August 23, 2004.08.23.04. - the hammer falls [angie-binary-pagan-sarah] *ac[lake michigan shores - cont'd from maxwell's silver hammer]
(st)
The home stands solitary on the shore of Lake Michigan, the lights of Chicago glowing brightly to the SouthEast, roughly to the left when one is facing the front drive in the home, set among various trees made visually unditingushable in the darkless. Smells abound here, sharp and pungent, away from all the dampening cacophony of reeks one encounters time and again in the city. Pine and cedar; beech and poplar. Wet grass and damp road dust. Old wood and fresher sealant. A fog has rolled in from the lake behind the two story home and wraithyly tendrils are the scouts enacting reconisance before the calvary comes in, thick and oppressive; swift and lingering.
The home is dark, we've said, but upon approaching a dull glow can be seen around boarded windows. Yellow and red; blue and green and violet beyond. The colours of bruising, like some sore coming forth on a home that was once (not so long ago) quite the lovely sight.
Two trails lead here.
That foraged by old fashioned methods of footwork and conversation and the usage of contacts.
The other achieved via mystical means, an old rite where stone spins upon thread and marks out a path that leads to a name.
(what's in a name? Maxwell Edison [studying in medicine] and Johnny "the Skinner" Piel [anyone speak Spanish?])
If the members of Leonida's Own are communicating with one another, then one - Angie - knows for certain where she and her companion - Jukebox - are heading. Binary [vrroom-vrroom, the leader of the pack] follows the lead of the Fury, Sara, who's stone and thread lead towards the lake shore and up, up, up along it. If they communicate then the connection shouldn't be too hard to make.
They killed in unison.
So why shouldn't the two monstrosities now live together?
...build a fort together...
...make a stand together...
Communicate.(binary/pagan)
Live together.
[..or perhaps they are one and the same.]
Communication is not an easy thing across the gauntlet it comes in a series of commands crackled out through an awakened com unit as SKEWERED by the gauntlet.
"Bravo team looks like we're pulling up on your location-- Anything to report?"
Pagan, Binary, and Sarah.(angie)
Approaching target location....
~moments~
Nothing at the moment. ~a brief description ala the post below is given to Binary, noting the physical conditions~
Call the ball.(james)
Maxwell Edison
Maxwell's Silver Hammer
going into it James already has the heebie jeebies
there's some seriously baaad mojo going on at the house
it's leaking bruises and spiking malice
guttermutt's seriously hedging for a vacation after this
at least Leonida's scrounged some back-uphe forms a loose pack with Angie on approach
Eagle's Chosen calling upon the totem's blessing already
right hand flexing the iridescent inks patterning forarm's inner skin
viciously accessorized steel pipe melting into palm's comfortable cradle
unearthly blue flares of dedication's magic hidden by the diligent cover of lanky frame
holding the weapon half-sheilded in the sleeve of baggy army surplus coat
Ahroun he may be, but he's working backup for the GeeDub's strikeattention tick-tocking towards Angie's communication
waiting for orders((pipe, eagle's strength, spirit of the fray))
(binary)
"Bravo - we're going to do a light recon of the house spiritside, stay tight. In the meantime familiarize yourself with possible escape routes. Any cars should be disabled -- entrances and exits."
And thus, they go.(angie)
~Angie communicates the orders to Jukebox~
"I'm suggesting you and I stay tight together as we check and go..."
~Angie looks for escape measures that could be used by the marks~(st)
Recon: Umbralside
Above ground the home isn't old enough nor spiritualy sound enough to have made an impression on the umbra. For the most part the area is portrayed as pulsing area of recent blight. Whatever dwells here now: It isn't pleasent. The colours of brusinging coming from the lights behind the boarded windows portrayed with a writers fancy, are a manifest motiff here. There is an infection here, settling in deep and strong. The faint, rancid, cheesy smell of gangrene. The wavering, misty atmosphere of nightmares.
Some portions of the landscape - the home umbral-side - are not open to view however. Old enough to have made a decent impression within this realm, it hides whatever is within from view. But from the parts that can be seen...
...all is clear.
It's not well.
But it's clear.
Fomori, Bane possessed humans, can be seen in the umbra of course and they are not.
Which can mean one of two things at least:
They aren't here.
Or they are in those few places not openly viewable within.Outside:
The front door of the home is unboarded. All of the downstairs windows are boarded up as well as those up the upstairs.
Outside, on the front drive, there is a taxi cab. Silent and dark.
Out back, there is a small pier. The fog is thick here and one cannot make out the end where, concievably, there could be a boat.
((Okay, other than what I put in my post (the one unboarded door, the taxi and the pier) the house is surrounded by woods and lake respectively. Beyond the woods on either side are other home. Close enough on both sides for light to be scene from the homes (though none seem to be on and it's foggy tonight) but far enough away on both sides for sound to be hard to discern. And the taxi is not locked.))(james)
dreadlocks tumble as the raggedyman nods
debilitating possible vehicles for escape he can do
sticking close to Angie as they make rounds ever closer
sticking to the shadows even if boards block the windowsthere's only one car within reasonable distance
others require a journey through the neighboring woods
luckily, James finds the taxi is unlocked
pipe leveraged within to pry the steering wheel from it's base column
effective enough unless the target can inspire the cab to fly
he still uses the pipe's spiked tip to puncture all four tireschin lifts up towards the sideyard and lake beyond
direction established for the Ahroun's next move
he doesn't feel like swimming after the target's escape across the waters
heading out back to the fog-covered pier to see if there's a boat
gestures transcribe the suggestion for Angie to remain hidden and watch him from an acceptable distance
no use both of them succumbing to rotting boards and splashing their advantage awayfists closes around the amulet strung neatly at the base of his throat
calloused fingertips tapping a signal for it's use
at least if his cover's blown he'll seem like one of the gang
here's hoping Angie warned the others of the ability....((activation of baneskin fetish))
(angie)
~Angie, with stealth borrowed thanks to the gift of the totem she serves, follows closely, SPAS held close and ready, a flitting shadow.
And when he goes out on the boards, she moves as far as she can in cover, to a point where she isn't hanging her ass out, but also that's got enough angles and enough of a view to be useful.
Her attention focussed on the primary threat areas, but her body ready to respond to any sound coming from Jukie's direction, any intimation of distress from the area her teammate has just gone to clear, secure, and work...~
((heh, that wasn't clear. She's not out on the boards; she's as close to them as she can be that's still covered and useful))(binary)
SpiritSide.
Pagan and Binary make thier way silently about the house taking in the small spot where the spiritual reflection lies and the expanse where house SHOULD be but reflects neither edifice nor corruption. The pair withdraws from the spiritual structure a bit.
"There's an all clear from the front of the house spiritside, can't say the same for the rear --Status Bravo?"(angie)
~Angie breathes so softly into the transmitter that it's like a ghost is talking. First she describes the relative position that she and Jukebox have taken in relationship to the house, then,~
"Working on incapp'ing egresses...land unit, check. Working on poolside...stand by..."(binary)
And..?
They stand by.(st)
Outside: Real World
The taxi is effectively disabled and unless J. K. Rowling is running this show or someone is channeling the spirit of Walt Disney, chances are the car ain't gonna fly.
To the pier they head, Angie slinking back to watch as best she might through fog and darkness and James forging ahead to risk rotting wood and chilly waters below (need a bath, Bone Gnawer?)
The problem with fog is that it makes things difficult to see.
Darkness rather has the same effect, ya know?
James gets to the end of the pier and he can vaguely figure out that there is no boat.((and hold. rolls required. Wolf, roll perception + alertness. OS, the same. IM me the stats and let me know of any modifiers.))
max surprise attack: 10, 8, 4, 3, 9, 2
reroll 10: 4
james percep + alertness 4D10: 8, 2, 7, 9
max: 6D10 Dice Roll: 1; 10; 5; 10; 9; 7
max: 8D10 Dice Roll: 3; 4; 1; 9; 4; 9; 1; 1(st)
Outside: Real World
Baneskins are lovely things, really, but they bank on a premesis:
Wyrm-beasties won't attack their own kind.
Problem: That's not always true.
(there's a reason we call them the Bad Guys)sneak, sneak, sneak
WHAMJukebox, you have a visitor. He's looking to see if there's a boat and someone else seems to be looking to see how tough his hide is.
It comes from behind, hard and fast, a grunt at the last minute and a sniggering chortle. Something baches at Jukeboxe's back, hard and fast.
And someone begins to sing."Bang, bang Maxwell's..."
Angie, now, hear's it.
It's a safe bet that the sound isn't that of an ally.james soak: stam+1 weapon mod 5D10: 7, 1, 2, 10, 5
damage soaked
james init: 1d10: 8 + 16 = 24
max init: 1d10: 7, attacker's init = 13
angie init: 15(angie)
Tango Contact, edge of pier, J engaged, heading for backup.
~Angie breathes into the transmitter, swivelling the SPAS~(st)
The House: Umbral
It's all clear, here in cheese-smell manor. And it remains so. Quiet and ominous.(james)
sneaksneaksneakWHAM
....... the theory of cover blown association has now proven itself incorrect
the blooming pain in James' back does not. make. him. happy.it results in a series of three things:
one guttermutt shifting glabro mid-whirl
two high-octane swings with the murderous steel pipe
forhand to backhand lightning successionsneak up on me, willya....
(angie)
~Glabro. (spent one ragey thing) Then, it's the tac-approach. Quick, stealthy, low-profile, sharply alert, weapon now like a third eye as she approaches the bangs and the singing, the WHAM (the reverberating sound, not the George Michael group).~
"Moving to area of engagement...advise if you need to."
~she mutters as she moves, hunched and spring-style~(st)
Outside: Real World
The attackers appraoch to life is simple really: Attack.
Fighting is fun.
Killing is better.Hit shit.
((1pt Rage spent for an extra action: striking twice with silver hammer, spiked))
----
james dropped 2 rage for extra actions)
james attack 1: to ::Max and the Skinner::: 9D10 Dice Roll: 4; 2; 4; 3; 1; 8; 10; 10; 1
reroll 10s: 3, 3
diff 5 - 1 sux
damage: 11d10 to ::Max and the Skinner::: 11D10 Dice Roll: 2; 8; 1; 5; 2; 8; 1; 1; 7; 7; 2
4 sux
max soak: to Jukebox: 4D10 Dice Roll: 4; 10; 6; 3
2 soaked
james attack 2: to ::Max and the Skinner::: 9D10 Dice Roll: 6; 3; 7; 10; 9; 10; 3; 2; 3
reroll 10s: to ::Max and the Skinner::: 2D10 Dice Roll: 3; 6
diff 5 = 6 sux
damage: 16d10 - to ::Max and the Skinner::: 16D10 Dice Roll: 10; 8; 4; 5; 9; 9; 10; 4; 7; 8; 4; 3; 7; 9; 4; 1
8 sux
max soak: to Jukebox: 4D10 Dice Roll: 3; 5; 9; 6
2 soaked
Max: Okay, well the fomori is at Crippled and -5 dice pool.
But first, we have to deal with flying pus. So, roll your dexterity for me, please!
james dex attack 1: to ::Max and the Skinner::: 3D10 Dice Roll: 3; 6; 5
1 sux
james dex attack 2: to ::Max and the Skinner::: 3D10 Dice Roll: 8; 7; 3
2 sux
attack 1 to Jukebox: 1D10 Dice Roll: 8
attack 1 to Jukebox: 1D10 Dice Roll: 7
1 sux, 1 damage, silver, agg
attack 2 to Jukebox: 1D10 Dice Roll: 6
attack 2 to Jukebox: 1D10 Dice Roll: 3
no sux, no further damage(st)
Round One.
Angie moves in.
Jukebox...
...kicksass and takes name.
The first strike with his Pipe-o-Whoop-Ass barely lands it marks, perhaps thrown off by his pure rage. (sneak up on me, willya...) The second, however, hit home.
Big time.
With a snarl and a wail, the fomori tetters back a step, eyes flaring in his dark-skinned face. A large man, thick of muscle and broad of build. But large men still fall.
Even large men who are possessed by malicious spirits and who spurt pus when they are hit.
Yummy.
THe Bone Gnawer Elder is fast on his feet though and he avoids the noxious spray.
Ol' Max is wavering in his stance, oozing blood and pus and cousing up more of it. Still he finds it in him to retally.
Wham! One hit, spike-side and the blow is mild, all things considered, but still it makes it marks. And burns.
Silver has a way of doing that.
The second blow glances and no damage is done.
He's ripe for the Kill, and he knows it. And he speaks, spitting out waste as he does so.
"Go 'head n'kitshll me." Slurringly he snarls out, giggling in a gargle. "Ashe-sh, Ashe-sh yuh' all fuh dow'" Sing-song.
A little nursery rhyme about the Black Death.
How pleasent.
((Okay, the fomori is at Crippled, -5 DP. Jukebox took 1pt of Agg damage from the silver. Roll initiative again!))inits:
max: 8
james: 4 + 16 =20
angie: 12
james frenzy check: 4s10: 1, 3, 3, 2(james)
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
there's little other on the Fostern's mind as silver burns his flesh
Maxwell Murder is wavering on his feet
showering the pier with an acid rain finishing coat of toxic pus
James?
Jamey-boy is stepping up to the bat like some Major League hitter.... straight out of the vestiges of MLB's worst nightmare
dreadlocks get woven into the thickening of shaggy coat
the human is lost behind the animal's murderous mask(angie)
~Angie moves forward, snarling at the glint of silver, but then focussing on the task at hand, which at this point is *not* killing...Jukey's got that covered. She's perimeter security for the execution for this round it seems, senses honed, ready...just in case other baddies lurk in the fog licking at the shoreline, licking at the pier, licking...at them all...~james dropped 1 rage for extra actions (at 3 temp), shifted crinos
james attack to ::Max and the Skinner::: 9D10 Dice Roll: 9; 1; 1; 7; 5; 8; 9; 2; 3
3 sux
james damage to ::Max and the Skinner::: 14D10 Dice Roll: 5; 8; 10; 6; 4; 4; 9; 3; 4; 2; 3; 7; 1; 6
6 sux
ONE. DEED. FOMOR.
james dex to avoid flying pus to ::Max and the Skinner::: 4D10 Dice Roll: 7; 7; 9; 8
4 sux(st)
ooc:Okay, and because I've already kept OS up way to late, I'll just summarize OOC.
Summary: Don't fuck with Jukebox.
(chuckles)
Okay, no, Jukebox switches to Crinos and swings with the pipe again. Hits with a vengeance and the Fomor's skull is bashed in, with a sickening crunch much akin to a ripe melon hit with a sledgehammer. That's one dead Fomor. As he falls the spiked silver hammer in his hand falls away into the lake depths below. There are no parting words and certainly no final blows save for the pus that flies and which the Gnawer neatly avoids.(angie)
~hearing the crunching squishy noises, Angie curls a lopsided smile~
Clear?
~she says to him, the tone almost a joke~
------------- PAUSE------------------
Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 19, 2004.08.19.04. - ol' ugly's expecting me [erik-imogen-absalom] *ac[skid row - the iron coffin - forums]
(st)
[The Iron Coffin.
Skid Row, Chicago, IL
Biker Bar.]Sweet Allah, what they won’t think of next.
“Ol’ Ugly’s expecting me.”
Magic phrases. The specific wording may change over time. ‘Open Sez’a’me’ becomes ‘What’s the Elven word for ‘friend’?’ becomes… ‘Ol’ Ugly’s Expecting Me’. Either way the effect is the same and the man is ushered into the backroom where he can only presume the strangers are waiting.A middle-aged man from the looks of it. Average of height and wirey-slight of build - so far as might be discerned from his street clothes. A baggy, billowy trench, ripe for concealing any manner of sins and generally ripe from its general need for a good washing. Many-times patched to the point where even the patches are in need of repair and below it all cotton slacks that afford little sound as he moves. Once-upon-a-time he was perhaps a fair skinned lad, but such days have long since past and his skin is the deep, ruddy tan of one long exposed to the elements. Winds, rain, sunshine and road dust may account for the deep lines around his eyes, brow, and mouth or perhaps he is simply…older; more than likely it’s a healthy mix of both.
[watch the eyes]
A surprisingly bright blue, they slid around quickly. Proficiently. A hawk circling though upon his features is a smile like that of one who feels that everything is going quite well for him and thus must be true of the entire universe. It lacks a pompous air, holding in it rather a comfortable experience.
At least, so it seems for a moment.
Then he smiles broadly.
And some would call that smile mad.
Not ‘wyrmy’ mad.
More…
…How-Long-Have-You-Been-Traveling-MoonPaths-Buddy? Mad
Trickster Mad.
Strider Mad.He closes the door behind him and,
“You the folks Cliona hooked for me? Name’s Absalom. Path of Sand, also Road not Taken, Fostern New Moon of the Silent Striders.” Scanning eyes. Discerning eyes. Doesn’t-Quite-Think-The-Same-Way-You-Do eyes. “I see Dreadlocks. I see the redhead… ma’am.” A tip of his head to Imogen, and then the fall of his gaze upon Erik. “You weren’t mentioned. I’m gonna open my coat… and if we require a pat-down I opt for Red there handling me.”Yes. He waggles his eyebrows. A wheezing sort of chuckle follow that barely escaped being a giggle and is, at the very least, a snigger. True to his word, however, he opens the coat to reveal that he carries no weapons.
Living Weapons don’t really need to, eh?Then, assuming no objections have been raised by this point, he drops comfortably to his haunches and scratches rather blackened fingernails at the sandpaper-quality scruff on his jaw.
“Time’s short. I’ve given Storm Winds the slip for now but it’s best to keep them unaware of that. I’m sure ya’ll’s got plenty of questions but for now, bare essentials if you plea-” He pauses. He inhales in marked manner and tilts his head slightly and his features brighten… then shift back to the old expression and he shakes his head. “Bah... thought I smelled gouda. Just sweat. I’m a sucker for some good smoked gouda. Anyway, I hear you’re pack are the people to go to when you’ve gotta deal with a pack a’ Lords doin’ what they do best.”---------------
ooc: (chuckles) I know when I’m beat: Trying to find a time where all four of us can get on-line to play this out is highly improbable. So we’re doing this via forums and it should be brief. So post away!
(erik)
Smoke hazes the front common room in a stench that is all of cigarette and cycle exhaust and a road dust so fine it might as well be smoke. The place is full; dangerous men and men in danger and the women attracted to it. Yet their looks are guarded, their voices whispered, as if they know who the real danger is. No one nods, smiles, offers anything other than cold, wary eyes.A bar, long and age blackened, stained in beer and blood, runs the length of the room on one hand, a double row of tables, wobbly as if they too partake of the whiskey commonly served to the riders, on the other. Behind the bar its keeper with one hand on a rag that can't possibly be any cleaner than the bar which he wipes it across, and the other hand out of sight.
The partons all wear the same colors, black for leather and demin blue, and other colors that only a rough rider would know. And patches. All the men wear patches, and all the men wear the same patch. It covers the back of their jackets; demin vests. An iron coffin with a front wheel like a hog, being ridden by a skeleton in a nazi-like spiked helmet, legs akimbo, up in the air like a pregnant woman in stirrups. Letters beneath, 'Iron Coffins'. All the men wear these.
Past the patrons in leather and denim is the back wall of the bar set with three doors. One by the bar, one stinks like piss and sweat, and one guarded by stout iron bars the like of those on the front door. That one, guarded by iron.
Erik sits beyond that door, a small back room, no doors out, no surrender. And certainly no fuckin retreat. He sits with dread and red, between, as if he chose his seat first. His jacket hangs open, the butt of a gun protrudes as if too is a player here. Cold eyes, the blue of ice, watch the strider and say nothing. Someone else is supposed to speak.
(james)
.... behind the iron curtain...James, as unnatural as it is for a Gnawer to stand out in a crowd, stands out in this one
the bar's filled with denizens of human nature's roughest archive
regalia spouting homage to the street's dictation of whom rides the hardest and meanest
victory proclaimed by battle-scar trophies and glorified claims to biker's renown
silver honoring this record taking the form of chains, tire-irons, and the occasional piece
no fuckin' holiday retreat - but allegiance and accepted presence goes without question
patronage bought by the images flying on the Iron Coffin colorsdreadlocks, faded t-shirt, scruffy BDUs and Corcoran's to match
that raggedyman suuuuure seems out of placeluckily he stepped in on the heels of Ol' Ugly
earning both the Gnawer and kinswoman passage with little more than a studious glance
a glance that likely averts in wake of the Ahroun's ever-present Rage
brushed off in the benefits of minding one's own businessif Ol' Ugly lets the fellow walk a step behind him without even a hint of concern - what the guy lacks in fashion-sense probably compensates in matters of blood and bone, apparently the ticket to fitting right on in to this rough crowd
"Rum'r has 't."
Absalom's cut and dry inquiry met with lopsided grin
someone else was supposed to speak
James steps up to the proverbial podium as Eagle PR
here's hoping the Strider's travels made him a fairly proficient translator
accented slur's thick no matter how much the Gnawer slows verbal cadence down"Name's James. Jukebox. Drums 'n Skulls. Full Moon Fos'rn a Eagle's warpack 'n BeeGee Eld'r. Guy tha' bought'cher way in tha' door'z my Alpha, Blood Eagle... 'n this'z Doc'r Im'gen Slaught'r, ME f'r Cook Coun'y."
lifted chin or hooking thumb visually aides each reference respectively
it makes the Camel scissored between index and middle fingers dance
coiling smoke circling over itself on path towards the ceiling
pack and Zippo's left on the table in open offer should Absalom choose
more an act of unconsciously ingrained hospitality than expected initiation
guttermutt's not wasting time dancing around the nicities of pretense
(the protruding stock of Erik's sho-gun effectively negating any need of that)
probably wouldn't think twice if the cigarettes were ignored or declined
logged ashes flicked into the plastic tray before James carries on
deep umber eyes never lifting their weight from Path of Sand"Quick'n dirty, Abs'lom - what'cha got'n mine?"
(imogen)
One might well expect that two of the three present were mute, for Erik and Imogen not saying anything. And then, James speaks in his mangled tongue, his broken voice the spokesperson for the trio. Irony.The red head had lifted a brief eyebrow at the suggestion that she might pat down the Strider to check for weapons, and while she might be the more pleasant option, by posture and figure she is the least likely. Amidst two warriors, Imogen is slight, slender and decidedly not a warrior, for all the fact her posture speaks of ease of movement and perhaps quick of movement as well. Amidst the rage, she is a black hole, through her pure breeding speaks just as clearly as rage can.
Her introduction brings a sharpening attention upon the Strider, and from then she is clearly listening, and the woman, who does not join James in smoking, though her eyes shifted to the burning ember briefly, waits to hear what the Strider has to say.
Out of the three, she is perhaps the one most out of place here, for all that there is a shadow of a gun beneath her coat.
[in play]Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 15, 2004.08.15.04. - maxwell's silver hammer [angie] *ac[forums]
(st)
A’hunting we shall go.The objectives have changed. Instead of it being a matter of seeking out the two (remaining) fomori marks and putting them under surveillance it is now a matter of seek and destroy.
Back to the basics.
Either way, first you have to find the bastards and that isn’t always as simple as one might think. The Police sure haven’t had any luck finding the culprits of the heinous serial killings - the Nursery Rhyme murderers - but the Chicago Police Department doesn’t exactly have all of the resources privy to Gaia’s Warriors. Which still doesn’t imply it’s a matter of simplicity for the Garou.
Angie and James:
Their mark is Matthew P. Johnston. A deceased Caucasian male who came back from the dead as a taxi-driving African American. Death just isn’t as reliable as it used to be, mm? The two ahrouns arrive at the scene and watch… and wait… perhaps they get up and look around. Perhaps they go umbral in search of clues there.They find nothing.
The home is closed up and dark, with a general feel of recent abandonment.
So, perchance, they decide to go to the social route and canvas the neighbourhood. Ask the neighbours. Neighbours see a lot, don’t you know. Neighbours see more than they care too sometimes.
“Matt Johnston? Well, sure, he used to live ‘round here but he died.. what… man, a while ago. Went to the funeral myself. Nah, some other fellow moved in a month ‘r so ago. Big black dude.”
“That black guy? Real big? Shaved head, had a tattoo all big on his neck? Lived there, yeah… he took off, said he got a better place. Name’s Max… Maxwell Edison. I told Big Mama his name and she rolled her eyes, wonderin’ why some negroes went and named their kid after some a maniac in some honkey ol’ Beatlest song.”
“Max n’ Charmaine were hookin’ up… ain’t seen Charmaine for a while, come to think of it. Damn, s’been almost a week. She said he got a new place, real nice, better neighbourhood. Near the Lake, she said.”
Follow the trail.
Connect the dots, just don’t look too hard for the image it creates: It’s sure to be a gruesome site, fit only for the play-games of children of the Abyss.----------------------------------
ooc: Okay, I rather presumed some actions on the parts of Angie and James, guys, and hopefully that sits alright in the interest of moving things on. Post here about actions. I’ll respond. Now, a good time to go with the meat of the scene:
I -should- be available this weekend, but only in the evenings. And that may be iffy, seeing as there is aparantly a hurricane heading my way. Heh. Fun!
Otherwise, all next week, again: In the evening. On Monday and Tuesday night it’ll have to be after 10:30ishpm EST. Wednesday oneward I should be able to get on between 9 and 10pmish through however long in the evening.
(angie)
Angie Kelley:*Names, places, bits of information remembered and passed to on to control so that electric intelligence can go to work on them.
First, she gives control the information as she and Juke have uncovered it, like a narrative account. Then, she makes a couple of suggestions, (Jukebox pro'lly, too, right?) offering up the obvious as Spider and Owon probably have their own take on the information, probably a take that's a lot more extensive than Angie Ahroun's."Maxwell Edison" (check anagrams, references in all databases, etc...), Black Male, Shaved Head, Tatoo on neck.
Check state, city and county records under new alias. Special attention to properties acquired, perhaps along the lake.Charmaine.
Check city and county records for purchases/leases/mortgages within the past four weeks by anyone with the first name Charmaine (presumably (but not necessarily) a black female). Special attention to lake property. Might also check morgue records for "Charmaines" or Jane Does within the past two weeks.*
((I don't care whether I get this info from the st or from the st via another player/character, I'll let you guys make that call. As for meeting once we get this guy lined up, Monday evening latish for an hour or two sounds peachy.))
(james)
a hunting we will goat the appointed time and place, James hooked up with Angie
Jukebox, Drums On Skulls, Gnawer Local Contact at'chore service... ma'am
doggedly following Leonida's own throughout the residency inspection
onward paths blocked by the cleaned slate of recent abandonment
not a clue to be found on the earthen or umbral realm
they place is, veritably, deadstep one: consult with the pack, see what they can offer in help
he needs to find someone with little more than a name and picture to go on
totem phone conference call taking care of that possibilitynext step: consult with the living, see what they, too, can offer
they are two Ahrouns, after all
neither quite so spiritually inclined to conferences with the dead"Im'gen." salutation offered through the cell phone during a call placed between neighboring housecalls, dreadlocked raggedyman hanging out by the intersection of curb and sidewalk while Angie interrogates another particular Chicago citizen a little more comfortable with her conventional appearance than the urban primitive's predatory - if derelict - presence "Wond'rin' if anyone by th' name a Charmaine pass ov'r y'r desk in th' las' week, maybe two... 'r any Jane Does..... nuh, no limits by cause a death 'r location foun'. Ya mine lookin' up a guy name Ed'son, too....? Yeh.... descript, las' address, an'thing yeh got if he' show'd up on th' slab..... thank'."
smoke coils into the air from Camel lit to pass the time
patiently waiting while the good doctor works her magic
connection closed by the time Angie's making her way off the doorstep
information from the kinswoman passed along in hopeful assistance
it's a longshot Maxwell's another assumed identity and big, bald, and inked took over his old pad
especially given the song reference pointing towards ironic alias
but James will take anything he can get that might provide a clueembrous stick that will never give him cancer flicked to the gutter as they approach the next house
a little more helpful observation offered by the new resident in question
a little more helpful observation persuaded by the lopsidedly smiling guttermutt
persuasion, intimidation, sheer street performer's charm... whatever will work
little by little they gather the pieces to construct a trail
connecting the dots to a picture they will never want to seeand then it hits him somewhere between the last house and their ride
Ahroun almost tripping a step when the recollection comes into focus
his Frankenweiler mentors could now stop rolling in their graves
(... you're a fucking musician for crying out loud!)
BeeGee Elderman almost laughing as he realizes just what they're getting into"Tha' Beatles song." unbelievably, he's still entertaining some sound that's a cross between growl and throaty chuckle - ohho, this is getting rich "'s'call' Maxwell's Silv'r Hamm'r."
brow lifts towards the tangled frame of dreads
question writ in the sidelong glance
with the probability Garou are gonna be the ones coming a'hunting
there's little doubt that name wasn't chosen specifically
..... fuckin' peachy....and the Children of the Abyss just raised the stakes of the game...
[cont'd in the hammer falls - rearranged strike teams due to scheduling conflicts and getting sick as a dog]Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 14, 2004.08.14.04. - gnawer call dispatch [phone calls] *ac[various phone calls on forums]
(cliona)
After the visit from the Strider, she coughed up another bit of lung that has been deemed useless by her body that seems determined to rebel against her audacity of living just a little more. As promised, she grabs the cellphone and dials.ring.
ring.
ring.
Voice mail. [coughing fit] "Bloody'ell th'fookin 'urts! James. ti's Cliona." likely, very obvious. "Th'strider wants t'meet about th'visitin lyin pieces o'shite." oh that inhaled breath sounds labored, horrid, sickly [deadly]... "wants t'meet with ye - kin play decoy t'buy s'time, as th'Lords are chasin his arse at th'moment and closin fast. Wants t'aid ye in gettin th'girl if'n tis still ye plan t'do so. gimme a time n'shite an I'll set it up... oh. and 'e said t'wear a red carnation so's 'e knows tis yerself." snorted laughter that turns into another rather hidious coughing fit....
moments later, finally breathes. "'oly shite. anyway. ye know th'number."
click.
(james)
James' return to the conversation at hand is cut short - again
once more the cell's insistant beep notifying the necessity of his attention
( fuck.... they outta service area or something?? fuckin' humvee ice-sheet thick armor muckin' up signals supposed to be carried all the 'can you hear me now?good' goddamned time .......stupid Weaver's technology more of a pain in the....)
this message, however, requires more than a nod of affirmation
previously furrowed brows deepening to a full-bodied frown at the coughing fit crackling across the linebutton thumbed to bring up the text-messaging menu
series of cheerful tones horrible mockery of the true atmosphere growing
but it suffices to get the message through in minimal intermissionk. plans in prog. bak 2 u soon.
... once... the lanky guttermutt's strewn himself half-out a window in order to cling to that peskily evasive signal long enough to hit send....
(chloe)
["Chloe... s'James... foun' out more 'bout the girl you're gettin' blackmail a fin'. If ya ain't turn her ov'r a th' lyin' bastar's yet... DON'T. She may be'r only hope f'r a cure. Call me firs'...... please."]Dial James' Cellphone... leaving a message at the sound of the beep.... "James, I don't have the girl. I wouldn't turn her over to those fuckers even if they killed me... I think my job is done.. It's up to you guys now.. My resources are all tapped out.. Good Luck."
**CLICK**
(james)
somewhere
far, far across town
trapped in a big, black hummer
victim to the looming possiblity of those speakers coming on again at full force....James pauses during his part of an input session
attention called away by the insistant beep of his cell phone
it's dug out of some pocket and shortcut numbers blindly pressed
brows furrowing at the latest development on their current issue
phone's clicked off and the guttermutt's mouth begins again[both further addressed in 'comparing notes' scene]
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.08.14.04. - comparin' notes [eagles-imogen-danah] *ac[forums]
(decker)
A meeting with the Shadow Lords.
A disagreement over who talked to whom.
Got a little outta hand.
Three claps of thunder and a pounding headache later:An empty motel room.
One Fenrir Modi sitting on his ass at the base of a wall.
One Fianna kin, about the same situation.He's been stunned for no more than half a minute. But half a minute's a lot for a Garou. The fate of caerns are decided in seconds. Garou, with their adeptness of both worlds, five forms, and numerous other forms of transportation, could be nearly anywhere.
And even Decker recognized four to one were pretty shitty odds.
First things first. First thing, he sits up straight. Kneads his head for a moment. Shakes it like a dog. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he grabs something for leverage to get up. It's the edge of the minibar this time, his hand batting single-serving Jack Daniels and pretzels off onto the floor. With a grunt the Modi's on his feet again, swaying gently like he was drunk.
"Y'alright?" -- this, grunted, at Imogen. He's tense as a wire, irritable, his eyes flaring electricity and his jaw jutting. Tended to get like that when he was at the complete mercy of strangers for about thirty seconds. Trusted 'em too easy. Came here fuckin' alone, and with liabilities (how Imogen would hate to be thought of in such terms) besides. Got cocky. Got stupid. His scowl deepens. "Fuckin' hell."
Totemphone flares open. Erik. Rune. James. Kemp.
To me, Eagles. 'M at... (insert address). Down tha street from the Walmart. Ain't stayin' long.
Simultaneously, he's scrabbling through the minibar, looking for supplies. One of those travel sewing kits is ripped open. A length of thread removed. Then, a bottle twisted open. The cap wrapped around and around with thread. Tied off. He dangles it from his finger to test.
Now he has a Questing Stone.
Motherfuckin Shadow Lords Clap'a'Thundered tha fuckhell outta me 'n Imogen 'n left. Was too fuckin' stupid ta see it comin' 'r bring backup. Grey eyes narrowed, he watches the bottlecap swing gently to and fro on its string. To and fro. To and fro. To and fro. Like a magnet pulled by the earth, it eventually locks into a distinct track. 'M headin' north. Walkin'. Come git me. Compare notes. Figger out tha fuck the Lords is up to.
Keys to tha Tacoma's under my pillow but ain't nobody but Rune's touchin' my truck. 'n HUSTLE.
Totemphone hisses to static on his end. He snaps the bottlecap into his hand like a yo-yo, and reaches down to haul Imogen to her feet with one hand under her bicep.
"C'mon. We's movin'."
(erik)
Erik arrives quickly, maybe too quickly, maybe like he was already in the area. One look at his packmate (brother, friend, killer) tells him all he needs to know. And in case Decker has forgotten, his alpha needs no rites to track his prey. Erik reminds him... "Eh? what's dat fer? Oh. Well, yeah, if ya fall behind ya can use it to catch up. Now where da fuck dem others?"
(decker)
They're just walking out the front door of the crummy little motel when Erik comes across 'em. (What's dat for?) And Decker says it straight, "Fer in case y'ain't showed up none, again."But he reaches out to clasps Erik's hand briefly, and a ghost of a smirk flits over his mouth before he lets go the Rotagar's hand and drops the Questing Stone into his pocket, falling in behind the natural-born(-killer) tracker instead.
"Still on they's way, guess." They'd be going by foot a little longer, leaving Imogen's stateissue behind 'em. He waits 'til everyone's gathered before telling his piece of the story.
(kemp)
Caught in the middle of racing down the street at top speed on the bike. A swerve to miss the car suddenly stopping up ahead and he was shooting back over the link.
~Rune? Rune who? Only Rune I ever heard of was dead or something like that. Same one James never talks about?"~
Talk about confused and never told Jack shit! Altering his course to head in the direction given.
~Well fuck me blue, I never know shit around here!~
Muttering away while driving like a maniac to the blare of horns and shouts.
Just like a fucking mushroom, kept in the dark and fed nothing but shit.(danah)
Danah did not suddenly develop telepathic powers or the ability to read chicken entrails - despite some people's unspoken desire for her presence without follow-up. (Damon)It was just really good timing.
["Location, location, location," a faceless Corporate Wolf once said.]
Jump back ten minutes ago, to Danah knocking (pounding) at the door to the Eagle packhouse. A bottle of Jack Daniels dangled from one hand, while the other finished off the smoldering stub of a cigarette. The door started to open, Danah took a final pull, and flicked it end over end onto the littered concrete street where the ember broke apart into a thousand little fires. Jump ahead five minutes, to Danah asking James (the PR Guy), What's next? And making sure that at least the Eagles know where to find her the next time they wanna test, scold, or beat her.
Fast forward to four black tires beating the asphalt to the rhythm of thrash metal lyrics and ear bleeding drums. To Danah chauffering James to some clusterfuck or another. To James wishing he was in car driven by somebody of slightly saner disposition.
The black hummer slows at a red light. For one beat. Then flies forward, whizzing through the space between cars to the other side. Car horns blare as drivers off a courteous middle finger as a sign to 'go right ahead' and 'please tailgate me'. Beggars can't be choosers, right?
(imogen)
She's a little slower to react than Decker, a little slower to get up. It's for two reasons. One, face it, kinfolk recover slower than Garou. Liability. It's in subtle things like this moment, and in more obvious ones, from bruises to scars.As Decker passes, the kinfolk's leaning forward, the heel of her palm pressing against her temple, "I'm fine," she says, and it could be his own irritation that imagines the edge to her tone. Unlikely.
After all, Imogen had not been stunned by the Shadow Lords.
It had been mentioned two reasons that she was slower to stand, and the second is this: time had been spent watching the Fenrir prowl the room, perhaps trying to work out exactly what he was doing. And when she knew, it still didn't make sense, but so be it.
Half way through straightening up, the Modi decides to help her, hauling her the rest of the way by the bicep. It's a none-too-kind way of getting someone to their feet, and it's a half stumble (quickly caught) that straightens her, to cast a dark-eyed glance his way ("Ta," she says, ironically), before making a brief gesture of her hand as the other pushes back hair from her face to tuck it behind her ears, the hand dropping to tug at the collar of her jacket, righting it again.
Lead the way, and all that.
Erik's bloody quick. The kin has little to say, and her glance is her greeting.
(james)
damned good timing
about the time James is reacting to the Totem Phone
Danah's just outside the factoryhouse door
.... what's next?"Deck'r's callin', time a move." brow lifts "You go' wheels?"
it takes four lights for the guttermutt to consider regretting that question
the ballsouttotallyinsanetakenoprisonersandoffernoquarter driving he can live with
though the screaming thrash metal is close to making his eyes cross
thank Gaia they're in a Hummer and he doesn't have to worry about much
at least plowing through a family of five won't make them late
directions barked out towards the motel in question
whatever words he can get in edgewise around the ear-bleeding drumsthe Gnawer's demeanor frighteningly naaaaasty
(erik)
A glance at Imogen as she is hauled to stand, and then a nod up Eagle style, but no words. No, Decker's scent is on her, and Erik has always payed her little mind because of it. So, to keep himself occupied until the rest of the pack arrives, he takes out his shotgun-fetish-weapon and snaps the barrels open. He draws the shells out (no saftey, always loaded) and inspects them closley. Figures Decker will explain further once everyone's there to hear.(decker)
Actually, they left the motel a long-ass time ago. Though Decker put the Questing Stone away, he's still following the vague coordinates it had given earlier -- heading north on the big boulevard, waiting for his Tacoma to catch up.Or... Danah's Hummer, as it were. Christ, talk about penis envy.
(...if only he knew.)As James thunks out of the same huge vehicle, Decker cocks an eyebrow. Ain't worth saying nothing to, though. He just nods up, slowing to a stop on the street.
"Still waitin' on Rune 'n Kemp."
--and enter Kemp, on his screeching motorcycle.
"Jus' Rune now."
(kemp)
Screeching to a rumbling half halt, half roll, making sure to stay out of the way of the hummer because frankly, he didn't trust the bitch driving it not to accidently run over his ass and say she didn't see him there. She'd already tried bossing him around with her big mouth like she was long time pack or his mother. Mother being the operative word.
Helmeted head swiveling from Erik who seemed in once piece now and was farting around with that big assed gun of his, to Decker and Imogen. A wiggle of brows for Imogen, then a lift of chin to Decker and Erik.
"Ok, so like, what'z up?"(james)
motel in question: not there
the hitchy feeling of pack at the base of James' spine speaks elsewise
giving up on attempting any holler above the thrash metal
he's slapping the dashboard and pointing next best direction
next gripping the polished interior for his life may very well depend on it - Garou healing abilities or not - as the four-wheeled monster careens past the parking lot
let us pray Danah doesn't decide the sidewalk is a clearer avenue of destruction
summarily running over his packmates in their hastethe guttermutt thunks out as much as falls out of the Hummer
hard to tell the exact target of that glare seething in deep umber depthsthe legal peramaters of the GeeDub bitch's driving
the cocky question that began to form in the Modi's mind
the slightly more than just entertained thought he should forget composure and simply drop and kiss the mothafuckin' ground
the splitting headache that's going to take hold once his hearing decides to return
the very offense to his dearly beloved packmates that called them all here
or.... something else entirely that's lost all too quickly before the lifted brow
lopsided smirk appearing damned expeditious curtain shrouding such thoughtssomewhere beneath the carefully controlled temper
the raggedyman may just look amusedthe Gnawer said he'd give her a chance, didn't he?
(credit for being around when needed)
besides - what male in his right mind would complain about the ride?!
(whuttafukkin' RUSH)
it got them there in one piece and faster than safe for, well most people
(those were the ones veering for cover)
luckily, they never were nor will be "most people"greetings collected into a singular nod up
lanky Ahroun clambering up to sit on the Hummer's mesa hood
boots planted firmly apart on wide (wiiiiide) elephant-guard bumper
there's a glance of limited concern across Decker and Imogen
strategic assessment of any lingering damage beyond rawly scalded pride
but without the appearence of any readily dripping blood or protruding bones
his attention drops to the pack of Camels and Zippo in his hands
biding his time until the breifing begins in earnest
offering the smokes and lighter to any interested before tucking them back into the cargo pocket from whence they came(rune)
Enter the Tacoma, with its bigassed tool box (anyone used that lately?) and its rebel flag and its naked-chick mudflaps caked with ordinary road grime, and its driver: one Glass Walker incongruously stylish in crisp black linen floodpants, lowriding to conform to the curve of her hips, an ivory camisole - chiffon and lace and just enough silk for modesty, wide tortoiseshell sunglasses and an elegant pair of Jimmy Choo's that lift the already tall Ahroun several dangerous inches higher. The driver's window rolls down, and the Glass Walker looked out and then over the frame of her glasses at the gathered.What, everyone doesn't dress up to go a-hunting?
"You had a flat, I broke a nail," she smirks, swinging Decker's keys around her index finger before opening the door and sliding down, high heels clattering against the pavement. She tosses the keys to Decker, overhand, conspiciously displaying the jagged margins of her war wound -- indeed, a broken nail, crimson as her smirk - then curling her fingers over her palm and tipping her hand, examining the damages herself, now. "Just had them done, too - " she comments, offhand, to no one in particular, her attention drifting back to the modi, waiting for him to speak, the strange little gathering reflected owlishly, doubled in the oversized, overdark sunglasses.
(danah)
The Hummer pulls to a hard stop, with Danah looking over at James with a just-so-damned-pleased-with-herself grin. "Told you we'd get there in time." And if they had to break a dozen or so traffic laws in the process, who's to complain? Nobody got hurt - yet.With a simple flick of her wrist, the engine is cut and the stereo dies, with the keys left to dangle from the ignition as she steps out and offers a nod-greeting: Erik, Decker, Kemp, Rune, Imogen. Black leather shitkickers clack against the pavement, as Danah winds her way around the Hummer and takes a seat on the hood beside James. Boots rest on the winch set, and her elbows lay on her knees, as the young Galliard leans forward ready to absorb the story of what's up and why she's here.
James offered cigarette is taken (naturally), with a grateful nod. She supplies her own light though, from a book of matches, who's sandpapered edge later serves as a nail file, grinding away the imperfections of her claws as she listens.
(decker)
...and then there were seven.
Time to debrief.This should say it all: "Trusted tha Shadow Lords."
There's a smirk as he says it: but he ain't amused. And in case that wasn't enough info, he adds, "Met tha pack. Imogen wanted ta ask 'em 'bout whatall's been done fer curin' tha sick 'r somethin'. They put on airs like they was too good ta answer. I got in they's way 'n they Clap'a Thundered me. Twice. Second one bowled my ass over'n then they jus' left."
Oh the headache.
Oh his bleedin' ears."That don't sit raight with me. Ya might stop if someone gits in yer way. Might go 'round him. Might tear his fuckin' throat out fer steppin' to ya. But ya don't Clap'a Thunder 'em, 'n then jus' leave.
" 'less you was tryin' ta git ta somethin' before somebody else finds it, 'n ain't wanted ta give nobody no reason ta follow."
He's heading toward the Hummer as he speaks. Why the Hummer? Because his truck don't seat 7, dumbass.
"So we's gonna catch 'em 'n figger out wtf is so important to 'em. On the way I wanna know everythin' everyone knows about these fuckers. What they told us. What we done figgered out ourselves."
Swinging into the second row of seats (navigator -- that'd be Erik with his tracking gift -- gets shotgun), Decker gets comfortable and starts off the note-comparing.
"One, 's four'a them I know 'bout. Fostern Theurge 'n Fostern Philodox. Cliath Ahroun 'n Cliath somethin-else-I fuckin' fergot." The packmates get a brief mental impression of each associated with their rank and auspice. "Both tha Fosterns like Clappin' a hell lot, so firs' thing we do is break they fuckin' hands.
"Two, they's immune to Clap'a Thunder 'r somethin'. Smacked 'em all with one 'n they ain't even blinked none. So don't waste yer time.
"Three, they fed us some bullshit 'bout disease carryin' fomori. But I ain't got tha details there."
(james)
((okay folks, due to the sheer amount of speech that's coming up.... translate this wonderfully clear English into James-speak. It would give me a headache to type it much less you try to read it otherwise.....))"You don't Clap of Thunder them an leave them alive ......." James snorts a lungful of smoke as a word in edgewise, punctuated by a nod up at Rune's arrival "Storm Winds knows Imogen is connected to me and the Council, by you, too..." nod up to the Fenrir "... if they demanded their proper introductions... doubt they'd ditch etiquette to this extent of insult and not expect some sort of follow-up if they left you breathing." they all know it takes mere seconds to rectify that "Imogen asked them exactly what they knew was coming, if they were too good to talk about it, they could have denied the audience rather than waste the time and effort to make this point. They're desperate and running out of time."
spank a ranking Modi into the corner
send an Elder's liaison following in close quarters
it doesn't take a genius to see the red flags going up on this one
if only he could ignore this sinking feeling of a trap....(see what you get for trying to be diplomatic with the Lords, Jamey-boy? should have trusted your instincts.....)
weight heaves off the Hummer's expansive hood
pitching the dreadlocked Hood to the ground where boots pivot towards a door
not a second thought to taking his place along the second row
instinctive heirarchy giving Erik the front seat by rank and nav abilities
it also puts the Ahroun further back from the devastating grill and ruthless soundsystem
can't say James doesn't learn quickly
after the engine guns and they're all nice and comfy
the Gnawer adds his buck fifty to the notes thrown into the proverbial pot"One - pack of four out of the Thunder's Forge Sept of East Appalachians. First showed up couple weeks ago when the Warder sent out the call and first brought up this virus stuff. Alpha's tall and hook-nosed, there, Peter Kaminski, Cierzo, Fostern Philodox. Beta's the skinny chick, Maria Barbu, Ostria, Fostern Theurge. Other two are Mikhail Valsan... the brick shithouse.... Borasco, Cliath Ahroun and Danika Negrea, Sirroco, Cliath Galliard. She's the smallest with the biggest mouth. Have her number and location for contact. All lying sacks of shit."
secondary impressions fleshing out Decker's synopsis both by mental images and detail as James carries on
luckily Imogen already witnessed much of it at the primary meeting and doesn't need the Totemic supplement
so she doesn't have to strain in translating this much of accented slur.... yet"Three -" two apparently skipped over as he doesn't have input for that " -the Fomori. Spider and I dug up info for their leader at the DMV.... name, address, chauffer license, employer, whole nine yards. Planning a recon with Leonida's GeeDub's to track him down, probably take out the second Johnny "Skinner" Piel fucker, too. Flight's Sandman's killed the third last night."
"It all doesn't matter anyway. Waste of fucking time far as this goes." the guttermutt waits until all heads are turned except, hopefully, Danah's - wyrmspawn have to die on principle, anyway, but they're not priority anymore "Fomori carriers are bullshit, goose chase to distract us from what they're really after. Real carrier's a kin that's Borasco's sister, by what Cliona was telling me before I came here. They want her dead, and all she's come in contact with, but she's immune to the virus and carries what we need to find a cure."
gaze ticktocks to Imogen to ascertain an validity in that whole antibody vaccine fandango medical thing
"Virus is airborne, Garou hosts and carriers, manifests in kin with ninety percent fatality. Cliona got infected even wearing med gear. One Gnawer kin's dead, another dying, one more kin's infected... Strider's, dunno her name.... and Roxy's..... friend..... Chloe got zapped, too. Chloe's our key to finding this girl. She and Evie met her before the Lords arrived and I'd bet dinner that's who they're blackmailing Chloe to find again. Nobody's got this girl's name, just know Scent of the Prey doesn't work on her and she disappears or threatens suicide anytime she gets a whif of Garou blood. Dark hair, eyes, bout fourteen or so, terrified beyond reason and looks like a tracked-out junkie... Chloe said something at the meeting about finding her in Southside last hole-up."
a glance back to the Modi
how's that for his input"One problem though. Chloe wanted the information to contact the Lords before I talked to Cliona..... dunno if she's got the girl, handed her over, or what's up. Left a voicemail little while ago but haven't heard back, and now we're here. We can find Chloe easy..." nod up towards Erik "...it's just dealing with both kin without getting infected ourselves if it's not too late."
... to save the girl?
... to catch up with the Storm's head start?
... to avoid infection themselves?
that last phrase something the Gnawer, surprisingly, does not expand upon(kemp)
Grumbling. He didn't like leaving his bike behind and he hated feeling like a freakin sardine even more. And getting in one vehicle with 6 others, made him think sardine. Nothing like putting all the eggs in one convienant package. Listening to the talk as it starts. Most of it barely making much sense to him. Names given, imagies flitting through the link. Chloe? No idea who that was, someone he never met. And it figured all this stuff started around a stupid girl. Gah, girls were going to be the death of him.
(decker)
"Hold up," to Danah, before she gets a chance to start driving.
Possibility for split trails, high.
(imogen)
Everyone into the hummer. Close quarters. Imogen sits in the back, glancing toward the Fenrir Modi as he speaks. Cliath-I don't-fucking-remember. "Galliard." A blank filled. Her memory's good.And after all, she's heard the silvertongued Lord speak twice now. And introduce twice.
Decker speaks. Note comparison. James follows, and his mangled conversation makes it difficult for her to follow. Decker sometimes throws her with his American accent, and the Gnawer with his accent and disjointed tongue results in her constant attention. Like Danah, she does not have the benefit of totemic-communication. But at least she knew most of this. By the way her interest piques as the Gnawer mentions the girl, it might well be that she too, was drawing to some conclusion similiar to that. A focusing of her gaze without surprise.
Earth eyes turn the redhead's way and the pale woman glances at him as a hand rubs the back of her neck. "Possibly," she allows, refraining from adding more, because it would slow things down. Or perhaps she does not intend to speak at all, and keep her thoughts to herself, even as she pays absolute attention to words spoken.
Once James has finished, however, leaving his final sentence unqualified, the kinfolk speaks up. One might say she is defying order of rank and does not look at one specific person as she does it. Nor does she look at them all. Debriefing of a most impersonal form.
"Evelyn said the girl was babbling about doctors. So chances are, any marks she might have would be from doctors. Either tryin' t'find a cure, or from havin' th'disease injected."
After all, this is a disease that attacks the Garou gene. Not humans. It had to have been engineered. Either that or Gaia truly had it out for her Children.
"She also said that a Silent Strider had been in touch wi' 'er asking her questions about the girl. He'd asked Evelyn f'r the clothing she'd been wearing the night they'd met. Evelyn never gave 'em up, but she still 'as 'em, unwashed." A shake of her head, her lips twisting briefly in a movement of distaste. To her mind, logically, this is useless information, however, "The only thing I could think o' was either he suspected th'clothin' to carry disease, or perhaps he could find the girl somehow through Evelyn's clothing." Her glance flicks across the Garou. They'd know better than she.
"I've a name of someone who is supposedly working at the other effected Sept looking for a cure. For treatment, he might tell me if anything works. If anything prolongs life, what they've tried. However, this lovely bloke's name was given to me by the Shadow Lord pack. Considering their track record, all I might get are lies. I can ask o' th'girl, too. If he gives the partyline," drug addict, runaway, uninfected, "at least I know where he stands."
"As fer gettin' the girl, t'avoid infection completely yeh would need a full suit. And even that would have no guarantee. Gloves, and a mask," a glance James's way confirmation, "as Cliona wore wouldn't be enough. Yeh need somethin' t'cover yer eyes, yer skin. Yer own air supply, if possible. Anything else, and yeh stand a good chance of exposure.
Needless t'say, if yeh're hopin' t'get the girl without scarin' her to possible suicide, that would not be th'way. Nothing subtle about it.
On the other hand, if she carries the cure, then infection may not be so devastating. If someone works fast f'r the cure. If she is the cure."
A moment pause that is almost thoughtful, "And you're very lucky."
And that, for some, might well be the longest they have heard Dr. Imogen Slaughter speak in an unbroken stretch.
(danah)
Seven people in one vehicle. This should be fun.Danah scoots off the dull black hood, and slowly paces to the back of the vehicle where she opens a door and begins shoving overflowing articles from the back seat into the trunk again. Clothes, CDs, even a small portable amp. Anything that once littered the backseat is picked up and unceremoniously thrown into the back trunk to clear enough room for all seven occupants.
Leaving the door open for whoever to slip inside, Danah moves up to the driver's side and takes her rightful place behind the wheel. Turning the keys, the more-balls-than-you-can-handle engine rumbles to life. A deft push of a button turns off the radio, sparing everybody's eardrums from being blown out. Hand on the gear shift, she waits for the order to go and where to.
(decker)
Decker looks at James first, as he speaks. Then Imogen, as she does. Then the Modi lowers his head for a moment, his elbows on his knees, his fingers kneading his temples.Thinking it out -- or nursing a headache.
"OK." He raises his head. "Then we git to this girl first." Duh. "Me Erik 'n James," he looks at them one and then the other for confirmation, "is goin' after tha Lords. If it's the Ahroun's sister, he'll know 'er fuckin' name 'n we'll beat it outta 'im. 'N they pro'lly have a better way'a trackin' her than anythin' else we got if they followed her this far. Even if they don't, we need 'em outta tha way.
"Same time, want Rune 'n Kemp talkin' ta Chloe. Cain't put all our eggs in one basket, 'n she's our next best link ta this girl. Don't git too close if you can, but 'm expectin' us all ta git infected 'fore tha end. Occupational fuckin' hazard. Jus' gotta git tha cure 'fore people start dyin'.
"Chloe wants ta take you places, keep yer guard up 'n stick together. Chloe thinks she kin gitcha to tha girl, you jump on tha chance.
"One way 'r another, we beat the Lords to tha girl. Once we find 'er, we's sendin' Imogen ta talk with her, 'r at least distract 'er til we can bring her safely in." Glance at the redhead. "'Til then, wantcha ta stick with Rune, but don't git too close ta Chloe. Git on tha horn with this kin tha Lords toldja 'bout. Maybe it's more bullshit, maybe it ain't. Still worth a shot. But if he wants ta meetcha anywhere, we's settin' up tha meetin' 'n watchin' all the doors this time.
"'N Danah. Yer goin' ta drive Rune 'n Kemp ta Chloe's. Then yer gonna go ta Spider, tha Wyrmfoe." Shit work, all right. But being an Eagle wasn't guts 'n glory all the time. Sooner they learn that, the better. "Let his ass know what th'Eagles are up ta, so he kin plan."
Another glance to Erik, eyebrows up: was he all right with the plans as set?
"One more thing 'fore we split up. Hell we know 'bout this Strider everyone keeps on talkin' 'bout?"
(erik)
Erik's been listening, learning, yet he stands apart, outside the hummer, leaning against the passenger side door. All this is news to him, so Deck gets the go ahead nod as he slams the sawed off shotgun back into the shoulder holster and out of casual view. "One atta time, or we takin th' 'ole pack in one bite?"
(decker)
"All'a once. Ain't gonna be able ta ketch 'em one atta time. We ain't killin' nobody though. Not if we kin help it. Don't think they's tainted 'r nothin'. 'N dead Garou don't give no answers."
(imogen)
As Decker lifts his head, Imogen's attention is drawn his way, and she's impassive through the plan. Thoughts are not something she reveals easily. If she has any opinion of this at all. She must, considering what the Fenrir has decided what she is to do.Erik speaks, and Imogen's attention reflexively flicks beyond the Hummer and the gathered, inside or out down the street up it, and then back again. It's only when the quick exchange is over that she answers Rohl's question. "Evelyn met the Silent Strider. He sought 'er out. Askin' about the girl she'd met. S'where I heard it from. She said 'is name was 'Path o' Sand.'"
(decker)
Path of Sand -- he nods to Imogen, then looks at Erik, James, Rune. "Think it's worth hittin' up Path?" And then Rune alone: "Think y'all got time?"(james)
possibility for split trails, high
when the other blanks are filled in
James takes a moment to rearrange his tongue
forcing it and his jaw back into proper place after that speech
marveling - objectively - at the utter extent of Imogen's lecture
(cursing the dire consequence he knows to have spawned it)"Won't spread during incubation, anywhere from forty-eight hours to a month depending on immune system strength. Signs of sickness show, and you're hot. Mother's Touch and Resist Toxin don't touch it, either. Cliona and the other Theurges at the meeting were taught a rite to... supposedly.... ascertain if someone's infected."
additional precaution to Imogen's warnings once the directions pour forth
consideration for the well-being of his packmates in possible exposure and aftermath
the rite's effectiveness may be as much bullshit as anything they've heard so far
then more questions come up.... and it seems the luxury of his silence won't last for long
jaw's gonna ache for days after this
here's hoping he'll still be alive for it to heal....."Absalom. Also known as Path of Sand or Road Not Taken. Fostern no moon." the guttermutt begins during a lull of contemplative silence, mentally ticking off the facts coming up for this list "Lords are calling him the buyer, Fallen - Cliona's met with him, saying his story is the opposite. Found out the danger on a routine message delivery, barely escaped with his life, and has been chasing the kin to find a way to stop it since."
who to believe?
rolling shrug of scarred, muscular shoulders gives his opinion"She's saying he seems more dependable than the Lords." if THAT isn't an understatement from the Bone Gnawer.... "Doesn't seem to be the one pressuring Chloe. But your call is as good as any....."
the train of thought is broken as James' cell beeps insistantly
demanding his attention on something that better be of just importance
phone magically produced from the dark depths of some cargo pocket
if it weren't for the caller ID blinking a very pertinent number
the Ahroun would ignore the recently arrived voicemail completelyChloe absently passed along the invisable feathers of Totem Phone wings
excuse for the normally inappropriate grip of wireless communication during a meeting
his brow furrows at the information, but it's assimilated as the viewscreen darkens on exit
breath fills the Scab Warrior's lungs to pass along what he's learned - and the phone. blips. again.
(for the love of..... its like a fire-pissing leash......)
irritation darkening his features though the message gets its fair share of attention, too
(the fuck... they outta service area or something?? fuckin' humvee ice-sheet thick armor muckin' up signals supposed to be carried all the 'can you hear me now? good!' goddamned time... stupid Weaver technolgy more of a pain in the.....)
frown emergeing as the phone's held away for all to hear the nasty coughing fit crackling across the line
some symbolic action to avoid the possible germs transmitted even -that- wayThink it's worth hittin' up Path?
finger held up requesting Decker hang on to that thought
buttons hurriedly thumbed to volley back an answering text-message
(k. plans in prog. bak 2 u soon.)
the lanky guttermutt stretching halfway out a window to reclaim that peskily evasive signal
(... just... long... enough to hit....sendmotherfucker....)
luckily - his head is at an angle to miss Kemp's protest at a hand on his shoulder providing leverage in streeeeeetch
unfortunately - his head is at an angle to miss Rune's reaction to how techno-savvy the raggedyman's become
long way from the guy who didn't even know how to turn the cell on when she first handed him one
regular call center, this Omega Tribe fullbloodresettled on the bench of a backseat
(for safety, please keep all arms, legs, and heads inside the vehicle at all times)
James organizes the last few moments into translatable chain of events
the way this is going, the Modi may not be the only one nursing a killer headache....."One: Chloe says she doesn't have the girl, her job is done and resources tapped... but hell if I know what that means."
"Two: Cliona. Our Strider boy wants to meet about the Lords and help find the girl if that's still our goal - seems he has his heart set on me, sketchy about an audience." he doesn't mention the identifying carnation request, though surely some of his disgruntled hesitation at wearing the symbol of admiration so... symbolically.... filters through the pack's subconscious bond: fidelity to duty James can associate, here's hoping a bloody bloom most likely expected to be worn on his chest comes to a far lesser degree of concrete observation..... and attention flicks to the two older Fenrir "But given the Lords are close on his tail, I doubt he'd complain at the backup unless this is a trap."
not so hard to see how this suddenly falls into their plans of taking the pack in one bite
cause it sort've goes without saying this has been a set-up and trap since the beginning
crux of the matter staked on how they make use of each turning event
(something about biting off more than one can chew....)
guttermutt's actions depending wholly on the two ranking Fenrir's cues
James'll go meet the Strider - even if as willing bait - if they think this has become the most viable optionproof of the Ahroun's unshakable faith in his packmates
if they can ambush and down a dreaded Spiral pack's Alpha and Beta in one strike
then surely......"Cliona'll set up the meeting soon as I call her back."
deep umber eyes ticktock towards Danah in the Hummer interior's semi-darkness
brow edging towards the frame of heavy dreads in silent question
probably safe to assume the city GeeDub's ability to contact each other
he won't incur insult under the alternate presumption in leiu of offering help
but he's got Spider's numbers if she needs them--------
((Same excuse for translating James-speak out of this fine English, heh. Hope I didn't step on any toes by collecting all the postings of the last few days into one few minute period for the sake of continuity.... offline crappery kept me away for longer than expected so I'm playing catch-up. As for availability this coming week: Sun is out unless plans change, Mon seems booked with the Angie/James scene in the other thread.... but I can do Tues, Wed, or Thur anytime after 7pm chat. Time limit's 2am chat cause of work starting ALL too early the next day. Next Fri-Sun is totally out so far as I know.))
(danah)
With an arm hanging casually outside the driver's side window, Danah's been listening to the laying of plans in remarkable quiet. The only reason she hasn't left to find Spider, or call him, probably being the consistent changing of plans from one moment to the next. Looking back at James, she offers a question in response [What?], before continuing her mental minute keeping.
(decker)
Decker grunts. "Needja with us when we go up 'gainst tha Lords. Fer Inspiration." They can hear the capital I there. "Keep 'em from knockin' us all down with Thunder."Decker didn't just pick teams 'cause he liked James and Erik. Sometimes the Modi actually had reasons for setting things up the way he did. James for Inspiration. Erik for tracking. Rune and Kemp on the other team, for their social skills.
(In a pack like the Eagles, you take what you can get in terms of social skills.)
Head down for a moment, he's thinking again. Then, "OK. Change'a plans. Rune 'n Kemp with me, ta face off with tha Lords. Ain't got Inspiration, True Fear's tha next bes' thing. Either way, ain't leavin' 'em to run around after tha girl while we chitchat with some fuckin' Strider.
"Erik 'n James ta meet tha Strider. Contact 'n Alpha. Imogen too, in case he got info she kin use."
Again, a glance at Erik for confirmation.
(erik)
A nod, down, not up. They will follow the Ahroun in matters of war. "Jus' tell me which truck ta get in." He is already reaching with his spirit, testing the air with his human nose, casting around with his eyes. Give him a moment and he'll find the Scent of his Prey.(decker)
"OK." He thumps the back of the driver's seat like a judge thumps the gavel. "Danah, drop Erik James 'n Imogen off on yer way back to Spider." He climbs back out of the roomy (but not very... user-friendly) Hummer, blipping the alarm on his suped-up Tacoma instead, one hand digging his Questing Stone back out. "Kemp 'n Rune, with me."Keep in touch on totemphone. Plan this on tha fly."
(kemp)
Listening to the change of plans just long enough to get the reply from Erik so he'd know which way he was going.Leaping out of the Hummer like his pants were on fire as soon as Decker was heading out.
"Whoohoo! Yeah! Hey, can I drive?"
Already knowing the answer to that one, but it didn't stop him from asking.
(james)
first, the guttermutt shrugs to silent question - bases covered, there
second, the guttermutt nods - [i]Gotcha[/i]
then.... nods... again once plans changein another situation he'd probably be amused at all this rearranging
not to mention the current status of the pack as one fierce collection of agreeable bobbleheads
at least he doesn't have to leave the safety of second row bench-seat
drop off directions for Danah put at the discretion of Rotagar and kin
subsequent transport to the meeting is one part he's wholly not responsible for"Any prefs a hookin' uhp?"
eyes already on making sure thumb presses the right buttons of his cell
the question's blindly cast for Erik's input pre-call
safe bet he'll be concentrating his efforts on dealing with the Strider himself
best leave the tactical preferences to those actually able to keep guarding watch
transmission connected once scarface gives an answer"Cliona.... w'rk y'r magic for me." there's a nod of dreadlocked head before James reinforces whatever it was out loud "Yeh... s'gonna be me, Er'k, 'n Im'gen. C'n be a' th' _______ soon'z ________."
((fill in the blanks with Erik's choice if there is one, otherwise edit as necessary, heh))
(cliona)
The call comes while she's still feeling like shit - just as quickly as it was promised. A moment's breath found to say. "'e'll b'there." When the blanks are filled in. Then, quick dial of numbers. "Sloan, lass? Tis Cliona.." pause to spit up that last particularly juicy bit of lung... "Need t'meet wit' Absolom. Three o'th'Eagles. They'll be ___ at ____. Tell'im likely nae on th'carnation, but 'e canna miss th'dreadlocks, and th'redheaded kin th'be with'im n'th'kid. Thank'ee lass."Click.
Dial to James - confirm, and then it's back to sleep again.
(decker)
"Haiil no."Well, at least Kemp expected it. Decker yanks open the driver's seat and climbs in. Literally. The Tacoma's lifted so that the seats were nearly at chest-level. Add in the rebel flag on the back window and the bullbars, and it was almost ready for demolition derby. Too bad it was Jap-made.
Decker strings the Questing Stone over the rearview mirror like fuzzy dice, and guns the aggressive engine while waiting for Rune and Kemp to get in.
Brief, the smirk through the rearview mirror at the kid, "Y'ain't got me my playboy channel hookup yet."
(erik)
Private, or public? Both have their advantages, and their drawbacks. He casts a glance at James, steady Drums on Skulls, or Jukebox, or whatever. Then his icey glare falls to Imogen, the (necessary) liability. Erik must be gettin so good he merits a handicap.So, make it private and the Eagles can do what they do best; intimidate, make known their strength and will to use it. Show this Strider the serious side of war. Uncover the truth that way. 'Course, then they have to worry about keepin Imo's red head on her neck so she can blow Decker later with it.
Public, shouldn't be much danger to the kin, and might make the Strider more comfortable, willing even. Not much worry about fur and claws comming out, from either side, and, he must admit to himself, if the fur flies their Strider might just end up killt fore the beans get spillt.
No, they'll need to speak frankly, if nothing else. Private, then, and Erik has just the place. "Iron Coffin, down in Skid Row. Biker Bar. Tell 'em at da door Ole Ugly's expectin. Back room. Now les' fuckin go a'ready."
(kemp)
Didn't take much for the kid to jump in back and then the expected reply that just brought a great big Jack-o-lantern smile from him."Nope, don't got your playboy channel yet, but I got mine."
Brows wiggling along with a thrust of his hips. Making sure he had a good firm hold because he knew Decker all too well and he just might decide to gun the engine just to see if he could toss Kemp out on his head.
[cont'd in ol' ugly's expecting me]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 10, 2004.08.10.04. - someone left the helicopter on [jim] *mp[skid row - mersenne prime chapter 11]
(st)
Outside the Quick E-mart, Jim kicked a stone pebble, skipping it across the empty back lot of the building. Eventually it hit the brick exterior, and skipped off in another direction. "My life is a movie.. full circle." he mutters to himself.A small distance away, the Grand Elder's packmate is disappearing across the Gauntlet. Fading from view. Jim doesn't look - isn't interested. He's still uncomfortable about the man, about the prospect of being sniffed at and inspected like some piece of meat. All the tests came out negative though. That's good, right?
(james)
negative - but why does James still have that hitchy feeling at the base of his back?
must have been too many scifi books lent with Frankenweiler mind-expansion encouragement
it's making him paranoid, now.... Jim's just a kid... right?
then again... he did see a five year old child take a turn for the gorehound worst an permanently damage his own packmate
and .......why can't he stomach that seemingly all-too-easy escape and sudden romp in the woods
even with the rabid pack of Garou chasing the boy and the spirit's terror
maybe Gaia simply smiled upon the boy intended for another day's glory
or.... there's something else that just isn't fitting together(you're doubting your instincts, Jamey-boy, this virus glitch has you all fucked up and accusing shadows)
once the Theurge has been properly sent off
the lanky guttermutt pivots on a heel to head back to where the boy's waiting
watching. silent on the approach.(jim)
Looking up at his approaching elder, Jim shifts his weight from side to side, anxiously. Jim has seen a visible change in the young claith since first encountering him in the shadows of this building. The Fostern's presence is soothing - Jim looks over his shoulder less, his body is a little more relaxed, and he's even stopped paying such close attention to the way he walks. Silent footsteps have been replaced by the quiet sound of rubber converse soles crunching on the gritty dirt of the street."So now what? We going to the Caern?" That's what it all adds up to. The Caern. The Caern means Garou, means safety, means a decent night of sleep.
(james)
for all the Rage sequested behind the monster's human mask
strange the guttermutt's soothing presence
maybe he learned too well the street-showman's front
cavalier confidence in the face of all that shall come
or maybe it's the Garou's calm acceptance of what Fate has irrevocably in store
(James accepted his Fate long ago... it's a question of faith that keeps him going)"What's y'r rush?" question tipped on a raised brow and sidelong glance "Think i's safe?"
boy isn't that a loaded question
Elderman's careful observation of how the boy chooses to answerperception+primal urge: 6D10 Dice Roll: 10; 1; 2; 1; 4; 7
(st)
"Yes!" the over-tired Ragabash replies. "I think after dodging a pack of Gaoru, a group of hunters, and surviving a science experiment gone beserk.. that yes, the Caern will be fucking safe!"James had quelled the hunger-related stress. But there was still a lot here for a mere boy of maybe seventeen to swallow. Too much. Nobody is innocent in war.
"I wanna go home! I wanna go some place warm and safe.." he says, turning his back on James and slinking off to a brick wall of the Quick E-mart, planting his back there.
Nearby, the shadows shift subtly. Ears peek. Eyes glisten under the shining sliver of moon.(james)
"Yeh?" in the face of explosive teenaged angst and understandable duress, James is cool. as. ice. "Safe f'r you I'll 'gree."two or three long, lanky steps bring him up before the boy
hands casually draped into his pockets
head tipping as he watches the boy in a few minutes of silence
dreadlocks whispering their journey across cotton-covered shoulders towards the ground"Go' th' Guardi'n's boys, res've th' city Fam'ly, 'n the mighty spirit a watch ov'r you.... keep yeh safe'n warm a nigh'." such nostalgia should inspire a warm curve fond on his lips - but the Fostern's earthen gaze is heavy and solid, unforgiving steel, locked on the young Ragabash "Said y'rself yeh live' through a fuck' up science projec' gone wrong. Yeh dunna wha' they did a you. Yeh dunna how you go' out. Worse yet.... yeh dunna what's followin' you 'n waitin' f'r you a lead it home. I wasn' askin' if yeh thought it w'z safe f'r you."
james per+alert 4D10 Dice Roll: 9; 10; 4; 4
(st)
"I told you already, I escaped!" Jim all but spits back at James. True Bone Gnawer Ragabash - no respect for authority or rank. Or just too tired to really care.Finally, Jim just collapses onto the ground, letting his head hang between his knees. "I give up.." he grumbles to himself.
Overhead, a black shadow creeps across the moon, slicing it in half. The shift in light is unnoticable. Its the quiet whirring of motorized blades cutting through the air that gets his attention. The sound of a helicopter engine overhead.
Ominously, the only source of light behind the Quick E-Mart explodes. Shards of glass fall to the ground as the back-alley turns to black..
(james)
I escaped.
I don't remember a lot of how it happened.
I was still real doped up.several rebuttals rising to spit back in the kid's face
intollerance sparking some deep-pit detonation
kid sure acts like a Gnawer.... right up until that giving up
James ready to bark a thing or two to snap the kid back into shape.... and the lights go dim
.... and someone left the helicopter on
.... oh no, those lights. went. out.
CRASH!somewhere in the darkness a fist wraps around Jim's sleeve
hauling the kid quite uncerimoniously to his feet and..... to the left!
"Move."
the word felt more than heard from the Ahroun's chest
suddenly close features cast in shadow of an eery bluish glow
coils of almost invisable light melting out of his forarm
.... he wasn't carrying that three foot pipe a minute agodex+dodge: 5D10 Dice Roll 3; 3; 8; 9; 5
st: 2; 4; 10; 2; 8; 3; 7
When the lights went out, Jim could be found exactly where he was. Like he was just too used to this. Like he just didn't care anymore. [Bring on the Apocalypse. Bring on the End. Let the world turn to pitch and die, a low flickering flame finally gone out.]
James lifts his light frame too easily, and the boy just goes along for the ride. He doesn't even offer to help carry himself along, placing the burden of his safety squarely on James' shoulders. Fingers wrap tighter around the boy, squeezing and pulling.
From overhead, a red beams cuts the night. Sweeps across the urban floor until it touches James.
This is about the time that James will begin to feel the arm in his grip slipping - a liquid substance creeping between his hands and Jim's arm. Blood. And a barely audible gasp for air from the near-corpse hanging off his arm. These are the images and thoughts that run through James's head right before a silenced projectile penetrates his right-shoulder. And he was so close to dodging that red dot too.
james stamina: 4D10 Dice Roll 9; 9; 6; 8 - bruised
(james)
hm.... liquid making that grip awful slippery
(blood... coppery tangy scent sharp in a predator's nostrils)
and the projectile. penentrating. his right. shoulder. really makes it suck.
(blood... something short circuits when its the predator's own)
snarl coming out of the raggedyman anything but the human he resemblesthat's it
near-corpse is still in his grip and.... yes... seems to be breathing. barely.
James is hauling it towards, of all places, the middle of the street
back alley light's gone but the oblique shine of sliver moon's still enough
"Dunn give up on me nah, kid."
(Don't give up on me now, Eagle, lend me your strength)
spiked nail projecting out from the pipe's head leveraged against a manhole cover
Fostern's totem granted strength making little work of moving the heavy grate
enter two Gnawers the underground tunnels
(Shoot me through asphalt, motherfucker)dex+dodge: 5D10 Dice Roll: 8; 5; 9; 5; 6
(st)
There's a strangely familiar feeling to being shot. The feel of hot seering metal breaking through your skin and coming out the other end - or lodging itself somewhere in your innards - is too hard to forget. In hindsight, James will realize this felt a little different. He never felt the bullet break out the other end of his body like it should have, or even break all the way into his skin. It stopped at the surface. Later still, when examining his wound he might be shocked to see he wasn't even hit by a bullet - but there was a small puncture wound in his skin where he felt the 'bullet' hit.James isn't thinking about any of this right now. James is trying to dodge the beam of red light so intent on shooting him again. A spark flies off the asphalt where his left foot just was - a shot barely missing its target. The exposed moon offers James a shred of light to see by. His companion is barely conscious, definitely immobile. Half his face and neck is missing, replaced by three long and thick slashes that have removed an entire eye, most of his nose, and cut a hole through his throat. He's breathing through a wound in his neck - that's the wheezing sound you hear. The manhole cover flies off, as two more beams manifest. Slicing through the air. Enter two Garou into Chicago's underlair, as three simultaneous shots go off. ClankClankClank against the street and interior of the sewer from above.
{forced pause... again.... assumed jim passes out and they're on their way to next stop and chapter 12]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 09, 2004.08.09.04. - day late and a dollar short [jim] *mp[forum .07.29.04. - day late and a dollar short]
(james)
somewhere, in some back alley, a scruffy shepard sinks to his haunches
closer looks reveal canid heritage that seems to have bred true
wide ears are a little too far apart on a frame just a little too big
the shape of it's skull seems blockier than modern breeds
tail's plume resembles pipe-cleaner's bristles more than sleek lines genetics call for todayon closer look, this is obviously not your average shepard
even with the blackened saddle darkening the deep russet browns of his coat
and... it almost looks like.... he has mini-dreads?James tips his muzzle to the sky and starts a series of sharp barks
[b]I am Jukebox... Drums on Skulls.... Gnawer Elder and Eagle Fostern Fullmoon... seeking help..... one and half moons past BeeGee Cliath chased by six Garou and black ghetto bird.... maybe hurt..... spirits followed but returned..... knowledge will be repayed.....[/b]
he waits, head tipped to listen as the message is picked up and passed along
it's a bit long for preference - but the city's population does a good enough job
clear enough to spread the word and hopefully get something back-----
OOC: Not sure if the character or player is still around, but unfortunately James just found out about this through the grapevine. Anyone's welcome to jump in with information if they have the wherewithall to hear the call, send a message back, or otherwise contact him through cell/kin/etc.(st)
The reply comes late. Maybe James has even assumed what anybody would expect - the young Bone Gnawer is dead. It was only a matter of time. Six against one are impossible odds, even with the 'home turf' advantage.Chalk it up to another friendly fire casualty (no wonder the Wyrm is winning..).
"...Hides in Alleys seeks Drums on Skulls." A loud bark replies, days later. "Tonight.."
[skid row - .08.09.04. - mersenne prime chapter 10]
(st)
The reply comes late. Maybe James has even assumed what anybody would expect - the young Bone Gnawer is dead. It was only a matter of time. Six against one are impossible odds, even with the 'home turf' advantage.Chalk it up to another friendly fire casualty (no wonder the Wyrm is winning..).
"...Hides in Alleys seeks Drums on Skulls." A loud bark replies, days later. "Tonight.."
--------
Down the road from the meeting place, the line to soup kitchen and shelter is slowly growing, spiralling down the church's stoop into the sidewalk. A long row of Chicago's filth waiting for a piece of stale bread and luke-warm, watered down soup. Prostitutes, bums, derelicts, drug addicts.. and worse.
The meeting place was down the street. Jim insisted on meeting in the filthiest section of Chicago, true to his tribe's heritage. A humble meeting place behind a local Quick E-mart. More specifically, behind the dumpster, behind the Quick E-mart, where nobody was likely to bother them. A floodlight anchored to the back of the store was the only source of light, chasing away enough shadow to offer the illusion of safety and security for whoever brought the trash out. Litter blew across the empty space, and rats scuttled out of sight, burrowing deeper into heaps of trash.
(james)
tonight
after so long without word
all too easy to assume the worst
they're Gnawers... it's what always happens anywaybut by the time the moon rises past building's horizon
and the floodlights skew the friendly shadows into hungry ghosts
worn down boots scuff along the alley's filthy asphalt
slow steps echoing between Quick-E-Mart's wall and another nameless building
rats scurry away from the approaching monster(st)
Nobody is here.A rat pokes his head from the trash to look curiously at the monstrosity invading its territory. Nose twitches, picking up the delicate shifts in ordor, as its tiny beaded eyes fix on James. When he turns, it scuttles away, burrowing under trash.
Minutes slowly tick by in silence. And there's no sign of Hides in Alleys, or any other living soul for that matter. The rats and shadows are Jukebox's company for the better part of fifteen minutes.
And maybe as James is finally begining to grow impatient, he hears a glass bottle roll across the ground, rolling over cracks and ditches and the decaying paved urban floor. Rolling over dead weeds and small pieces of indistinguishable paper - rolling across the ground to Jukebox's foot, where it lulls to a stop, bumping against his shoe. And looking up from where it came, a silhoutte that wasn't there before begins to reveal itself from the surrounding shadows.
"Drums on Skulls?" a quiet voice asks. Its the sound of a voice that has spoken the name of his savior, but still doesn't believe he's right there.
(james)
fifteen minutes.... twenty.... twenty-five?
he begins to get the nostalgia of one umbral DMV
except this waiting room's filled with sounds of the urban wasteland
not the spiritual equivalence of muzak
James fills the time arranging an urban beat at the tips of his fingers
restless against the camoflaged fabric smoothed over thighit stops when the bottle tumblyrolls towards his boot
dark eyes dropping down as if to catch it themselves
then wander to his left and the shadow melting to form
gaze cast from beneath the tangled curtain of dreads"Some call me tha'."
the voice is soft
far quieter than the bottle's introductory roll
barely louder than the tiny, hopeful whisper(st)
The silhoute begins to take shape as it takes another step forward. Features manifest - eyes, nose, mouth - and slowly take on a life of their own as the move into the light. The creature looking at James is the skeletal reflection of a boy in his late teens. He is thin, wiry, and pale. Worn our jeans and a dirty t-shirt hang loosely from a malnourished body. His spine curves forward, the unconscious posture of a creature that is accustomed to hiding and groveling. But what stands out the most are his eyes. Sunken and unreflective. In a word - dead."I'm Jim," he offers, shyly. "Hides in Alleys? You were looking for me, and I was.. hoping to find you." He's rambling, just filling in the uncomfortable silence with words. "I'm a 'Gnawer.." he offers, forgetting James already knows this. "And a Ragabash."
(james)
"Clia', right?"head tips, dropping dreads off his shoulder
long ropes swinging freely as weight shifts
slow turn enabling him to face the boy
unconscious turn of hands offering palms to the sky
no weapons held in secretive wait to strike
just the inky pattern of tribal tat along his inner forarm"Ahroun, Fostern, Drums-on-Skulls, Jukebox.... tho.... s'easi'r a call me James." last part falling from the faint curves of what may be an easy smile "Hungry?"
what Gnawer in his right mind isn't?
it isn't the first time James has seen a Ganwer with dead eyes
the question of the matter is whether or not the life can return......(st)
Unreflective blue eyes narrow. Its a too familiar expression on the street. The look of somebody that's waiting for undisclosed catch, the trick. "I don't know," he replies, looking down at the ground while trying to decide. One missed meal turns into two turns into a day or two without food, turns into a constant gnawing at your stomach. Hunger becomes the norm. You stop noticing it, stop feeling it. Just white noise in the background. And occasionally it will get strong enough to really make your stomach ache with true pain - enough to remind you that you're not dead yet. "A little," he confesses, looking up.(james)
"Aaaaa..."there's a knowing glimmer in deep umber eyes
hovering somewhere above that lopsided curve of a smile
slow and easy the pull from where he rest against the wall
stroll beginning in the direction away from the young Ragabash
"C'mon...." striking, that a Fostern would open his back towards a stranger, unless..... "There's'a burg'r join' down th' row good 'nuff a earn a C ratin'. Since I hate eatin' 'lone.... I'll buy when we get there, if you stick wi' me, 'n 'long th' way tell me if y' really are hungry 'n why you were lookin' f'r me."brows lift at the question
hands lift to show no strings attached"Deal?"
Jim doesn't have long to come up with his answer
James is already moving away(st)
Hunger is a painful motivator. After thinking for half a second, the smaller Bone Gnawer quickly scuttles up besides James, falling in line next to him as he moves in the direction of the burger joint. "Just a little hungry.." he says, "maybe I'll steal a few fries, or something?"Sighing to himself, he runs a hand through his ruffled and mangy brown hair - anxious relief.
"I was lookin for you, or anybody really.. to find the Caern. Its up, right? It made it? I mean, it had to, right? .. I just, want a safe place to stay, you know?"
(james)
"How c'n yeh steal 'f I'm buyin' an' giv'n it to ya?"brow lifts over a sidelong glance
and the older Gnawer tips a slow nod
confidently leading the way to the burger joint
weaving around a couple blocks
waiting until there's an empty stretch of sidewalk before continuing"Makes sense, givin' those guys tha' were af'er yeh. Why dunn ya send a call through th' chain?"
(st)
"Are," Jim corrects - present tense. Suddenly aware of his own situation, the Bone Gnawer casts a glance over his shoulder, peering into the darker recesses of the streets and alleys, into the shadows. There's nothing there, nothing there that he can see, and the Gnawer looks forward again, unable to shake the feeling that somebody might be watching him.
He moves a little closer to James, unconsciously taking comfort in his presence. James meant protection, even if it was just for a little while."I don't know.." he replies, shrugging his shoulders. "What chain? You mean.. the barking dogs and whatever? I didn't know about that.. Or maybe I just forgot?" Scratching his head, he finally just shrugs his shoulders, unable to offer much for an answer.
(james)
are - question one answered
whatever the urgency of getting the others aired out and solved
James doesn't particularly show it
calm and centered in direct contrast with the Raggie's tense closure
the step off the street comes in time, not an escape
two meals ordered at the counter: burger, fries, and drink
guttermutt leading them back towards a quiet booth
given the caliber of clientele around Skid Row
it's his Rage instead of potential smell that keeps potential neighbors at bay"Eat it slow." warning before he relinquishes one meal to the Ragabash, even a Garou's constitution will protest if he hasn't eaten for too long "Then tell me y'r story."
(st)
Jim follows James in submissive silence. Slow steps follow him through the burger joint, to the back, holding whatever food is handed to him while dead blue eyes stare into the windows turned mirrors.As he sits, three fries are already in his mouth, and almost swallowed whole. Cows are known to swallow grass whole, to avoid being caught by a predator without finishing a meal. Jim has a similar philosophy - swallow now, digest later. But taking Jame's advice, visibly restrains himself from stuffing his mouth with more fries. Instead he takes one, and eats it slowly, his nose wrinkling as he takes in the unfamiliar feeling of food inside.
"We came from Detroit. It wasn't just me, you know. There used to be a pack of us. I mean, barely out of our passage, but still a pack, you know? Well word starts getting around that something big is happening in Chicago. Rumors at first. But then we start hearing stories about a new Cearn being built. Then, stories not about a new caern, but bring up an old one. Well.." snatching up his burger, Jim takes a healthy bite out of it, and continues talking with his mouth full, as tiny bits of ground beef come out while he talks. "--everyone's excited about this. But worried too, you know? I mean, this kinda stuff gets a lotta attention. The wrong kind. Which means people gotta be there to stand up, fight the good fight."
"So we're young, dumb, and fulla cum--" Swallow. "--And we figure we'll come out, we're gonna help raise a fuckin' Caern. We're traveling from Detroit to Chicago, taking it the old fashioned way - heal-toe express, really rubber tramping it. The nature lovers love this kinda shit."
"We're still in the middle of nowhere, close to Chicago, in some backwoods when we get ambushed. All of us. Not BSDs, or banes, or formori. But humans. I'm not talking about farmers with shotgun, but guys dressed head to toe in fatigues, military style guns, the whole nine yards. They take down one of us, one shot. Done. Just like that. The rest of us try to put up a fight, but we lost before it even began."
".. The rest.. " and Jim, visible shivers as he begins to think about it. He looks down at his tray of fast food, and shyly takes his soda, and drinks from it as a distraction from the words that are going to come out of his mouth. "Its a lot of a blur.. They gave us a lot of drugs.. and other stuff." Fingers run through hair, eyes looks sideways at the mirrored windows. "I remember bits and pieces, you know? Voices. And I remember the small room they kept us in.. more like a cage. Each of us in a different one. .. And you couldn't really tell if it was night or day because there were no windows. And we kept trying to step across, and we couldn't... And we'd shift, and they'd shock you.. or drug you.." He shivers, and takes another sip. Another distraction.
"And then one day I wake up in the woods. I got out. Escaped. I don't even remember a lot of how it happened, I was still doped up. But the next thing I remember is a pack of Garou hunting me. I know they're Garou because I hear them barking at one another, telling them where the tainted one is, and they have to kill me."
"And that was a month or two ago. And I've been giving them the slip since.. and I've run into those guys again, since. Gave them the slip too. And.. I just want to be able to sleep one night without waking up in a sweat, or having to run again. Or just die. Becausing dying is the same as going to sleep, you know. Just one long sleep."
(james)
the boy may be doing his part to take the ordered time to eat slowly
neither of them wanting sudden rejection hurl blanketing the table anyway
James, however, finishes his meal in classic Gnawer style
lacking the occupation of words to slow any swallow
it's a gooood question of whether or not he actually chewed"You unnerstan' I can' take ya to th' Caern 'til I figger out what they did a ya, righ'?" compassionate as the Elderman is supposed to be learning to be - he sure isn't afraid to be blunt, even to a desperate young Garou "C'n pull s'me strings 'n getcha safe place a sleep. Think you'll 'gree we can' lead'm there, though." shoulders lift in a slow shrug, time bought with a finishing slurp off his own soda "Know if th' oth'rs 'r still alive?"
(st)
Jim is silent. Looking down at his half-eaten hamburger and barely touched fries, he just nods his head. Like he's listening to his own death sentence. Its the simple gesture of a creature that has accepted his fate in this world is to die - not gloriously in battle, but lonely and forgotten. A name that will not be sung or remembered past the fading memory of that packless Gnawer who died sometime in Chicago. "Yeah, I guess you're right."He takes a sip of his soda - notably less sweet than he remembered. "Last I saw them they were. Probably wish they weren't though."
"Guess I'm the lucky one," he snorts.
---
forced pause, james'll keep watch over the kid sleeping at some hotel
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.08.09.04. - networking [chloe] *ac[general]
(chloe)
**RING RING**Chloe's on the phone as usual, listening to the sound of the dial tone. She steps off the street into the entry of a closed shop for some privacy.. "C'mon, James, pick up."
(james)
there's marginal privacy when the other end picks up
background noise of some public place filtering past his voice"Speak."
(chloe)
She hears the voice, "James, it's Chloe. I got your number from Rox so we're somewhat aquainted already... I need your help with getting in touch with someone and you might be just the one to help me.."(james)
there's a moment of silence
maybe he should have been a little warmer in answering
resultant tones make up for the callousness
she can hear some adjustment that cuts out part of the background noise"Yeh? Lemme know what'cha need 'n I'll see wh' I c'n do."
(chloe)
A quick sweep of her eyes checked her perimeters, just to make sure no one else was around. She reclines deeper into the alcove, pressed into the door. Her eyes upon the street, voice lowering a notch. "Yeh, I was the one that Nito, a kin of yours came to for help. Also.. got Cliona into her current predicament... I'm sorry for that." a pause.. "I need to know if you can contact the Stormwind pack, or give me their number. I need to get in touch with Sirroco."(james)
post-apologetic silence is..... heavy
James not particularly pleased with the current situation
but there's little they can do about it other than seeth"Shi' happ'n, sa'ly." inaudible click of switching gears "Yeh. I got their num'rs."
breif dig of fingers for a wrinkled scrap of paper
digits pulled out and parrotted across the line"Dunn be surprise' if they already know y'r 'fected 'n ain't too cordial 'bout it....."
(chloe)
"I won't be very cordial with them, if they're behind something that is going to screw me over more than this infection." She murmurs into the phone, adjusting it so it rests against her shoulder. She pulls out her little black book and a small telescopic pen, scribbling down the information on a half-blank page..She stares at the number, studying it as it became a permanent etching in her most cherished possession. "Yeh, shit happens. Thanks for the phone number, James.. Mind if I ask who told them?"
(james)
"Nuh. Tho' I dunna who did.... fig're word's spreadin' fas' 'tween both parties 'n I dunn trust th' lot've'm."(chloe)
"I see." Her face draws into a tight frown, the gears grinding inside her own mind. She shakes her head, pushing away from the wall to step out onto the street. "Thanks again, James. I appreciate it."
(james)
"No prol'm, Chloe..... mine if I ask whatcha think they' up to 'fore ya go?"(chloe)
"Yeh... This whole fuckin' mess has just gotten very personal for me. I'm being blackmailed into helping someone else... find this girl. A life hangs on the balance depending on my cooperation. I think Borasco might be able to help me... or.. well. Who knows."
(james)
the frown is silent, but there
tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in thought"Keep me up a date on tha', coo'? Dunn' trus' what they're settin' up oth'rs f'r, eith'r."
(chloe)
"I will be sure to do that.... Oh, and if you happen to see Spider for me. Pass along what I just told you, okay?"(james)
"Not a pro'l'm.... good luck, Chloe."(chloe)
"Thanks." she replies over the phone before ending the call.Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 05, 2004.08.05.04. - meeting request [letter] *ac[forum]
(james)
two weeks have passed since the Sept gathered at the Warder's request
representatives sent from interested packs and parties to hear what the visiting Garou had to say
missions organized and run, information gathered to aid their mutual goals
unfortunate events delineating the discovery of things not clarified as they should have been
now it is time to facilitate the further steps through the contacts exchangeda message is left at the number Sirroco provided James
not wanting to divulge more than necessary to an answering service
much less force lengthy deciphering of his battle-scar slur
he adapts intent to explain a lengthier message is waiting for her at the Caern
the Galliard will find a handwritten letter at her disposal
surprisingly neat, given any expectancies from the Omega Tribejust because he doesn't necessarily maintain any fondness nor trust for the Shadow Lord tribe as a whole doesn't mean the Gnawer Elderman never took the time to understand the intricacies of diplomatic negotiation and expectant formality within the halls of..... alleged...... royalty - he is the pack's Public Relations Garou, after all, and went the extra mile to do his part to keeping the visitor's happy enough to work with the Sept sans hitch or pretentious slight as priceless lives are at stake
Sirroco
Galliard of Storm Winds from the Thunders-Forge Sept of the AppalachiansSeveral developments suggest another conference would be to our utmost interests.
To minimize the draw of Garou resources from where we most need them, please arrange a time for Imogen Slaughter, MD, to have prompt audience with a knowledgable representative of your interests and research. You will remember her attendance at our initial meeting; and I have ensured she is up to date on our own endeavors.
Directly accessing her medical expertise would expedite potential investigations for both our Septs. Dr. Slaughter is anxious to confer with a member of your pack or the Thunder's-Forge research team at the earliest convenience. I have included her contacts.
Dr. Slaughter will act as liaison to relay information to myself.
James Branson
Jukebox, Drums-on-Skulls, Fostern Ahroun of Eagle's Chosen, Bone Gnawer Elder of Maelstrom's Sept of Chicago
xxx-xxx-xxxx-----
OOC: James included one of Imogen's business cards in the letter, complete with whatever personal contacts she gave permission for him to exchange for the sake of doing things quickly.
Mei, James will set up some hotel room as a place to meet/work/spread papers out/compare notes/whatever outside of her office and any prying eyes if needed/wanted and give Imogen the key. It can also be used to temporarily house visiting reps if needed/wanted. Nothing fancier than a habitable motel (far. away. from. Cliona's!), but it's neutral, private, theoretically secure, easily cleaned out, paid for in cash to minimize connections, etc, etc. She can use it or ignore it or keep it as a bluff meeting place or whatever for as long as needed - he just said he'd make all the arrangements and is to his best ability.
Maddie, you and Mei work out the best time for y'all to run a scene and with whom. Since I'm totally gone this weekend until Monday and I recall weekends work best for you two, I tried to set it up so James doesn't have to be there even if he's the expected contact cause of his status. Ball's in your court, ladies, guttermutt's PR part is done.
Posted by james at 12:00 AM.08.05.04. - sandbur: mission prep [angie-spider-binary] *ac[forum]
(angie kelly)
((Man, I hope I got the right sl name! if not, just call me a dumbhead and I'll edit the whole goshdarn thing!))Angie Kelley
~The address of the mark had been checked, and brief recon of the area had been accomplished, noting the houses, the kinds of cars driven, the clothing worn by people going to work, if they went to work; all in all the general ambiance of the surrounding blocks. She hadn't begun to tail the mark specifically, hadn't even planned to this morning. This was prelim prep, a gathering of knowledge to make the operation more successful. If you are going to tail someone, after all, you don't want to drive a Pinto to Cadillac country, and vice-versa; Don't want to wear a bra top to a black tie, and vice-versa.~
((A quick drive in a mid-range rented car through the neigborhood (Using Leonida tricks to augment the relevant stat) id'd in the information Binary gave her reveals what information to her that will help her with the tracking job?))
~Prelim eyes-on completed, she goes back to command (Binary, Spider) to brief them and to arrange for a Safety, be that safety spirtual items or companionship, be it secure realtime communication, or be it a team. When the safety is secured, she awaits a final briefing from command before embarking on the mission.~
((Spider, B, let me know what support/objectives/SPECIFICS Angie will receive from you guys))
((Lastly, if I've jumped the gun here, call me off! If any of you need more info, or have questions/comments, post 'em here, or mail me. I'm working a bit in the dark, but I know that time is of the essence...and hey, I was *tagged* hee...))
(spider)
The Mark: Mathew P. Johnston.
Address: [Enclosed]
Social Security: [Enclosed]
Date of Birth: [Enclosed]
Chauffer License No: [Enclosed]
Current Employer: [Enclosed]Mathew P. Johnston is a white male, dead twenty years. Somewhere in the last 30 days, Mathew P. Johnston left his grave and applied for a chauffer license in the city of Chicago. The Mark is a black male working under the alias of Mathew P. Johnston. He uses his job as a taxi/limousine driver to find his victims (See Nursery Rhyme Murders). Known affiliaties include Johnny Piel, white male formori, and another unnamed white male formori. The Mark is believed to be the leader of the group. All necessary precautions should be taken.
---
Spider swiveled in his chair to look up at Angie to see if she was satisfied. Command central was filthy. Spider didn't even need to look at Binary to feel her growing agitation - so he didn't. He insisted on leaving the room dirty, poorly lit, with food occupying unlit corners and crushed roach motels hanging from the ceiling.
The War Theurge has finally lost his mind.
"There's a map in there too," Spider says, gesturing to the manilla folder that contained 20:10's information. Enclosed were two printouts from a pay internet map service. The first focused on the mark's home, the second on his place of employment, with both locations marked with a red circle.
"We don't know what, if any, powers they have. So I included a one-shot baneskin." A modified version of the original - a talen. You'll only get a couple hours out of it. And when its spent, it will release a very agitated and very weakened bane. So be aware of that."
(binary)
Agitation.What a nice way of putting the state of affairs [0-1] considered. Not that she greatly disliked roaches, okay maybe just tthe physical ones. THe creepy, crawly, grimy, filthy insects that spread germs on everything they touch. Binary tolerates them, she doesn't have to agree with the manner of their existance - cockroach's own - ugh. And so, its is just outside of the Command Center that Binary stands her head bowed briefly to hear the words of the Spider a clean handkerchief hovering in her left pocket.
[ ...He insisted on leaving the room dirty, poorly lit, with food occupying unlit corners-- ]
From behind Spider the woman's [0-1] arms tighten as if pulling herself up and away from the dishevelment of Control, to wrap across her form. Neat. Freak. Waiting for Spider to give his orders she is stilled - contemplative. And then comes the low toned subtitles - Jarheads perhaps had a language all their own. "Its a standard recon mission. Primary Objective: Locate Johnstone. Avoid Detection until the guillotine." Her chin lifts to the baneskin before her hands creep up to scratch at the skin behind her ear, almond shaped eyes lowering briefly with the motion.
"Protocal is as follows:
(1) Meet up with Local Contact: Drums on Skulls. alias James Branson [@ insert address] you have your locations.
(2) Both of you are to stay in contact with each other and command at all times.
(3) Contact Command with positive ID and await further instructions. Do not threaten mark until the order comes in from Command. The Crows--"
Blink. "The Dragon's Flight will likely be in the area during their recon--" A glance to Spider thoughtfully. "If shit hits the fan." Which it usually does. "Assume biological-warfare, take bio gear, and an extra mask for your contact. " And it went without saying, wearing masks in the street would be a bit too conspicuous - but rage could often make al the differnce between breaths. A gaze flick to spider making sure she had accurately translated his orders...
"Bravo Team will likely be in the area as well--" Binary's lips press together as the scartching stops her attention fixed on the wyrmfoe. "How do you want the Piel situation handled?"(spider)
["Assume biological-warfare, take bio gear, and an extra mask for your contact. ... Bravo Team will likely be in the area as well--"]Sometimes Spider felt like his life was a movie.
The Random Interupt had to wonder sometimes, Who talks like this? The contact. Bravo team. [My life is a movie to which I am most definitely not the star.]
"You and Sarah want to take care of Johnny Piel?" This should be interesting. To say the very least.
[preliminary info for james' involvement in 'maxwell's silver hammer' scene]
Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 04, 2004.08.04.04. - message from cliona *ac[forum]
(cliona)
It has been a very bad week. Very bad. Hellaciously bad.When it rains, it pours, and by the time they got to the Apartment, Abe was dead and she had a sick and distraught brother to deal with.
While he stared, she made Calls. Lots of them.
~~~~~
First things first. Totemphone Ye kin yell later, right now I dinna want t'hear it. I've got it. Spider dinna catch it, so twas luck o'th'draw I guess. I'm nae sick yet, so will b'workin as best I kin t'find th'cure before th'happens. Sandman - Keep Evie under lock'n key or with yerself. Percy - Tell Meli I said sh'takes time off until tis finished. If'n she's worried about her job, I'll persuade them otherwise when tis over. Take her and ye kin and get'em under lock'n key. I'll put in a call t'th'boys at me place, let'em know t'stay put. I'll nae b'goin to th'ouse and arrange f'them t'send me some clothes etc.
I'll b'holed up at th'Motel 8 *insert address here* for th'time bein. Ye kin call me phone, and totem o'course if'n ye need me. Oh - and tell evie, Chloe tis infected. Ad a healthy dose o'i told ye so when ye do. Percy, keep checkin em all wit'th'rite.
Pause. then. Oh - Mother's Touch, Resitin Toxin - does nae a damn thing. So keep ye nose clean. Call if'n ye 'ave need.
~~~~~~
Next. Jukebox's Cell and Voice Mail.
"'Ey, m'lad, tis Cliona. Ran int'eh a couple o'yer kin ye dinna know ye'ad. Now I'm infected with th'shite th'Lords told us about. Th'said th'virus wasna out and about yet, th'lied th'arses off. Th'Strider th'warned us about is in town, I'll be in touch when I know more. Tell ye boys at me place t'stay put. I'm at Motel 8 *insert addy here* and ye kin reach me by phone - effectively quarentined. Th'lads, ye kin ye hadna met yet? they said they dinna have a Momma t'let know about'em. One o'th'boys is dead, th'other sick and gettin sicker. Maybe a wee run though ye message services t'put th'warnin out is in order. Ye boys at me place are nae infected, and feelin fine - locked up nice an'tight. I'll be in touch."
~~~~~~
That takes care of the Eagles, Spider will fill in the GW's, and one more call. The Knights. "LeRoy, me lad, and Nelly, lass. Got meself th'wicked STD the Lords were crowin about. Keep ye kin close to ye chest, dinnae take in any dark haird kin who willnae give her name, and watch ye back. When I've got more information on what kin be done, I'll let ye know - as o'now realize Mother's Touch an' Resistin Toxin willnae do a damn thing. Call me Cell if'n ye need me, I'll be in touch."
~~~~~~
And one more call. "Sloan. Tis Cliona. Ye find ye lad and get him o're t'me, asap. I need some answers, and likely he's th'only one who kin get em to me. This nae a request - i'll come find ye if'n ye dinna come fast enough."
~~~~~~
She has never been so glad that she told Logan to stay across the ocean. Even if she can never get rid of this blight - at least he's safe from contracting it. And now - there's little t'be done but finally get a few hours fitful sleep, before headin out t'find th'bloody Strider.
(cliona)
Did what tis me job t'do. I said no yellin. smirks. I've a call inteh th'strider agin. Will get th'specifics from th'crazy arsed mofo if'n I 'ave t'beat it out o'im.
Then - after thought, call and leave another message for Jukebox."'ey lad! I forgot t'mention - ye might want t'make sure Imogen knows th'dangers. I was wearin mask n' gloves when I contracted me little germs here - if'n she sees any come through th'morgue...." shakes head, sigh. "I dinnae know what t'tell ye, jus' be careful. I'm takin care o'th'dead Gnawer so as nae t'get his arse sent under th'knife - but dinnae know who else tis out there...."
(james)
((Consider this message passed on by Jukebox to necessary kin, Garou/Council, and Imogen. Cliona will be asked to do whatever's deemed necessary to keep the remaining sick kin either quarantined, or off the public slab. I don't have the time or patience to deal today and by the time I'm back around next week I'll forget about it.))Posted by james at 12:00 AMAugust 02, 2004.08.02.04. - first and last is never enough [rune-cots][chinatown]
(rune)
Light smears bright and garish from the huge picture window onto the street, catches the flecks of quartz and mica in the cement sidewalk, merges with the street's sea of neon and flourescence, bright against the deeper pockets of shadow summer warmth. The rest of downtown is deserted, but the streets of Chinatown remain lively until midnight or later, much like this one, which is nameless, or which, rather, must certainly have some sort of name, but which needn't advertise it. An oversized hand is painted on the window glass, with an artist's eye for detail and a delicate precision suggesting that at least some of the employees are overtrained for their current line of work. The hand has character: knobbly knuckles gracing otherwise shapely fingers that seem tipped with callouses at the first and second digits, at the least. Thee nails are long, curlingly long, each embellished with the most outlandish sorts of decorations. Even at this hour, the parlor does brisk business, both walk-ins and regulars. The patrons and employees inside seem oblivious to the display they make on the street: the window and lights contrasted so sharply to the darkness without, that they seem like players on a stage.Two women, hunched over the naildryer marooned in the middle of the storefront, bend to exchange their weekly gossip. Two more are waiting in the cheap folding seats, the metal hissingly cold against their skin, with the air conditioning turned up so high. Two of the stations are full, manicurists leaning closely over the hands in front of them, intent on their tasks, but the party at the third is just breaking up. Rune pauses in the middle of the storefront, hands in front of her, fingers curled, inspecting her manicure closely. Her mouth twists into some sort of smirk - approval, or no, not approval, the smirk is simply her default expression, the natural idle state of her mouth - and - eschewing the naildryer - she retrieves her credit card from the table, the gesture flat-fingered, splayed-handed, to preserve the integrity of her still drying polish. She tips the card to the proprietor without a second glance, bends to dash off a signature that is not her own with uncaring ease, then retrieves the card and slips it into the cellophane sleeve surrounding her cigarettes.
Outside, then, shoulder propped against the brick column facing that bisects the plate glass window, bathed in the street's rampant neon glow, the Glass Walker faces a logistical problem of near-epic proportions. Despite her foresight in taking the cigarettes out of her pocket before the manicure, she still must ease them one out of the pack without marring the liquid crimson surface of her nails. At the moment, she simply lounges there, increasingly frustrated with the predicament.
(james)
"Hmph."there is, just a little behind her sentry, a scoffing huff that meets the epic-proportions of the GlassWalker's problem
in fact, it seems like that very coughed sound is laced with the musical tones of great amusement
if she were so inclined to turn her head, Rune would easily see the source of this mocking affront
a raggedy looking young man equipped with mop-like headdress of tangled dreads
and one backpack slung over a shoulder that smells suspiciously like Chinese take-out"Few day'n town....." the back of his shoulder blades pull from wall on the opposite side of the parlor's front, releasing the Fostern from his own choice spot to lounge for even he - Gaia's Mighty Warrior - would not brave the clutches of a salon unless faced with dire circumstances, time occupied with the collection of local eatie treats to haul back to the pack's Riverfront excuse for a domicile while she was otherwise detained ".... 'n y'r already fallin' 'part."
the step is casual, soles of Corcoran II's scuffing on cement walk
taking his damn. sweet. time. crossing the salon's garish front
glinting lights refracting in the deep sockets bearing earthen brown eyes
discoloring summer tanned flesh bared by wifebeater's lack of sleeves
neon tones lost in the shifting camoflage of faded BDUs
daring the show of rich entertainment for this one very fact:if she won't risk the polish for a cigarette, she's sure as hell not going to chip anything smacking him for being an ass
brazenly the Gnawer snatches pack from her frustrated hands
shaking out an unfiltered turkish delicacy from the package's offending inners
held out so she can caaarefully claim it as her own
Zippo produced and snapFWP!d to dancing flame
held as tiny flickering sheild (jovial peace offering?) between them
y'know... just in case she's resourceful enough to reprimand him without damaging those nails(CotS)
Each foot is placed almost delicately on the pavement before him, shoes coming down gently on the slick spaces between the discarded detritus of city living. Around crushed non-biodegradable styrofoam containers, soaked newspapers and broken glass shards. It is a treacherous world, and an even more treacherous pavement over which he walks, but he does so with quiet elegance, assurance and finesse. Each crimson snake skin shoe finds a clear spot on which to rest, clicking on the cement before rising once more.His head sways from side to side, eyes almost closed behind the large rose-tinted State Trooper shades, his mouth pursed with emotion as he listens to Ray Charles croon You Don't Know Me into his ears. Head shaved to a fine fuzz, face handsome, almost gaunt, blissed out and rapturous, a good looking boy gone over the edge, his neck engulfed in a white and red feathered boa that curls sinuously down his front, over the tan leather jacket that is open over the Hawaiian silk shirt, barely buttoned up so that his slim physique is hinted at. Narrow waist blooming up to wide shoulders, hands trilling at the end of long arms, feeling the music that pours into his soul. Such music. Such emotion, such yearning and heart ache.
It kills you. It kills you good and proper, till you want to cry and break things with your fists, to convey the loss to others in ways that they will never, ever forget. Because you don't know me.
(rune)
The jibe earns James an opaque, flat stare; Rune's eyes are hard and still opaque, within the ring of shadow and mascara, eyeliner and highlights. Her pale face is almost immobile, frozen for a half-second before the familiar curl of her expressive smirk twitches across her mouth. "You don't know the half of it -- " she mutters, cigarette already tucked between her lips, breath breaking the flame's shape, making it vagrant, like the wind. She cups her hand above the Bone Gnawer's wrist, behind the flame, to shield it from the Chicago wind, if not from her breath, and bends to kiss the end of her cigarette to the Zippo's flame. The tobacco pops and crackles, glows a deep, rich orange, as she inhales, smoke already flaring from her nostrils, in flagrant curlicues. "Thanks." Another half-flash of her smirk, as her eyes trace up from the flame, to James' eyes, and then over his shoulder at the street beyond. Her brows, waxed to a flattering arch, twitch higher as she takes in the -- boy beyond James.Rune whistles, then, a low sound that slides beneath another her breath, beneath the cusp of another cloud of cigarette smoke.
(james)
"Yeh?" a brow lifts so matter-of-factly before her opaque stare and flatly smirked statement, damned cockily cavalier, isn't he - probably because he knew that familiar twitch of what could pass as a smile would eventually appear "Maybe you shoul' tell me s'metime."his grin is crooked, resembling a smirk of his own by default
before the battered brass lighter is pocketed he's digging around for his own cancerous crutch
pack of Camel 99s finally revealed to the night's sulpherous lamplights
plume of smoke coiling into the relentless city winds before all the gear's stowed neatly again
it distracts him long enough so that he looks up after the serpentwolf's whistle
head swiveling around to locate what she focused on the moment following eye's greet
dreadlocks fall fringed curtain over a muscular shoulder towards gravity's merciless call... and a brow.... lifts
he's known some mighty colorful people in his time and travels
but this brilliantly colored boy pretty much rises head and shoulders (and feathers?) above the rest
James was educated in the mysteries of manners to know better than to stare
glance strafing back towards Rune still carrying that curious expression(cots)
The music, it sweeps him up, it engulfs him, it destroys his personality, shreds it apart into filagree filaments that are swept away in the smooth decadence of it all. Love it, be it, become the musical flows that surround you, that add that energy, that rhythmic beat to your movements and thoughts. Allow each note to transform itself into a blazon of color in the center of the darkness that is your mind, and love it, leave it, kill it, beat it, make it bleed and cry and squirm.Head rocking back and forth, shoulders twitching, fingers snapping, he sees the pair, the dynamic duo, outfront the nail place and with a slow sidestep begins to arc out around them, drifting away as if on ice skates, moving to the far edge of the pavement as if they were contagious, as if they were anethma, polar opposites to his groove. Reaching up, he lowers the glasses so that they rest low on the bridge of his aqualine nose, and looking across at Rune as he passes her, his eyes scintillating with an almost manic energy, he blows her a kiss, long and luxurious, and then slips the glasses back up on high.
A look that promised and cajoled, that begged and scorned, that screamed blood lust and envy, that was all jealousy and disdain. Smoldering fires in the depths of velvet villages sending up plumes of sinful smoke that would send all the angels fleeing their heavenly hive forevermore.
Moving on, feeling love, down the streets of China Town.
(rune)
"Yeah," Rune's reply is no more than a chuffed fillup of sound, voiced at the end of a breath, almost nasal in its reverberations. She lets the silence open and expand then, filled only by the night sounds, the echo of traffic, the rattles of chains as the late-night businesses between to close. Dark eyes flicker to James, then back to the man across the street as he blows her a kiss. She offers another smirk, this one deeper and a damn sight more jaded than the one she offered James, but kin to it all the same: a slow crawling cynical expression across her expressive red mouth, a twitch of a kiss in response, a snort of supple almost-laughter to accompany it, although that is audible only to her once and future packmate, standing so close.The nail salon's patrons exit in a trickle, and like CotS, they avoid the pair of Garou standing in front, giving them a wide and careful arc as they head off toward the El or one of darkened cars parked on the steet. Something's wrong with the woman, and the man's no better, really. It's just an ill-feeling, a pressure at the back of the mind, the nameless urge to movement and away that sends the human women circling warily away. Chains rattle again - the proprietor, pulling out the heavy steel security grid half-way across the window. Rune pushes away from the brick and falls into an easy, sauntering gait away from the storefront. The cigarette, held lightly in her right hand, swings with the arc of motion. She doesn't pause and wait for James to catch up to her; she simply knows that he will, that his long strides are a match for hers. Strange how that knowledge erupts beneath the skin, the long-dormant pack instinct opening again. Her heels make a clipped noise on the sidewalk; they are too high for most women, certainly, and too high for almost any woman to walk in them with such a swinging, confident gait. " - I'm still - " picking her way through the sentence, becoming used to the necessity of expressive speech, " - feeling my way through this." She shoots a glance at James again, sidelong, her eyes sweeping along the familiar and changed planes of his features. "I'd heard about the success y'all had here - " her smirk deepens, a twitch of sound substituting for the word she won't quite say so publicly, " - and I heard a rumor about the two of you, too, both on the student council?"
(james)
angels would surely flee before the smouldering play of the boa wrapped boy
denizens of the mortal coil, too, would probably be overwhelmed by the grooveman's liquid journey
James, however, is an official member of neither specie
instead, the muscular raggedyman is privy to the gravitational pull of what smiles from night's sky above
silver rays raining down on earth and soaking through his flesh without invitation
tugging tidal on the very nerves that hardwire his primal system
instigating deeply rooted processes first discovered by his ancient ancestorsone male feels the snaking love - the other embodies the granite patriot of war
repelling opposites in all but the strategically coincidental occupation of this particular sidewalk
(is it caution that buffers ice-skate path, or the crackling sphere of invisable Rage)
and that their attention falls on the exact same womana kiss is blown - long and luxurious
a brow lifts - again - slow and skeptical
(well how 'bout that.)
it's followed with the muted thunder of the Ahroun's growling laugh
it chases the storm of Rune's departure wake"Think he 'pprove a y'r new col'r."
nod tipping towards Rune's hand that so negligently dismissed the turkish smoke
nails stained dark crimson like some evidential aftermath of it's sizzling death in pothole puddle
his own not yet quite burned to the filter, Chicago's winds keep the toxic coils drifting away
even though their steps seem to fall back into pace as if a day was never missed in some routine
the easy intinct of pack's coordinated movement, the familiar presence of bonds waiting to reform
perhaps a deeper understanding beneath the surface and so covetously sheltered from the worldit allows them to walk in silence for a handful of yards
her confessions and questions tempered on drifting air currents
his answers carefully constructed with the mortar of exhaled smoke"Dunn 'spect you a rush back in'a things." shoulders roll in fluid shrug, jostling the backpack of food for the rest of the Eagles against his flank... a flexing shift of ballsocket readjusts it back to more comfortable swing, and gives him a reason to allow gaze free range across the street as if chasing the escape route of another low, animalistic chuckle "Yeh. We're makin' 'r own way, so fa'." pause for the length of a sidelong glance touched by the quirk of forever crooked grin "Guessin' we made hon'r roll, got vote' gran' poobah 'v th' local club."
not the position James ever expected to occupy the day he set foot outside of Albany years ago
sometimes it still sets him a step back upon realization - betrayed by the sheepish cast of boyish smile
the others would never be privy to witness this lapse of steadfast confidence
but the once and future packmate walking (stalking) so close to his side....
he couldn't hide it even if he wanted to keep it from her(rune)
The creature's profile is sharp, her jaw forms a delicate line, etched in shadow. Her pale cheeks are swept in color, the cool glow of neon, reds and greens, from the elaborate sign buzzing above, seething with gas. She pauses in front of an old theater, the storefront riot of plaster sculptures wrapped in peeling golden paint. Half the lights on the marquee are burned out, but those remaining spell out GIRLS G RL GI L ! in dim colors, surrounded by a rainbow of neon chasers. In the shadow of the structure, Rune shoots a glance at the seedy old man handing out flyers for the strip club/massage parlor inside. He retreats, visibly shaken, to the dank shadows behind the metal cage of what once was the box office, which now contains a lifesized plastic reproduction of a woman, her mouth forever open in a perfect, blood red "O".Rune drags the last bit of good smoke from her filterless cigarette, or the last bit of good smoke she can muster without melting her new acrylics, without setting the still-wet polish on fire, and pitches it end-over-end away from her. Back in the day, she would've sunk to her haunches and crushed the cigarette out on the dirty sidewalk, then tossed the butt into a baggy tucked into her back pocket, or the pocket of her jacket, for just such a purpose. Tonight, she lets it go, watching the ovoid flare of the last bit of paper and tobacco as it sparks through the night, only to die, hissing, in the puddle of condensation dripping from a leaking air conditioner, wheezing hot air into the already hot night.
Her hair swings a silken arc to crash against her profile; she runs the flat of her palm over it, smoothing it back from her eyes as she shoots James another glance, this one brief and searching. She absorbs his news with a twitch of the mouth, dark eyes flickering once more away, over his shoulder, out into the strange night, the unfamiliar streets beyond. After a moment: "Gotcha," muttered with the distance of a strange, half-smile, some sound beneath her breath, some meager contemplative drive usually overridden by the weight of the moon or the influence of drugs in her system. She exhales sharply, now, the last dregs of smoke spilling from her nostrils into the night hair. "We need to talk, I think, but not tonight. Gotta pick up my laptop, make the rounds. I'll see you back at the factory." She steps away then, hesitates, turns back and grabs the collar of his t-shirt, smearing the nail polish she was so careful to keep clean and fresh across the fabric as she drags him closer and kisses him once, dangerously public, like it was the first and last time, all wrapped into one.
And then she simply releases him and - without a word - walks away.
(james)
the theater bathes them in haphazard lights brave enough to survive the years
mangled letters flickering dull highlights on the structures of bone and muscle
chasers sheening faint presence on the curving planes of bared, summer-heated skin
hers so pale to properly distinguish each faded tone's passing grace
his tanned and inked and ashed to absorb each hue to shadowed memories
James notices the caress of color on flesh more than the attendant's greasy retreat
even if the tilt of his head would outwardly indicate otherwisethey've shared many silences throughout their short history
he cannot help the tension that chills his belly from her lack of expressive answer
(what did you really expect, Jamey-boy?)
accepting the singular affirmation with supportive nod and searching eyes
tempted to divulge her contemplative lull beneath the pressure of swollen moon and powerful drugs
somehow knowing that tonight was not the night to tempt such fates"An'time." offered on a sighed murmur that's still probably more than necessary in the close confines of theater's overcast throw "I'll be wait'n'."
blame it on the subdued tones coloring his voice
hesitation's apprehension probable result of measured almost-silence
(..... it cannot be the mellow Gnawer's concern for what they need to talk of...)
or the lingering regret rising as her shoulder turns away so painfully soonit's an absent smile that greets her second-thought reverse pivot, hopefully quirked that she'd turned back
it's an unbridled hunger that meets her all-encompassing kiss in blatant truancy of risk's public consequence
she kisses him as if it is the first and last wrapped so vibrantly into one
(.... fear..... beneath the volcanic warmth, fear chill's the Gnawer's core before paranoia's shaken away.....)
he fights back with detonation's aggression that a first and last will never be enough
her polish smears on his collar, her lipstick smears from the pressure of his teeth
if she must leave his side than he will not allow his touch to leave her nerves
even if it is nothing more than the faint bruise of his taste across her lipsand in the aftermath of such potential destruction... there is nothing but silence
no cries of heresy filtering past citystreet noises slowly ebbing in
no words between them to replace the memories created across their tongues
she hasn't taken five steps before the guttermutt's turned to make his wayPosted by james at 12:00 AM.08.02.04. - welcoming committee [decker-primal][forum]
(james)
the call went out on the Barking Chain an hour ago
BG Elderman looking for the new guy named Primalthe phone call was troubling, to say the least
follow-up with the good doctor didn't help, either
but James is good for his word
soon enough heading towards a specific address in skid row
flanked by the ever-comforting presence of his Modi packmate
(think he wholly trusts the integrity of the information?)
dreadlocked raggedyman watches the streets as they passbig guy with chains
shouldn't be that hard to find, eh?(decker)
Decker's there. Same height. Same auspice.
Vastly different in every other conceivable way.And grumpy. That shouldn't surprise anyone.
(primal)
"I saw a white light on the grass,
Grinning up at me.
It spoke, and sang, and listened well,
As I recounted amicably,
All my past and current state,
From woe, to joy, to those I've met.
Then laughed and read aloud my fate,
You ain't seen nothing yet."~Legend's~Life, Fianna, Galliard~
SkidRow.
Plentiful Crime Rate. Miserable Populae. Nothing to do but shoot up, snort down, take a toke, pass a pill or kill somebody. Grime, grit, grease and gore with half a dozen reasons you'll never want to hear about on any given day. Reasons to come here let alone to stay.
SkidRow. Colourfully referred to as the Wyrm's Vacation spot. Or at least it should be. One can't wander one way or another without being visited by something unimaginable. Undeniable. Unmistakable. Wrong.
It is amazing how inhuman, Humanity can truly be in some instances and situations. Truly amazing.
An alley. A large man. Rattling Chains.
Hard to find, not at all. The lane is dark and narrow, the world both close-mouthed and seedy. The kind of place no Human would want to wander down, nor Monster wish to bother with. High walls, three stories on either side and smelling of old cardboard soaked with rain water, it was a monument to the lowest you could sink. The farthest you could fall...
...Or the easiet to watch the whole world from.
A pair of shadows at the Alley mouth, large and scary in that certain way. The howls of a half hour ago, picked up by dozens of strays and chained up pit bulls. A message intermingled.
"You tha' Guys tha' wen' 'n sent up tha' call a bit ago?"
A message received. A shadow detatches from the back, chains a rattlin' and barely 'n outline. Hooded, rat-clothed and big enough to be a Lightweight contender. Pausing...
...Waiting..
(decker)
One enters.
Other stays behind.Decker, the latter. Primal gets himself a look-over. A single sweep of the Modi's eyes. Color:indeterminate. In this light at least. Something midtoned though. Not pale enough to glitter, quite. Not dark enough to smoulder. Invisible, his eyes, in the dark. But oh how tangible for the force of his rage.
That same rage makes him seem bigger than he is. Wider, taller. Hulking monster. In reality -- watch him as he throws his back to the wall at the mouth of the alley, and slouches down; see his proportions measured against the height of second-story windows -- he's six feet, give or take an inch. A little over average at best for a human, and he sure as hell weren't human. Short, for his tribe of towering northmen.
Primal's idea of a greeting garners another brief glance. Nothing in reply. The Modi finds himself a cigarette instead, battered and twisted. Lights up with a strike-anywhere match pulled along the seam of his baggy jeans. Guttering flame illuminates powerful shoulders and lean hips, a face that's all hard planes and taut lines: those eyes are grey, like a storm. He shakes the match out and smokes quietly at the alley mouth, not paying the conversation much attention. He's just here to watch his packmate's back.
Oh and. It's not a cigarette after all. Cloying scent of marijuana whips down the alley in the moaning city wind.
(james)
beyond the recognized borders of paved streets and project housing
there is nothing human about the denizens of dark alleyways
the air tastes unmistakably wrong this close to the Wyrm's Vacationary front door
these are the places none wander freely without mission
not unless they were legion with the monsters themselvesit's not hard to guess which full moon may be the Gnawer Elderman himself
though short for his tribe, the Fenrir stands brooding storm lurking at the alley's mouth
there's something invisable - a wall about the Modi - that suggests there are better ideas than to pass
for all the casual slouch softened by fragrant smoke inducing buzzing high
not a doubt exists on the single, severe purpose incorporated within fullbreed blood and musclethe other man scary in that certain way a wholly different scenario
dreads shift against his shoulders with each easy, confident step towards the cardboard palace
errant weed-laced wind tickling mop-like mane to vague dance of it's own design
loose strands tapping tense fingers across his chest though the Fostern shows no hesitation
below faded BDUs, Corcoran's scruffing against the grimey asphalt quietly protest their need for polish
leanly muscular arms dangle loosely at his sides and sway in time with long stride
whatever light makes it this far casting dull, oblique shine on the inks across his inner right forarm
a portrait painted by the shadows solidifying form - gathering in the hollows beneath his browthen the ghost in the darkness seems to catch life's breath
chin tipping up in salutory motion Eagle-style
rich, deep umber eyes glimmering refraction in the darkness
sharing a margin of warmth with the faint grin that crawls crookedly over lips"Nuh." the tone carries the same casual ambience of the raggedyman's shoulder set, cautiously polite to enter another strange Garou's territory but smoothly cadent just the same "W'z jus' me."
the grin quirks wider, breifly wry before disappearing again
nothing wasted for all resources go towards clarifying speech
thick Empire State brass tarnished by a distinct slur
mostly likely caused by that notch of mishealed bone scarred along left jawline"Go' th' mess'ge I w's s'pose a look f'r you."
(primal)
Sharp and jagged shadows stretched to the far reaches of the alleyway, amalgamating so quickly and so fully that it was impossible to distinguish between the large scary monster standing in chains and rags at one end of the alley and the pair of experienced Bogeymen at the other."Ahhh, see yeh be'n speak'n tah Meer. Roit, Roit..."
A pause, Bashful? Embarassed? Awkward? Something tense and worrisome in there, the shift of the chains sounding unnatural and uncomfortable, as if they reflected each emotion and movement a second before he offered them to be seen.
"Yeh s'pose tha's tha' proper way a' do'n thin's."
Another pause, the form straightening just enough to present that air of new and necessary kinship to Gaia. Nothing so far as a Ranking Defender but something to be messed with. Something to be proud of...
Something of the Thing that growls back at the Nasty.
"Meh Nam's Primal. Call meh Shatt'rsnap 'n tha' peep'ls tongue tho'. Full Moon Cliat' Bone Gnaw'r."
The sudden and sharp ricochet of chainlinks colliding off one another can be heard, swirling up either arm like constricting vipers, until both lengths settle neat and nice 'round the forearms adding weight, density and a rather ugly present for anyone looking to step into his personal space. The action is accompanied by a finalising
Click.
....He waits.
((Sorry this took me so long, internet connection went buggy for a good half a week or so.))
(james)
the rattle of chains speaks in cadent tongue
rhythm of uneasy discomfort mutely clattering between alley walls
disconcerting to most, it's easy translation to the street musician
quietly patient as the strange Garou figures his priorities out"James Brans'n, Jukebox a some, Drums-'n-Skulls a th' Nation. BG Eld'rman a Fos'rn fullmoon've Eagle's pack." a tip of his head back towards the Modi waiting off yonder "Packma'e."
if Decker wants to introduce himself, he will
and now the raggedyman's turn to wait
kid wanted to be found - let's see what he has to say((No worries))
(primal)
Armoured-arms clink together as both cross over the chest, tightening the links 'round musculature in either a show of BRavo or a reflexive gesture of protection and comfort. Either way the motion is distincly isloating." 'ear iz always nice tah greet tha' lords o' tha' manor ev'n if they got 'bout'z much'z I do, Drumz~rhyah."
The accent slaughter's the english language with as much finesse and elegance as a butcher's cleaver. The cowled fellow, his dirty features twisted into a hard-jawed scowl, stares straight forward meeting the eye of the Bone Gnawer elder with his dark and seedy own.
"Tha' Skid 'ear'z got Wyrm probl'ms, but I giss ya 'now that. Go'd 'mount o' thiz place'z got Wyrm probl'ms. Figur'd ya bes' 'now tho'. Wha' I kinna ne'd tah 'now iz if'n tha' Karn 'iz 'round 'ere 'n wha' kin' a Chiminage" This word is said with immaculate slowness "I gotz a do tah join..."
(james)
deep umber eyes watch Primal's repetoire of gestures
if the Elderman comes to any conclusions of bravado or consolation
he doesn't let it show past the lopsided curve that lends towards easy smile
whatever the reason chains tighten over steely muscle
James is content enough to let it be the Cliath's own
making no move to further intrude upon the other's chosen alley or personal space
the raggedyman seems quite comfortable leaning against this chosen spread of bricks
rusty dust clinging to the sleeve of his t-shirt where it's trapped between shoulder and mortared wall"Eh... who needsa cas'le when yeh kingdom'z th' urb'n jungle a th' street'?"
one hand waves absent gesture dismissing laughter-laced words into the night
a knowing glimmer within dark gaze acknowledging the deference of rank
even if both Gnawers instinctively know the truth in Primal's observation
fancily trimmed titles are little more than words among the Omega Tribe
other things bear far greater importancelike..... getting a translator for the poor Modi standing watch over yonder
the Sons of Rat seem equally adept at effortlessly demolishing the English language
between the thick accent and battlescar slur - it's a viable concern if they are still speaking English
(no wonder other Tribes think they've all gone mad from generations of abject poverty)
and not some super secret lexicon shared amongst the jackal blooded alone"Scab'za stain." shoulders roll in a liquid shrug supporting that yes, there are Wyrm problems all over the damned place, but what did they really expect otherwise? casual as he sounds, the guttermutt doesn't waver, meeting scowling gaze dead on without so much as a flinch "But we all done our part a make due. If y'r plannin' a set up shop here 'n join th' Union, y'u'll be 'spected a keep y'r nose'n th' stree's clean, no quart'r offer' f'r those tha' slack. 'Nuff fullblood 'roun' town a give ya plen'y a choice f'r formin' 'lliances've y'r own. As f'r th' Caer'...."
pause punctuated by the appearance of that faint, lopsidedly curved grin
general suggestion of Chicago's proverbial ropes outlined before the crux of the matter
dreadlocks swaying as his chin lifts up and head tips towards the South East
indicating the sacred site's..... general..... location from Skid Row's northern territories"Head tha' way coupla mile'n give a call to th' guardin' pack, they'll lead y'in... guide yeh through wha's 'spected. We sacrifice' packmates'n our own blood a tha' Caer'.... so i'z no' my place a tell yeh what'll be pers'nal 'nuff a yours a be worthy chim'nage."
((Totally lost track of this thread somewhere along the way *hangs head* So sorry, dude!))
(primal)
The dark fleshed (was it grime?) brawler steps forward a pace or more, curbstopper boots thumping heavily against the asphalt. The chains continue to clink, their song sounding vaguely like a conversation, only through distorted static and completely one-sided."...Cas'le ain' got noth'n 'n tha' street, s'roit..."
He grunts and smacks a loogie off the nearby wall, a hand rising to wipe the excess across the back. If the Cliath seems uncomfortable with the Rank naming or otherwise, it doesn't show through. Perhaps a courtesy to the (Anti)non-tribe not ten paces away.
"...Ain' look'n tah blam' ya, Cuz. Tha' worl's a shit pit 'n we all got'r parts 'a do tah fix it."
He sniffed, obviously pulling back for another loogie though it fails to come right away.
"But if'n ya need'em, I gotz two fists eag'r fer tha' fight. Fath'r Rat's at my ba'k 'n I 'eard tha' Fam down 'ere built 'em tuff 'nuff...Jus' need'd a few mor'."
A pause is taken to finally spit that loogie, joining the other.
"So pav' yer own way, do yer own deed 'n dun' go fuck'n up. Tha' usual. Got'cha."
With no place to look that he hasn't looked at three thousand times before, the Cliath remains standing before his Tribesmate, offering a crack of the vertebrae and general roll of the head.
"Pay my respects 'n I fin' tha' place. Thanks tho'. So 'onest, injun...'ows tha' Fam' do'n in this place? We OK?"
It's kind of like asking if theres a problem that needs fixing in conjunction with a genuine concern/worry that seems to stem from some deeper need or compulsion. The chains flex and tighten under the swell of muscle.
(james)
"We c'n use yeh."hell, they can use all the help they can get
steadfast reality for those fighting Gaia's War
never an able hand be turned down
though the desperation of the matter is covered by that lopsided grin
dire situtation narrated by the near jovial invitation
(Step on up to the plate, bub, join the team!)
call it some innate talent in the street performer Fostern
much like his ability to think little of Primal's penchace for hawking loogies at the wallwith some Tribes that's considered a treasonous breach of etiquette
with Gnawers it just comes with the territory"We're hang'n' in there." brows lift as James' head tips in thought "Num'rs a bit light f'r 'spectations 'roun' a City a thi' si'e, but Fam'lies grow wi' time. Y'r not th' only new face'n town. Callin' a gath'rin' here soon, keep'n ear a th' Chain f'r specs on th' meet'n'greet."
[in play]Posted by james at 12:00 AM