
The buildings here are a mixture of old and new, fresh architecture and older more worn brick and buildings. Strange, the sight of older buildings against the sight of new. It clashes, almost, and not pleasantly.Tristan has found himself a new friend, it would seem, and she smirks vaguely as her steps alter, taking her across the street, away from the two, tapping ash from her cigarette as her head ducks briefly against the cold stiff wind. It's better than it has been.
Breath in the night air. For the moment, free of the singed taste of rage, and tainted by the smell of cigarette smoke.
(james)
that snort gets a crooked grin
[pack. together. good. grunt.]
and he takes the joint back in stride"Pleas're's mine."
he's speaking slowly
just to get that slur and native Albany accent in some semblance of control
though she wouldn't be the first that he's had to actually write for
his family.... left with the Gnawer
HIS. FAMILY. left with the GNAWER.
Decker keyed it in right at the beginning
Jus like home
she's not the only one casting a glace at the sidetracked Modi"Knowwa good 'talian joint roun' here?"
speaking off.... the joint in his hand offered
she may be Decker's family... but he? is a Gnawer
some things come naturally(frankie)
Her arm slips free of her body and inches out slowly to take the remaining food. The other arm follows with an eased sway, uncurling the beg to peer inside.. Sniff Her nostrals flare again before her fingers brush through the opening of the bag, crackling against it and down into the remainding burger and whatever else was left. She backs away slightly as if the man would take her food, and hurridly opens the wrapper to expose the flesh of a hamburger.. She sniffs it again and just as suddenly, begins to divour it like a starving youth. Sure Mark probably feeds her, but this was the good shit. Not that healthy stuff.. Even though she knew it was horrible for her, she loves it anyways.She held the beg rough against her between her chest and arm, like a teddy might be held by a child, and stares at Tristan a moment, mumbling with a mouth full of food and swollowing harshly before she coughs a little, "Frankie." Her voice was still soft. A small pause brought her eyes to look over his frame again, before she begun to consume the leftovers.
(decker)
For the moment.Moments don't last long. Soon enough another source of rage closes in. Falls in beside her in that way he had - coming out of just about nowhere, homing in like a migrating bird to magnetic north. A shark to blood.
Decker.
Faint scent of potsmoke clings to him, though it'll wash clean. As will the mild high, burned through by rage. Beneath that scent, the scents of the city, the cold, the burger he ate, the faint whiff of the beer still in his hand. The scent of his packmate when they had briefly embraced. The scent of him: recently showered, shaven, razorblade keen.
Inhale-exhale.
"Where's Vashton?"(tristan)
He nods as she takes the bag, a shift of position as she moves away to scarf the still warm deep fried goodness inside, leaning a shoulder against the bricks as he glances over the way. A helpless shrug and grin is offered in wake of the redhead’s smirk. Some things never change, no matter where one travels.There is no move made to take the bag back. As easily as he gave it away it could be considered part of the norm for him. Case is set between his feet again, before the ritual search for cigarettes and lighter begins again (always a mystery that makes one think they’ve switched pockets since the last was lit). A few moments, one is lit, things are tucked away, and his gaze falls again to the young girl. “Pleased t’meet you, Frankie.”
(greta)
The neat line of her jaw tightens for a moment as she takes a deep breath of cold night air. It was her favorite time of year, her mother said it was because Winter ran in her blood. Greta nods her head, sending the long bunch of gathered hair over one shoulder to rest against her slim hips."Yeah. A few. I'm from here..." She replies..almost certain he asked about a location ...somewhere, and to his offer she then shakes her head. "No thanks ..." Standing with good posture she's repositioned herself on the sidewalk to face James and the truck head on.
(imogen)
Her senses are coiled tight, and she can swear she can feel her nerves vibrate as the Modi falls into step beside her. It's half instinct that causes her to breath in, and catch the scents of it, an instinct found mostly among animals (wolves) to catch certain smells. Certainly, wolves did not often catch these smells as she does: potsmoke, alcohol, city.She turns her head to look at him, flicking her cigarette away, a constrained movement. The butt spins end over end to collide with the brick wall, and the ember shatters. The cigarette falls, the fire dead.
Her hand pushes back strands of hair, before she answers, "He wandered tha' way," she gestures with a slight lift of her chin behind her, opposite to the direction she'd taken.
(frankie)
"Do you play?" She asks softly, continuing to divour the unhealthy little meal she was given. Eyes darkening slightly, watching the violin case, "Could you play for me?" Her lips bring about the faintest of a smile, though it disappears ever so gently into the depths of her soft lips.(james)
James has always been good about playing opposites
that would be how he makes a living on street corners, after all
appease to what the public wants and needs to know
and by the way she's shifted to meet him head on
seems one Fullmoon moving away hasn't lessened the tension
so he? remains on his little perch
all six feet of him folded precisely to balance on the lip of the truckbed
seems he's more liable to fall off of it rather than spring at her
and there's a nod to her decline"Yeh? 'ow long? Less'n 12 hour, m'self."
joint clenches between his teeth for slow inhale
more for him, then"Any nearby?" slooooow that accent down, Jamey-boy "'e'll be hungry whenne get back."
nodded after the Modi
(oh look, there's Imogen)
carting McD's into the park for breakfast was one thing
he's not about to drag a full meal all the way out here
(decker)
But Decker doesn't look over his shoulder in the direction she indicates. No, he's looking at her: intently, tuning into not just what she says but the nuances of her expression. The flickers of her eyes, the shape of her mouth."He bother you?"
(tristan)
He can’t help the chuckle. Not sure why he’d be carrying around the case if he didn’t play, but he doesn’t tease the poor kid too badly. Instead he nods. “Yes ma’am.” Even though she’s easily five or 6 years younger then he. “Been playing since I was a kid. Now it’s how I keep good nutricious fast food in my belly.” A playful wink before cigarette is propped between lips, and he folds to a smooth crouch.The case is unlocked, and flipped open, and he rubs his hands together to warm them a little bit before touching the gleaming wood lovingly cradled within. The hand warmers that keep the wood from freezing are held a moment as well, before moved aside and he picks up his baby with hands wrapped in fingerless gloves. A soft cloth is used to wipe it down, quickly, before it’s dropped in the case and he stands again.
The case is nudged a little in front of him, for any that might be braving the cold, and fingers tuck curls out of the way, under the rim of knit hat. Chin held to keep the cigarette smoke wafting away, he stretches his fingers, then quickly tunes the well-loved instrument. There’s a wink then, as he takes a drag, then places the cigarette on the edge of a nearby garbage can. Toss of head, and chin finds place on rest, and finally the bow is slid across the strings, soon filling the air with the sweet soft croon of the violin.
(imogen)
She catches his regard, the intentness of expression on the return of her gesture, attention sliding forward once more. The action arrests to pause and settle on him."No," flat denial, immediate negation, before she qualifies it: "There was a death at.." fingers flick in impatience as she tries to remember the name of the school, "St Patrick's school? 'nd f'r some reason he wants t'know about it."
Her gaze shifts beyond him, quickly, briefly as the sound of the violin splits the air, catching her hearing and her attention, and then her gaze turns back to the Modi, her hands sliding into her pockets. "I told 'im I'd look into it. Let 'im know."
(decker)
Decker shakes his head at the rest of her qualification; it's questionable whether he even listened to any of it. "Ain't askin' you was he botherin' you. Asked you does he ever bother you."(frankie)
She couldn't stand as the music play.. The world a shadow with no merciful delay and slowly she sank to the floor, back against the brick beams supporting the overhang sheltering them from the rain. Wild eyes suddenly explore the pitch of his music, his shifts and posture. It was rather curious to see how mezmorised he made her by the simplest notions of his violin singing with a heart of so few to know.Better yet, she was captured by it. Inspired, and she could dance the music into the night if she only.. tried. The pounding of her heart shook her breast with magical notions piercing her mind. Watching.. He was beautiful to her. Truely.. But not for his physical appearance, but the music he made.
(greta)
The woman inside wants to step back from the taller man. Her internal fortitude and sheer stubbornness refuses however to let that happen. Greta lives with their (curse) Rage daily ... and she's developed inner mechanisms to deal with it as best she can. She realizes, by the tightening of her gut, that he is as her mother is .. as the other man is as well.Struggling once more to weed through his slurred, accented words it takes her a few moments to respond. "I was born and raised here." She leaves out the trip to Washington and her mentally challenged Mother in an apartment 3 blocks away. It's much easier that way. "Italian Restaurants?" She questions, just to be certain she understood. "There's one about 4 blocks away...dunno if it is still open." It's then that her eyes roam over his form, his dredlocks, his clothes. Besides her wool coat and the scent of Coco Chanel ... she could just be another middle class College student.
(imogen)
"No," she repeats.(tris)
There is something that aches as he plays, something that speaks of loss and sadness, with an underlying strength to be heard, seen, if on just had the reason to look for it. It isn’t the first time he’s played since healing, but it’s the first he’s played by request since........since the dark pre-dawn hours in some unnamed hotel far away from here.
There’s an cry of perfected notes, before forcibly the music shifts to something more lilting. The emotion he weilds from simple wood and string impressive with the ease of long association. He’s good. damn good. And somewhere in his gaze is the knowledge and confidence that breeds.
(decker)
Long stare.Then he turns away, taking a breath. "Yeah okay." Sniff. It's cold out; it makes his nose run and his eyes sting. He walks at a leisurely pace, though there's never anything leisurely about him. Laziness is one thing. Leisure - relaxation - is another. "Might pack with him."
The comment is simply tossed out to die in the airspace between. The sound of the violin doesn't even make him raise his head. Hell. When one comes, they all come. No wonder their tribe totem was a rat.
"'S the Caern." A shrug. Clarification: "The school," and she might actually know where his mind's hopped in their conversational thread. Guess he was listening after all. "'S fucked up."
That's all the detail he gives; there's silence for a few blocks.
(frankie)
Maybe that dark place far away is where she set her mind.. That empty moment of life where she knew what she was, what had happened... the story of a warrior.. the loss of so many.. the foundation of a new beginning and the wealth of sadness...A tear came to her eye.. And even as the upbeat music rang she became irritated by it and stood slowly. The memories he sang of in his violin, flourished the memories of her own past. And she could not bare to leave it untold.. any longer.
(james)
rather than lowering his head in ascension
James' chin moves up in a nod
(they'll find this habitual trait among the pack)
yep. Eye. Tal. Yen. Food.keeeep her thinking about the question at hand, Jamey-boy
not that clench in her gut you can practically smell
the mechanisms that quickly move to smooth it out like nothing's happened
it was little more than a shift in the atmosphered that caught her attention for but a moment
oddly, seems he's used to kin that deny feeling the level of his (and the Modi's) rage that threaten to turn flesh inside out
simply because it's swelled as pregnant as the moon high above
it seems they're both playing that game, or at least seem to be
he isn't exactly impressed by the lovely scents Coco bestows on her flesh, either
not that he would be able to name it if his life depended on ithe only remembers the rich inscent smokiness of one wo......
don't go there, James.
deep umber of his gaze drifts away at the direction
filing it away for future reference"Thank."
(tristan)
The music swells, then slowly slides away. There’s a lingering smile as the notes hang on the still cool air, hanging as if on crystalline wings. He pulls the bow from the strings, and the violin from under his chin before shrugging a little and grinning at Frankie.Imogen and Decker move away, there’s a slight chuckle at not even garnering a glance from the Modi, before his attention turns to Frankie again. “Fingers are a bit cold – I’m better when warmed up a bit.” Hard to believe, really that he could be better, but it’s just his style to say something, anything to break the silence.
(imogen)
She stares back, evenly, gaze for gaze, until he turns away, and she turns away, exhaling her breath as she pushes her hands deeper into her coat pockets, finding warmth trapped somewhere within the fabric. The wind cuts through everything here. Even wind breakers hardly seem to do any good. She nods briefly, he might pack with Vashton.S'the caern, he says, and her gaze flicks toward him, question breeding to be only answered by his second phrase. And then, she only nods once more. Yes, it is fucked up.
Silence slides between them. One can hear the wind blowing down the streets, and the sound of tires against pavement as cars make their way... well. wherever anyone would go, late night, Sunday. Someone has hung a flag from a pole situated outside of their shops doorway, the pole points horizontal, and the flag snaps in the wind, it's edges beginning to fray from wear. Give it a month or two, and it will be shreds.
A block or three of silence. Finally, "I'll see if 'nything else out o' the ordinary's happened there, then," she tells him, with a lift of her shoulder.
(frankie)
Instinct brought her to approach him, feral eyes and something unknown lingering behind them. She couldn't smile, only let the edge of her sadness benefit the incredable music he had once bore into the night air. Somehow it was frightening, yet soothing at the same time. Her greesy fingers shifted from the empty beg she had clung to throughout the play and the song locked into mind like a repeatative beat neverending. She couldn't pull away as a tear streeks down her cheek, and awe brought her lips to open with realization of what she might have just done.She stops, and wipes it away, "Beautiful." She whispers, turning her hand to stuff the empty beg into the garbage.
(greta)
Her flesh is not Rage proof. It feels as if it's singed by the burn he keeps so well hidden. She, for 27 years of her life, has learned to deal with a mother sometimes bent with bouts of Rage...tears...screams and blood. It's a mask she wears when faced with their sort. One that never bends the pride filling her heart despite her denial.Nodding to his thanks, Greta dips her head to the side down ... eyes drifting over and beyond the dirty gutter housing her used up cigarette. White straight teeth worry her bottom lip before she lifts her eyes back to greet his face...somewhere other than his eyes.
"You're new here. Be careful. It's a dangerous time to be in Chicago..." She just met James, and her interest was nothing more than general ... passing...far from anything remotely romantic.
(frankie)
She nods softly, shifting her hands to play along one of the dred locks. Her greesy fingers smudge across the torn jeans, shifting blue sneakers on the ground and a thick hoodie keeping her warm. She shivers a little, and looks around..
Such a gentle thing..
So unbroken and yet torn to bits
"I'm also a performer.."
Galliard calling
"Maybe... soon.. I can perform for you, too."(tristan)
There’s an easy enough grin as he lifts a brow. “Oh? what kind of performance?” Curious as he looks up and over the street, before that dark gaze rests easily on her again. “And I’d be happy to watch you perform. Us artists should stick together after all...”(imogen)
At least he'd given up on that. It saved her time, in the long run, because lord knew, she'd do it anyway. "Yeah," she'd watch her back."I can try. But if it's... a holdin' company, anything like that, I might have problems," and this is added to her mental list of not quite legitimate research she did. "D'yeh have the address?"
(decker)
Decker shakes his head, reaching up to cram his tube cap on lower over his ears. "Kin show ya where it is. Don't wantcha goin' there yerself, though. Two o' the locals tracked a Dancer in'na it yesterday." There's no guarantee that Surgen had been a dancer, but Decker tended to try to err on the safe side.(james)
at the sound of her voice (deep and raspy, while maintaining a wholly feminine feel) his gaze drifts back
and James pulls himself out of the abyssmal thoughts he was about to cast himself into
(not tonight, not when the moon's so close to full)
but for all he does to keep that volcanic rage at low embrous burn
there's a sudden impact flare to focus it on her again
(whatever happened to that mellow drummer?)"Well...... tha's why I'm here, Grech'n."
and a breif grin flits across his lips - lopsided - at the warning
he seems so calm and centered even beneath the admission of such fate
he was born to live in dangerous times
he knows that when Luna has graced him with her smiling face for the last time
he will die in them, toobut he doesn't think about tomorrow
today is what mattersboots slip off the tire's tread to meet the ground
tails of his trenchcoat swirling around ankles
the pack's picked up out of the bed and back door of the cab opened
all his worldly possessions set carefully on the back seat
there's a stretch - and the burnt-out half joint's set on the instrument panel
and the door's shut after the lock's thrown
(hope Decker remembered his keys)"Watch out y'self."
the grins almost... cavalier... even if his eyes don't meet hers
(stop thinking about it, Jamey-boy)
then the raggedyman simply picks a direction and moves off
(greta)
Then ... she flinches. The flare of Rage draws both brows together and snatches her breath straight from her lungs. The charming, cavalier grin does nothing to untie the coiled muscles ready to duck or run at the slightest movement. Smiling faintly, Greta nods...takes two or three steps back and watches him gather his things and turn to go. She did not expect any different. They were born to die, and that was the simple way of life.With hands shoved deep in the pockets of her coat, she starts back towards her apartment, head bowed and expression somewhat thoughtful.
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.11.09.03. - Move to ChicagoJust like the title says. The only purpose for this is a bookmark to say when and where James moved to catch up with Decker and Erik. Imogen was kind enough to play chauffer.
Posted by james at 12:00 AM