Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 10:29PM EST
The GPS system was a good investment. She had found it useful over the past two years, when sent to some strange town, one of the rural counties, an address off the beaten path. Tonight, she paused to bless the thing again as she followed the small road winding through the dark woods of the deeper areas of the pine barrens.
To the south, industry, agriculture, mixed development interrupted by stretches of wetlands, crossed by the Atlantic City Expressway. Here, nothing but acres of would-be wild and towns lost to time. With specific directions, she did not find it hard to locate the general area. Once there, though, she found herself lost several times, staring down a road that had been blacktopped but was turning into gravel and then into nothing, impossibly black beyond the halo of her headlights. The trees were so narrow and close by then that a three-point turn was a nerve-fraying lesson in fine-tuned german engineering.
After several such dead ends, she at last discovers what she believes is the appropriate drive, hidden by a veil of invasive trumpet vine that has grown in more quickly than native plants. Brights sweep over the small cabin ahead, flashing off the narrow windows, a halo of harsh, artificial light, rainbows dancing at the widest concentric circle of illumination. Moments later, the rumble of the Passat's engine quiets, the lights are cut abruptly off, and the night is silent again. To a city dweller like Éva, the silence is eerie and close, almost thick, oppressive.
The jangle of keys in her hands does little to dispel the creeping edges of the night as she climbs out of the car and approaches the cabin. Her clothing is inappropriate for the setting: a black linen suit wrinkled from the long drive, dark heels, sinking into the mud, the flash of white, a shell beneath the suit jacket, at the collar. Gingerly, she crosses the muddied yard and picks her way up the steps to the porch. Pausing at the door, she glances around and only then knocks. Her eyes fall from her hand to her shoes, and kicks up one heel to better examine the damage. She'll need to clean and polish then tonight, if they are to remain wearable.
Santiago
Wed 10:41PM EST
The vague scent of food (a simple fare, and smelling oddly like...breakfast) drifts from the open window. She can hear a television, which is somehow out of place with the otherwise rustic setting. A moment after she knocks the door swings open to reveal an exceedingly simple floorplan: raw wood planks and roughhewn furniture. A television, a sagging couch, a coffee table, a conjoined eat-in kitchen, a door to (presumably) bedroom and bathroom.
And Santiago: straight black eyebrows, unsmiling eyes, roman-cut short black hair. He looks her over and stands aside to let her in. "Hi. Thanks for coming out." The door swings shut behind her. Wood squeaks heavily on wood. Lightfooted, silent-stepped, the Spanish Forseti (a contradiction if ever there was one) heads back to the kitchen area. "Eggs and toast?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 10:51PM EST
"Of course." Quietly spoken, mere politeness, though he can find no fault with her words or her manner. Her eyes drift over the interior in slow, sweeping strokes, and though her face remains carefully neutral, with the barest hint of a polite smile cresting her lips, she is somewhat troubled. The cabin's sparcity, or perhaps its existance. She never thinks about where they go, when they leave the orbit of her life. That they go somewhere as ordinary as this unsettling, somehow. That they sleep or wash or cook eggs and toast unsettles her.
Just within the door, she steps out of her shoes. The wooden floor will ruin her hose, no doubt, but she does not wish to track mud around. Two inches shorter than she was a moment ago, she is pauses in her study of his living room long enough to realize that she is hungry. Half-a-faint, formal smile. "That would be nice, thank you." She walks further into the bare room, but does not make herself at home. Her hands hang awkwardly at her side and before another moment has passed, she prompts, "Did you need something?"
Santiago
Wed 10:59PM EST
The interior is different from her sprawling flat, to be sure. It has none of the sleek modern amenities; little of the creature comforts that counter the sleekness into a cozy homeyness. It's raw wood, great beams laid bare; it's sparse, old, but clean furnishes, no curtains over the windows, no rug on the darkwood floor. There's an oldfashioned clock and a phone on an endtable. Behind that, the only thing similar to decoration: a large cross, little more than two unpolished wood sticks at right angles to one another.
All this is lit by two ceiling lights, both turned on by a dangling steel cord. The stove is large and hulking and black. The fire roars, almost certainly propane from a tank outside. Eggs sizzle and toast sizzles; there's no microwave, no toaster oven.
"Look on the coffee table," he says over his shoulder. The coffee table is unadorned, one slab of wood atop four legs. There's a notepad on it, written on in a flowing, slanting hand. It's Spanish, if she reads it, and mostly seems to be notes of some sort. Dates, names. Events. Crimes.
Beside it is the eviction notice.
"Inconvenient." His voice comes from right beside her. Somehow in the meantime the fire has shut off and he has crossed the room silently, handing her a plate with a fork on it. His button-up shirt is unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin is tanned and taut, and the two coiling tattoos down his sides are visible now and again as the shirt moves. He sinks down on the couch. "Not for me. I can pack everything and go in an hour if I need to. But there are people here who've lived here for years." The yolks on his own plate run yellow when he stabs them with his fork, and he mops it up with a slice of toast.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 11:22PM EST
Absorbed in legalese as she is, the sounds of sizzling eggs and browning toast fade into the distance. It's a trick attorneys learn sometime in their first year of law school, extreme concentration, tuning literally everything else out. Legal language is obtuse and abstract, endlessly dry. To understand it, one must put one's mind in circles around circles until little curliques of thought and sprawled everywhere.
And so she's startled by his sudden appearance, the plate at her shoulder, the voice in her ear. Startled enough that her shoulders tense and her head snaps backs, dark eyes roaming over her shoulder. The cabin, the plate, the wolf-man at her shoulder.
Plate in one hand, notice in the other, she hesitates her eyes trail, briefly, over the notebook. Names. Dates. Crimes. Something cold on her spine, something raw in the pit of her stomach, and she tears her eyes away before any of the words (Names. Dates. Crimes. His next victim. His last execution. She doesn't want to know.) have been committed to memory.
"Do you know who owns the land?" she asks as she circles to the couch. She stands there a moment, considering positions, and then sits at last, gingerly, on the very edge of the couch. The notice is set aside, and her attention turns to her eggs and toast. "Or, perhaps, why they're doing this? We're in the state reserve, aren't we?"
Santiago
Wed 11:29PM EST
Noticing the direction of her gaze - there's very little, perhaps nothing, that Santiago does not notice - he reaches down and flips the notebook casually over. It's best if she doesn't know. The last execution, the next victim. It's best if she didn't think about such things, because sometimes they tried (futilely) to stop it. And then they stood in the way of the iron law of Fenris.
The couch is a three-person affair. Santiago doesn't sprawl. He almost seems to crouch, compact and liquid-boned, lean. There's plenty of room in between. A shake of his head, and he swallows before he speaks, washing it down with black coffee. "Coffee?" he offers, first. Then, "I don't know. Corran, a Fostern Child of Gaia, and his mate own these cabins. They might know."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 11:37PM EST
Fostern is not a familiar word to her. Child of Gaia, however, she recognizes. So too, the peculiar term mate, one she does not particularly like. It makes them sound like so much chattel, and even if that is all they are (that is all they are, who stand on the sidelines, chattel and tools), it is not something she finds pleasant to contemplate. Some faint smile passes across her mouth, though, a distant thing. "No other information?" A bite of toast, small and precise, just dipped in the yolk of her egg. "Or, at the least, where I can find Corran or his wife?" Preference there clear.
Afterthought: "No, no coffee, thank you." She offers a mild shrug punctuated by the wave of her fork. "This late, it would just keep me up."
Santiago
Wed 11:42PM EST
Santiago doesn't wolf his food down. Nor does he contemplate each bite. He eats at a moderate pace that soon cleans up the plate, and he mops up the last of the yolk in a swirl of toast, nearly artistic. Going to put the plate into the sink, the drains his coffee.
"Just up the road." The water comes on and he does the dishes. "The big house. I can show you if you like."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 11:49PM EST
"Please," comes Éva's quiet reply as she rises from her place and brings her own plate to the sink. It is not cleaned. Half the eggs, half the toast: neither her usual late night supper, though a strangely satisfying one.
The clink of her plate beside the sink. The subtle swish of her spring suit, the quiet pad of her feet as she crosses the rough-hewn floor. She prefers not to watch him engage in domesticities. It is too humanizing, and she knows what he is capable of. She slips into her shoes at the door and the walks outside, to wait for him on the porch, contemplating the silence, the thorough darkness, her expression closed as a furled flag.
Santiago
Wed 11:54PM EST
Soon enough Santiago reemerges. The wood door grates open, squeals shut. He has the notice in hand. The shirt is buttoned up, rolled the sleeves down, and stands buttoning the cuff on the darkened porch. The street is a black river of gravel, but his eyes need no light. "Come on," he says, and takes her over to Corran and Kimber's cabin, where they converge with Corrina and Matthew.
Santiago nods to the other pair. Swimming out of darkness, he holds up a hand in greeting to the Coggie. "Corran-Rhya, Eva Illeshazy." A curious respect there, the tone midway between formal and friendly. "Eva, Corran. She's a lawyer and interested in this whole mess with this." He holds the flyer up. "I told her you're the one to talk to."
Corran Vong
Wed 11:57PM EST
He looks up from his burger with wide dark green eyes.
Looks to the door, then back to them and stands taking the portch rail. There are two chairs and the swing holds two
"Please come and join me... if my wife comes out one of yall brought me the burger."
He offers Eva his hand.
"Dr Corran Vong."
He smiles and nods, then offers it to Matt too
"THanks.. "
He peeks at the flyer and raises his brows and looks to Eva and nods
"What kinda layer might you be Eva?" His smile bright. They would all feel an air around Corran. Something that supports them. Lifts them up. Calming and gentle it flows out from him
Santiago
Wed 11:58PM EST
Santiago finds a comfortable post to lean his shoulder on. Sooner or later, when it's polite to do so, the rather low-key (another contradiction) Forseti heads home.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 12:00AM EST
The woman accompanying Santiago is of moderate height, and could perhaps be called tall in the shoes she calls her "court heels" (or court hells, of an evening, after a long, long day). She is dressed in formal business attire and her dark hair is bound in a sleek French twist. Dark eyes beneath arched dark brows swing from Matthew and Corrina to Corran as she is introduced. Her smile is crisp and professional, though the same cannot be said of her suit, wrinkled now from a long day and a long drive.
"I'm a public defender, Dr. Vong," she says, taking his hand in a brief, firm handshake. Businesslike and attractive, she is, though to Garou eyes there is something more: a hint of pure blood, and not the most favored kind.
Corrina
Thu 12:03AM EST
Corrina offers her hand for a polite shake as well.
"Nice to meet you."
Her breeding is evident as well, her bearing, manner, everything about her suggesting that once there were heroes in her family.
Matthew Burk
Thu 12:04AM EST
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Vong."
The offered hand is taken, and shaken as firmly as the young man can manage. Which, to be truthful isn't very much at all. Now, Santiago referred to Corran as -rhya... and those here are bred well (he feels so... common..), so it's a fair bet.
"Matthew Burk, Wide Eyes. Cliath Angalkuq of the Younger Brother."
Corran Vong
Thu 12:05AM EST
He nods "I see." He looks her over and his brows go up
"Lemme grab the papers."
He puts his plate on the railafter taking abite and covers his mouth with his hand in an "oops" thing and nods "Eva this is Corrina, Corrina, Eva" He ducks inside and comes back with the thick packet of papers and gently offers them to Eva and looks around taking up his plate agan and whispers
"Wife is pregnate... if I don't eat this out here I'll lose it." A bit of a grin.
"My brother is coming in from Montana tomarrow, He's in enviromental law. He's going to help with the other stuff. Do you think you can help with the eviction?"
He looks to Matt.
Nods
"Ironwood, Fostern Theurge to the Children of Gaia. Ranking Theurge and garou in these parts Welcome." He smiles looking back to Eva and gestureing again to the chairs
Corrina
Thu 12:08AM EST
Corrina takes one of the chairs, leaving the swing or a closer chair for Eva, since she and Corran have important business. Hers can wait a little longer.
Corrina
Thu 12:10AM EST
Although . . .
"I'm going home this weekend and I was going to ask my dad to see what he and his colleagues could do. Most of them are environmental lawyers, but there are a couple of corporate lawyers. I figure that's a good mix to stall the proceedings."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 12:12AM EST
"It's a pleasure, Corrina," Éva replies, shaking the young woman's hand. Then, a nod to Matthew. "Mr. Burk." The rest of his words found small purchase in her mind, unfamiliar with them as she is.
The niceties finished, Éva climbs onto the porch and takes the chair Corran offers, glancing through the packet he gave her. For several moments, she seems absorbed. Then she lifts her head and looks over the edge of her spectacles toward Corran. Her eyes rest somewhere on his face, but never meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, did you say your brother was coming from Montana?" Back to the papers, and then back up a moment later. "Do you own this land, Dr. Vong? Or is this government property?"
Matthew Burk
Thu 12:13AM EST
"Ironwood-rhya."
Bowing his head (lower than Corran's), Matthew moves back, taking a seat furthest from the conversation. Eva is talking to Corran, Corrina is his kin, and Matthew.. is just here.
Corran Vong
Thu 12:16AM EST
"It's deeded to another Gaian, held in trust though grandfather clause I belive. My wife knows more about it. I should have that information soon. SHe's gathering it up"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 12:21AM EST
"Then I suspect they are seizing the land through exercise of imminent domain." Quietly spoken, her voice is crisp and professional. "Technically, imminent domain is only supposed to be used for public projects such as highways, or schools perhaps, but in recent years local and state governments have expanded that definition to include economic development. Unfortunately, the Supreme Court has upheld such use of the power when there is a compelling public interest." Her smile is brief and strained, dark eyes drifting out toward the trees. Mild disbelief, then. "It's hard to imagine, though, what they could want out here. Do you know?"
Corran Vong
Thu 12:24AM EST
He nods "To destry as much as they possibly can. Endron is the 2nd largest oil company in the world. They claim they are drilling for oil. In reality they are a wyrm tainted company. I fought them in Montana. It's how I achived my fostern rank. There it was a lake. Here... 1.1 million acres of ecological marvel. They don't even have to find anything. Just putting up their facilities to TRY will do serious harm to the enviroment and maybe harm this place for millina."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 12:33AM EST
The woman's brows draw together, and her wreathing smile is a distant thing, some meager response to his passion and eloquence, perhaps. "Whoever holds the deed will need to oppose the eviction, unless he or she is willing to give you power of attorney, in which case you can act as his or her agent and contract for such."
Her dark eyes drift back to his face. "Once you have that information, I can draw up request for injunction to stop the evictions, and a limited power of attorney for the owner to sign, giving you, Dr. Vong, the right to act in his or her place in all legal matters concerning the property." Her fingers drum briefly on the thick file. "I cannot file the response, since I am a public employee, but I can refer you to a local attorney familiar with real estate law. I think you're less likely to draw too much attention to yourself and your wife if you use a local attorney for the private matter."
Her brow furrows in thought. "Do you know if they are seizing more than just your own land?" Some gesture, towards the night, south toward the agricultural areas.
Corran Vong
Thu 12:38AM EST
He nods listeing to her as he eats his burger and looks to Matt to see if he's soaking this up and back to her
"I'm not sure but muy gut tells me they have to be. They want maximum effect. They will try and access headwaters of streams and rivers as far upstream as they can and the like. While they make money. This company seems to honestly want to hurt the enviroment more.
As for the power of attorni my wife might already have one. I'll check on all that.
Whom do you work for?"
Matthew Burk
Thu 12:42AM EST
Matthew, of course, is just keeping quiet. This isn't something that he knows much... well, anything about. Laws aren't his forte. One thing is, and he doubts that would be any help. Unless he could...
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 12:47AM EST
As Corran looks to Matthew, the Shadow Lord kinfolk follows the track of his gaze. It's a natural motion, sure and quiet as her dark eyes. "If they're taking the whole of the pine barrens, Dr. Vong, you have a natural constituency." She glances back, and perhaps for the first time there is a spark of hold in her eyes, a genuine weight to her smile. Perhaps it is merely the sure, slow effect of Corran's calming presence. "I don't know what the population is, but there are several historic villages and profitable blueberry farms and other agricultural concerns that fall within the area governed by the Pine Barrens commission. That's a rather large group, all of whom will be displaced from their homes, some of whom have roots reaching back several hundred years."
She falls quiet, and only then remembers his question. "Oh, I'm sorry. I work for the state office of the public defender. We defend indigent criminals." Her smile, brief and weaving, mildly tart. "You know, you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney..."
A small shrug offered after the explanation. Her profession is not the most popular one: defending criminals, drug dealers, rapists, murderers, with only the occasional innocent caught in the middle. "Do you mind if I make a suggestion?"
Corran Vong
Thu 12:49AM EST
He shakes his head "Oh I doupt they are taking all 1.1 mill acres.. even THEY don't have that much money and yes any suggestions will be appreciated. And please Call me Corran. We're all of the blood here."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 01:04AM EST
"Even so, doctor..." There is comfort to be found in titles. Comfort: comfortable distance, formal ties. These are all things she prefers, when dealing with the Nation. His given name sits uneasily on her tongue, but as he bids, she does. "Corran," a quick, apologetic smile. She clears her throat before continuing. "Even so, there are doubtless other lives that will be disrupted. Locals, farmers whose watershed will be affected, small recreational companies, bed and breakfasts. Who wants to vacation in an oil field?"
Some quick shrug and a gesture of her hand. They might think she could go on and on, and they would be right. How easy it is to get caught up in one's own rhetoric when one is preaching to the chorus. Color, faint in her cheek. "Form a non-profit organization with some vague purpose, to protect the cultural and environmental heritage of the Pine Barrens. I can draw up the papers, if there are local kinfolk who would be willing to file them. From there, you can do several things: you can file suit, you can recruit your human neighbors to your cause, you can publicize the situation, and you can solicit donations to pay for the legal fees."
Her brow darkens briefly, furrowing and then clearing once more. "It would also serve to deflect attention from you and yours, as the immediate opposition, to organization, camouflaging your identity and preferably - " another shadow, furrowed. " - actually, perhaps you should have someone entirely unconnected with you. Someone safe. The corporation's officers will be public information. Perhaps your wife has some local friends who would be similarly outraged?"
Her hands spread wide. "You'll need local counsel in addition to your brother, as I doubt he's admitted to practice law in New Jersey. In order to be recognized by the court, he'll need someone who has stood for the New Jersey bar and passed to sponsor him. If Corrina's father's firm is in New Jersey or New York, it would be perfect. He'll also need assistants, access to westlaw and a law library, some sort of legitimacy that local counsel brings, particularly before local courts."
Corran Vong
Thu 01:07AM EST
He listens and nods "Enviromental law superseeds juristiction as it's usually federal court but yes your right local legal councel would bee needed. The rest is good advice. Thank you." He smiles. She can tell he honestly listened and is taking her advice. Not some arrogent know it all garou this one
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 01:24AM EST
"Dr. Vong," some faint smile. "I'm afraid attorneys are more jealous of their privileges than physicians. Even were the suit to be filed in Federal Court - " a mild pause, a sound in the back of her throat, " - and likely, it should be as you will be suing for an injunction against the State of New Jersey - your brother would have to either sit for the New Jersey bar, a process I am certain he does not wish to repeat, be admitted through a reciprocity agreement, or be sponsored by a member of the New Jersey bar. I suspect that Montana and New Jersey do not have a reciprocity agreement. It certainly would not come up often, and I know you would not want to see your brother disbarred for the illegal practice of law. I'll let you stitch people up, and fight the Wyrm, if you will leave the practice of law to me."
Éva rises then, straightening her suit jacket as she hands the packet hand to Corran. On top, a white business card. "When you know the legal status of your land, give me a call and I will draw up a response. If you want to form a corporation, let me know and I will speak to your kin so that we can organize something."
Then, a quiet glance toward the night. The mild asperity in her voice disappears. "You realize, all this is likely only to slow them down." Her gaze trails back to him. "That's all we can do, Dr. Vong. It's up to you to stop them."
Corran Vong
Thu 01:27AM EST
His brows rise at the first part. Many garou would anger. Her own people might strike for such words. A talon would kill, A Fang banish. Corran listens and smiles. A soft chuckel and he nods
"Quite right. Law was never my thing. I stand admonished."
He takes the packet back and nods "Thank you I'll be in contact soon. We'll stop them." He smiles to her
"Go with Gaia Ms Illeshazy"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 01:36AM EST
"I know you will, sir." Quietly, and perhaps abashedly, she replies. It's rare she oversteps her bounds, and doubtless she is aware of the transgression. "I suppose it need not be said that my involvement should be kept quiet. You, your kin. No further." Her smile is self-conscious and not a little wry. "I'm not supposed to offer legal advice outside the bounds of my office.
"Good evening, Dr. Vong." Éva nods quietly to him, and climbs down the porch steps. As she walks, she nods to Matthew. "Mr. Burk."
Her footsteps on the graveled drive, disappearing into darkness. After a moment, they may see the meager light of a slim flashlight the size of a credit card lighting her way as she stumbles toward Santiago's cabin, and her car parked in its drive.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Thu 01:36AM EST
"I know you will, sir." Quietly, and perhaps abashedly, she replies. It's rare she oversteps her bounds, and doubtless she is aware of the transgression. "I suppose it need not be said that my involvement should be kept quiet. You, your kin. No further." Her smile is self-conscious and not a little wry. "I'm not supposed to offer legal advice outside the bounds of my office.
"Good evening, Dr. Vong." Éva nods quietly to him, and climbs down the porch steps. As she walks, she nods to Matthew. "Mr. Burk."
Her footsteps on the graveled drive, disappearing into darkness. After a moment, they may see the meager light of a slim flashlight the size of a credit card lighting her way as she stumbles toward Santiago's cabin, and her car parked in its drive.
Corran Vong
Thu 01:38AM EST
He smiles and nods
"Never met you."
He watches her depart. watched for an extra few moments knowing sound carrys in the woods. then a few moments just for good measure and looks to Matthew
"Is it me or was she hot as hell? Oh man I am such a sucker for intelligent women." He fans him self
"She gave good acdvice though. Some of which I'd thought myself. The nonprofet thing and all but damn if she didn't package it all up well."
He smiles
knock next time.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:32PM EST
11:25 p.m.
The living room is bathed in the blue glow of the television. On screen, the local new personalities are exchanging the engaging banter that serves to "humanize" the news, that soaks up time they could spend on stories. Before the thirty-five minute program is up, a teaser promises, we will be treated to the heartwarming story of a mother and child reunited after losing track of each other in a train station. They like to end the news on an upbeat, because focus groups are concerned that the news is too dark. That the news is dark because the world is dark, because the world may well be dying, does not seem to matter.
At this hour, Éva is curled on the couch with a blanket through over her legs. The wide windows are all flung open to the cool night air, though she will close and lock them before she sleeps. And she will sleep soon, for she has court in the morning, 9:30 sharp, and must be well rested.
On the coffee table, a single glass of red wine. Open on her knees, a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, pretty spring flowers, fabulous dishes made with baby leeks and baby carrots, all the "new baby vegetables of spring!" the cover promises. This too is a smokescreen, another veil we cast over the world and one she prefers to the "upbeat" news segment as being pure in its fantasy rather than misleading. No pretensions to "news," here.
Santiago
Tue 11:35PM EST
One moment not there, the next moment there. The air shimmers and the gauntlet rips briefly. He can see the millions of spiderwebs breaking free to let him through. All she sees is him appearing.
"Did the police give you any trouble?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:38PM EST
"Why?" It is not something she can fathom, the way he appears and disappears. She does not like the idea of another world superimposed over her own, to which she is denied such easy access. "Are you bringing me another body to enjoy?" Dryly, dry as her wine.
A moment passes. The television news drones on, softly. "No," she concedes then. "Not much. They never made the connection. They thought it was a burglar or some other trespasser."
Santiago
Tue 11:40PM EST
A moment during which his eyes, solemn and severe and black, burn steadily on her. When she answers, then, the light in them seems to relax. He nods. A glance over his shoulder at the television; back to her again.
"I would have knocked ,but I thought it'd be better if no one saw me returning to your place. At least, not so soon." A gesture to her wine, soundless and flawless. "May I?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:44PM EST
She does not return his stare. Never look them in the eyes, this was the lesson of her childhood and her young adulthood, and this is one lesson she follows without fail. Never look them in the eyes. Still, her eyes are upon his face, as close to a direct stare back as she will come.
"That's likely wise," she concedes, without particular inflection. Closing the magazine on her lap, she follows his gesture toward her glass of wine with her eyes. Politeness would require her to offer him a glass of his own. "Of course. Be my guest."
Santiago
Tue 11:49PM EST
Politeness would require her to offer him a seat as well, but the circumstances of their meeting preclude such things. He remains standing. He does not seem to mind. Straight, he carries himself, though not with a stiff, military bearing. His spine arches back, his shoulders are back, chin high; he stands like a dancer or a toreador - those who dance the death-dance with the bulls.
And bends, smoothly, to lift the bottle and not the glass. "Thank you," he replies, courtesy that can't quite be called false, but is certainly far from conventional. A sip. A careful wipe of the wine from his lip, though he doesn't bother to disguise it as another gesture. The bottle of wine is set down with a clack, glass on wood or glass on glass.
A brief silence.
"I'll be on my way, then."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:56PM EST
"You're welcome." Courtesy in return, though courtesy of a more convention sort. It's a call and response, in polite conversation. Thank you. You're welcome. One fits into the other like puzzle pieces, or blocks of legos.
She studies him as he lifts the bottle, and as he drinks, and studies him when he is finished, as he is quiet. Perhaps she is used to such visits, now. Or perhaps there have been others like this, before. Do this. Find him. Change this. See that he is released, come morning. Nonetheless, this is among the strangest of such visits and beneath her reserve she is surprised. Some echo of it sketches her brows upward. Otherwise, she remains expressionless, dark eyes still, mouth a cool straight line. "Good night."
Santiago
Wed 12:00AM EST
His gaze is level, steady, dark, unruffled. It holds for a moment and then the goatee moves as he - distantly - smiles. "I will knock next time," he says. It sounds like a promise. Then again, everything he says sounds like a promise; he does not seem the type of man (werewolf) who would say what he does not mean. "Good night, kinwoman."
He leaves the same way he came, vanishing across the curtain between the worlds.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 12:17AM EST
The smile, no matter how distant, draws her dark brows up another notch, wrinkling her forehead, carving a meager line between her eyes.
"Thank you," mouthed, demured between his promise and his farewell, not so much half-voiced as unvoiced.
Then her living room is empty. The news is over, and David Letterman is guffawing over his latest top ten list. She can see the details of show host's appearance, the space between his teeth, the color of his tie, where before he was only an empty suit, for a man stood there between the coffee table and the television set, obscuring her line of vision. She blinks at the empty air, then fumbles for the remote. Silence falls over the living room.
The curtains drift and sway in the breeze. Somehow, it seems colder, and the darkness without more menacing. Gone is the comfort of the cool spring night, where day lingers with the remnant heat of the sun. This is how easily winter returns.
The magazine with its homey headlines is cool and slick between her hands. Its illusions - she willingly grants that such scenes and stories (The Perfect Spring Patio!) are illusions - seem less benign indulgences than sinister masks, and she flings the thick volume away across the couch in distaste.
In the darkness, she drains the last of her wine and moves to pour herself another glass, but thinks better of it as her hand wraps around the bottle's neck. Instead, she lifts the bottle to her mouth and stares out at the dark spring night. Some time later - five minutes, ten, no more than fifteen - she rises to shut the windows, and lock them, to pull the blinds down tight, to turn off all the lights but one that she will leave burning, burning, the whole night through.
Tue 11:32PM EST
11:25 p.m.
The living room is bathed in the blue glow of the television. On screen, the local new personalities are exchanging the engaging banter that serves to "humanize" the news, that soaks up time they could spend on stories. Before the thirty-five minute program is up, a teaser promises, we will be treated to the heartwarming story of a mother and child reunited after losing track of each other in a train station. They like to end the news on an upbeat, because focus groups are concerned that the news is too dark. That the news is dark because the world is dark, because the world may well be dying, does not seem to matter.
At this hour, Éva is curled on the couch with a blanket through over her legs. The wide windows are all flung open to the cool night air, though she will close and lock them before she sleeps. And she will sleep soon, for she has court in the morning, 9:30 sharp, and must be well rested.
On the coffee table, a single glass of red wine. Open on her knees, a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, pretty spring flowers, fabulous dishes made with baby leeks and baby carrots, all the "new baby vegetables of spring!" the cover promises. This too is a smokescreen, another veil we cast over the world and one she prefers to the "upbeat" news segment as being pure in its fantasy rather than misleading. No pretensions to "news," here.
Santiago
Tue 11:35PM EST
One moment not there, the next moment there. The air shimmers and the gauntlet rips briefly. He can see the millions of spiderwebs breaking free to let him through. All she sees is him appearing.
"Did the police give you any trouble?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:38PM EST
"Why?" It is not something she can fathom, the way he appears and disappears. She does not like the idea of another world superimposed over her own, to which she is denied such easy access. "Are you bringing me another body to enjoy?" Dryly, dry as her wine.
A moment passes. The television news drones on, softly. "No," she concedes then. "Not much. They never made the connection. They thought it was a burglar or some other trespasser."
Santiago
Tue 11:40PM EST
A moment during which his eyes, solemn and severe and black, burn steadily on her. When she answers, then, the light in them seems to relax. He nods. A glance over his shoulder at the television; back to her again.
"I would have knocked ,but I thought it'd be better if no one saw me returning to your place. At least, not so soon." A gesture to her wine, soundless and flawless. "May I?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:44PM EST
She does not return his stare. Never look them in the eyes, this was the lesson of her childhood and her young adulthood, and this is one lesson she follows without fail. Never look them in the eyes. Still, her eyes are upon his face, as close to a direct stare back as she will come.
"That's likely wise," she concedes, without particular inflection. Closing the magazine on her lap, she follows his gesture toward her glass of wine with her eyes. Politeness would require her to offer him a glass of his own. "Of course. Be my guest."
Santiago
Tue 11:49PM EST
Politeness would require her to offer him a seat as well, but the circumstances of their meeting preclude such things. He remains standing. He does not seem to mind. Straight, he carries himself, though not with a stiff, military bearing. His spine arches back, his shoulders are back, chin high; he stands like a dancer or a toreador - those who dance the death-dance with the bulls.
And bends, smoothly, to lift the bottle and not the glass. "Thank you," he replies, courtesy that can't quite be called false, but is certainly far from conventional. A sip. A careful wipe of the wine from his lip, though he doesn't bother to disguise it as another gesture. The bottle of wine is set down with a clack, glass on wood or glass on glass.
A brief silence.
"I'll be on my way, then."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Tue 11:56PM EST
"You're welcome." Courtesy in return, though courtesy of a more convention sort. It's a call and response, in polite conversation. Thank you. You're welcome. One fits into the other like puzzle pieces, or blocks of legos.
She studies him as he lifts the bottle, and as he drinks, and studies him when he is finished, as he is quiet. Perhaps she is used to such visits, now. Or perhaps there have been others like this, before. Do this. Find him. Change this. See that he is released, come morning. Nonetheless, this is among the strangest of such visits and beneath her reserve she is surprised. Some echo of it sketches her brows upward. Otherwise, she remains expressionless, dark eyes still, mouth a cool straight line. "Good night."
Santiago
Wed 12:00AM EST
His gaze is level, steady, dark, unruffled. It holds for a moment and then the goatee moves as he - distantly - smiles. "I will knock next time," he says. It sounds like a promise. Then again, everything he says sounds like a promise; he does not seem the type of man (werewolf) who would say what he does not mean. "Good night, kinwoman."
He leaves the same way he came, vanishing across the curtain between the worlds.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Wed 12:17AM EST
The smile, no matter how distant, draws her dark brows up another notch, wrinkling her forehead, carving a meager line between her eyes.
"Thank you," mouthed, demured between his promise and his farewell, not so much half-voiced as unvoiced.
Then her living room is empty. The news is over, and David Letterman is guffawing over his latest top ten list. She can see the details of show host's appearance, the space between his teeth, the color of his tie, where before he was only an empty suit, for a man stood there between the coffee table and the television set, obscuring her line of vision. She blinks at the empty air, then fumbles for the remote. Silence falls over the living room.
The curtains drift and sway in the breeze. Somehow, it seems colder, and the darkness without more menacing. Gone is the comfort of the cool spring night, where day lingers with the remnant heat of the sun. This is how easily winter returns.
The magazine with its homey headlines is cool and slick between her hands. Its illusions - she willingly grants that such scenes and stories (The Perfect Spring Patio!) are illusions - seem less benign indulgences than sinister masks, and she flings the thick volume away across the couch in distaste.
In the darkness, she drains the last of her wine and moves to pour herself another glass, but thinks better of it as her hand wraps around the bottle's neck. Instead, she lifts the bottle to her mouth and stares out at the dark spring night. Some time later - five minutes, ten, no more than fifteen - she rises to shut the windows, and lock them, to pull the blinds down tight, to turn off all the lights but one that she will leave burning, burning, the whole night through.
cooking birds.
[missed a few posts...]
Starling Morningmist
Mon 10:29PM EST
Slowly crossing her legs beneath her to lower to a seat across from Santiago. Her features pure American Indian. Dusky bronzed skin, dark eyes and hair, high cheekbones.
"I have not seen you in this area before. It does not mean you haven't been here, just that you are new to my eyes."
If Nathaniel had spotted him, he sure hadn't told her.
"And yes, I know how to clean a bird. May I offer you a drink?"
Santiago
Mon 10:33PM EST
"If you please," and he tosses a bird at her. Hard to tell if he meant he'd like a drink, or if he'd like her to clean the bird, or both. On his side of the fire, feathers fly. A click of a folding knife before he starts to gut the first bird.
"I moved in recently. A month? Not long. I live in the Coggie village, in one of Kimber's cabins." Black eyes, reflective as obsidian, flicker around the camp. "Looks like you've been set up for a while." A nod toward Nathaniel's spears, or whatever else he might have left around - subtle marks of his presence. Subtle, but Santiago's desertbred nighthawk eyes miss nothing. "Your mate's?"
[missed a few more posts...]
Starling Morningmist
Mon 10:49PM EST
A few moments later a basket lowers from the dark to dangle just above the ground near the trunk of the tree. Then the rustling of branches again and she drops down to land, knees bending to take the impact.
"How do you like living in the cabins?"
Making small talk while retrieving the drinks from the basket. Turning to approach him, extending one hand to offer him the can.
Santiago
Mon 10:52PM EST
"Thanks," accepting, bloody hands and all. Pophiss goes the tab. He takes a pull from the can, sitting back down. Beneath straight black eyebrows, eyes just as black might seem to dance with amusement, but it's just a trick of the light when it comes down to it. Santiago earned his deedname.
Shrugging, he chuckles. "I like it. It's quiet." A nod at her incredible amazing tree(house). "How do you like living in a tree?"
Starling Morningmist
Mon 10:54PM EST
Laughing softly with a glance at the tree.
"Well, it takes a little getting use to, but it's quiet out here and as long as it's not real windy, it's kinda nice. Though when a storm blows in I swear it's like being at sea."
Holding her stomach and puffing her cheeks out like trying to hold in vomit.
"Ya know what I mean?"
Santiago
Mon 10:59PM EST
He watches her for a moment, blank incomprehension at the idea of being off the ground. Or being at sea, for that matter. Then, slowly, a grin parts his lips. His teeth are a white flash in his face, the skin sun-swarthy, the hair black and trimmed neatly short on scalp and chin both.
"I don't have a clue." He laughs, and drinks, easygoing - blood on his hands, blackness in his eye. "I've never been to sea, either. But I'm beginning to imagine. So what's Nathaniel like? Wendigo? Uktena?" The usual guesses, one supposes, when someone insists on living in a tree with his native american mate.
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:03PM EST
"Wendigo."
Rising again to head off a short distance into the underbrush. Coming back with a metal pail, setting it down near him.
"In case you want it."
Nodding to the pail and the water within.
"Do you mind if I ask what you are?"
It was obvious with his words of mate and tribes, he was one of them or big trouble. Big trouble came in many forms, and sometimes those forms smiled before they killed you.
Santiago
Mon 11:10PM EST
"Strong tribe," his only comment to that. "Thank you." Whatever he is, someone taught him his manners. The third bird is plucked and gutted, and he stands up to find a suitable spit.
At her question he turns. A beat. Then a smile that does not show teeth. "I'm a Forseti of Great Fenris." - and waits for the inevitable surprise to pass through her eyes. The image of a Get varied, but certain things remained constant. Chief among them, the Nordic features. The pale eyes, blond hair, hard-angled face.
Santiago had black eyes. Black hair. Wide, high, smooth cheekbones, and a rounded, open brow. His ancestors did not come from Scandinavia and Germania. They came from Spain, settled in the deserts, bred with the natives, believed fervently in the One True God who died on the cross.
Santiago spits the birds on a stick, sets it up over the fire, and waits for his dinner to cook. Only then does he wash his hands in the pail of water, red running to pinken the water.
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:14PM EST
"I was born Uktena. Though to most whites, we all look alike. No matter which tribe you speak of. Wendigo, Uktena, Sioux, Miami, on and on. Indian is what they see."
Santiago
Mon 11:17PM EST
Santiago thinks a moment. Gives the birds a turn. Nods. "True enough. Does that bother you?"
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:19PM EST
"Nah, I find it amusing for the most part. And in most cases we have it better than other races that aren't white."
Glad he had finished with the guts. Her stomach calming down now.
Not making any comments on his coloring compaired to his trible.
"What brings you not only out here, but to this part of the world?"
Santiago
Mon 11:25PM EST
Quirk of an eyebrow. "That's an odd thing to say. Most people would argue the other way around."
Another turn of the birds. Another sip of coke. His black eyes flicker down to the fire, and he shrugs his shoulders. "Would you believe sightseeing?" His mouth curves.
"I grew up in the Chihuahua desert, and then I lived in New Mexico. I've been landlocked all my life, and I've only ever lived in the wild." He's older than the average Cliath, Santiago - mid-20s at least. Twenty years in the desert. "This place, though," a nod over his shoulder at the world at large, "it's close to the sea. And close to New York City." A grin. "But not too close."
Kennedy
Mon 11:28PM EST
The path was long and dark, small in comparison to some of the bigger deer trails, that cut its way through the dense line of trees. One would have to wonder what she was doing out here.. again. Late in the wee hours of night with no moon to shed light upon her way. A small turn of her head, as it tilts upward, casts a spray of pale blond hair from her dark-skinned featured. Skin, tanned and weathered by the sun's rays. Leaves and twigs sweep along course fabric in a soft hiss. Black nylon BDU's cling to the girl's narrow hips, tucked into the tops of her scuffed combat boots. A black t-shirt stretches across her chest, only adds to the nightime camoflauge as Kennedy made her way, as stealthly, as she could. Keen eyes, like twin pools of obsidian, scoped out the terrain, spying the dim light casted by a cooking fire. She made her way towards the light, drawn to it, out of curiosity.
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:28PM EST
Smiles slowly, wondering why he was really here.
"Sightseeing. Me too."
Crossing her legs at the ankles and reaching for a stick to toss in the fire.
Santiago
Mon 11:35PM EST
His eyes meet hers for a moment. The smile remains, but he doesn't say anything more. They all had their reasons.
"Birds should be done in a little while." She hadn't plucked or gutted the fourth bird, but three fair-sized waterfowl should be enough. Nightblinded by the fire, Santiago doesn't notice Kennedy creeping up until the girl's almost into the clearing. The classic twig snapping, or perhaps just the movement at the corner of his eye, brings Santiago swinging about. The rifle is in his hand as though it had leapt there of its own accord, and leveling to his shoulder in the same liquid motion with which he turns.
Recognition. Relaxation. He lowers the rifle almost as soon as he's raised it. The moment of swift motion passes before it truly culminates. The gun returns to its place by the tree, blending with the shadows, and he offers the palehaired girl a smile.
"Evening, Kennedy. Just in time for dinner. This is Starling, Nathaniel's mate. Starling, Kennedy." He reaches forward to give the birds a turn. Fat drips into the fire and hisses. "Kennedy is kin to my tribe."
Billy Bedlam
Mon 11:37PM EST
another run through the Wendigo territory and he finishes up as is the nightly ritual at Nathaniel and starling's Camp. coming in through the back way, Hearing someone unfamiliar t the barrens in the camp, he unslings a bow and knocks an arrow before becoming visible...on edge lately...even his teeth on edge.
Matthew Burk
Mon 11:39PM EST
There's always something to find in the forests. He'd slept, he'd woken up, and now he'd gone off wandering again. Trying to get used to everything and everyone around the place he's going to be staying. Of course, he had to get past all the defences that Billy had set up... but he'd gotten in, and he went out the exact same way. Of course, since it is him, Matthew is humming softly to himself as he wanders, until once again cooking meat attracts his attention.
Kennedy
Mon 11:59PM EST
(Ode to Billy Bedlam.. *just cuz he smells funny*)
The crack of twig was possible, or the rumbling of hunger pains deep in her gullet from the smell of meat frying on the pan, could have given away her presence. Who knows? The wiry girl slips up on the edge of the clearing, dark eyes widening as big as the full moon, when Santiago swings around in a quick, fluid movement to train the rifle on her.
"AIEEEEPPP!!! DON'T.SHOOT.I.DIDN'T.DO.IT.I.SWEAR!!!" the words rush out in a hiss as slim arms shoot straight up, above her head. She remains unblinking, her heart leaping into her throat. Lungs expand to hold a sharp intake of breath.
She doesn't relax until Santiago resumes his place by the fire, still her arms remain in the air. Her heart pounding in her chest. "Duuuude, don't you know you shouldn't point those things at people. Ya might blow somebody's head of.. Like MINE!!" her arms drops now to flop limbly at her sides. She approaches the fire, turning to stare at the cook fowl. Brows rising up and down a few times quizzically. "Man, I didn't know Colonel Sanders delivered all the way out here in but fuck egypt."
Santiago
Tue 12:04AM EST
...evidently the rifle-brandishing scared Starling up the tree as well. Santiago's ears are ringing from Kennedy's screech. "Sorry," a wry grin as he gestures at the birds. "Help yourself. Save half for me."
He remembers the other morning. Six greasy jumbo sausages downed like chips.
As Matthew and Billy show up as well, Santiago rises to his feet - alert, but not aggressive. The gun is within easy reach, though it stays where it is, leaned against the tree. He nods first to Matthew and then looks at Billy. Billy's bow and arrow, more specifically. "Nathaniel?" he guesses, incorrectly, but not without reason.
Matthew Burk
Tue 12:07AM EST
Well that helped find the camp.. not just the smell of cooking food, but the screech. He appears into view in just a few moments. Not silent, but not loud either. Of course, as it is who it is, Matthew has a smile on his face. He didn't get a gun pointed at him... that's a victory in his book. He's certainly had more than a few first meetings that went worse than this.
"Hello."
Billy Bedlam
Tue 12:11AM EST
He shakes his head, Santiago now sits staring at an obsidian arrowhead that looks like it can do a LOT of damage. "Guess again...and while you're at it...tll me where Starling is."
Santiago
Tue 12:13AM EST
"Upstairs." Utter cool, or the appearance thereof. The lean, swarthy man nods up. "Kennedy must've scared her away with the screech."
Starling's gone. But Kennedy, Matthew and Billy showed up. There's three birds on the fire, and the fourth is yet to be plucked. Santiago gets to it. That'll be his dinner. This isn't his camp, but those were his birds, and the laws of hospitality still applied.
Sitting down as he plucks the final bird, "Caught me a few birds," a nod at the three staked over the fire. "Saw the fire and thought I'd meet the neighbors."
To Matthew, a nod. "Hi. Santiago Eyes-Like-Flint. Cliath Forseti."
Billy Bedlam
Tue 12:19AM EST
He grunts and moves towards the fire. kneeling down, he he unslings a satchel from his shoulder and sets it down
Matthew Burk
Tue 12:19AM EST
"Hi. Matthew Burk, Wide Eyes. Cliath Angalkuq."
What was a Forseti? It was Fenrir, that he knows.. but the rest, no clue. So, he gives Santiago the same in return. But since there seems to be so many natives around, well, Santiago'll probably figure his out first. No matter. It's not like he wants to hide it.
A glance over at the birds, and Matthew furrows his brow a little, thinking.
"I take it hunting's allowed in these parts?"
Kennedy
Tue 12:22AM EST
She looks around at the new people that emerge from the woods. Dark brows raising upward for a brief moment as introductions are placed. She bites her tongue, humming under her breath. Furballs.. All of'em. Or maybe just two of'em. She walks half-way, stopping just beyond the edge of the fire. Black eyes, fathomless in their depths, sweep over the cook fowl once more. She ignores the rumble in her gullet, dropping down to a crouch. Content for now to listen to the introductions.
Santiago
Tue 12:23AM EST
Santiago grins as an equally incomprehensible answer comes back. "Sorry. Old habit. Cliath Half-Moon of Great Fenris."
It might be noted that Santiago looks nothing like a Fenrir of stereotype and lore. Mexico, and before that Spain, runs thick in his blood. His skin is sunbrowned and his features rounded, cheekbones wide and high, eyes and hair dark.
He shrugs. "I wouldn't know." Another smile. "I'll find out sooner or later if it's not, I suppose." A nod to the birds and stands up, slinging the rifle easily over his shoulder. "Help yourself. I think the hostess disappearing is a hint that I've overstayed my welcome. You can find me in the Coggie cabins if you need me."
Starling Morningmist
Mon 10:29PM EST
Slowly crossing her legs beneath her to lower to a seat across from Santiago. Her features pure American Indian. Dusky bronzed skin, dark eyes and hair, high cheekbones.
"I have not seen you in this area before. It does not mean you haven't been here, just that you are new to my eyes."
If Nathaniel had spotted him, he sure hadn't told her.
"And yes, I know how to clean a bird. May I offer you a drink?"
Santiago
Mon 10:33PM EST
"If you please," and he tosses a bird at her. Hard to tell if he meant he'd like a drink, or if he'd like her to clean the bird, or both. On his side of the fire, feathers fly. A click of a folding knife before he starts to gut the first bird.
"I moved in recently. A month? Not long. I live in the Coggie village, in one of Kimber's cabins." Black eyes, reflective as obsidian, flicker around the camp. "Looks like you've been set up for a while." A nod toward Nathaniel's spears, or whatever else he might have left around - subtle marks of his presence. Subtle, but Santiago's desertbred nighthawk eyes miss nothing. "Your mate's?"
[missed a few more posts...]
Starling Morningmist
Mon 10:49PM EST
A few moments later a basket lowers from the dark to dangle just above the ground near the trunk of the tree. Then the rustling of branches again and she drops down to land, knees bending to take the impact.
"How do you like living in the cabins?"
Making small talk while retrieving the drinks from the basket. Turning to approach him, extending one hand to offer him the can.
Santiago
Mon 10:52PM EST
"Thanks," accepting, bloody hands and all. Pophiss goes the tab. He takes a pull from the can, sitting back down. Beneath straight black eyebrows, eyes just as black might seem to dance with amusement, but it's just a trick of the light when it comes down to it. Santiago earned his deedname.
Shrugging, he chuckles. "I like it. It's quiet." A nod at her incredible amazing tree(house). "How do you like living in a tree?"
Starling Morningmist
Mon 10:54PM EST
Laughing softly with a glance at the tree.
"Well, it takes a little getting use to, but it's quiet out here and as long as it's not real windy, it's kinda nice. Though when a storm blows in I swear it's like being at sea."
Holding her stomach and puffing her cheeks out like trying to hold in vomit.
"Ya know what I mean?"
Santiago
Mon 10:59PM EST
He watches her for a moment, blank incomprehension at the idea of being off the ground. Or being at sea, for that matter. Then, slowly, a grin parts his lips. His teeth are a white flash in his face, the skin sun-swarthy, the hair black and trimmed neatly short on scalp and chin both.
"I don't have a clue." He laughs, and drinks, easygoing - blood on his hands, blackness in his eye. "I've never been to sea, either. But I'm beginning to imagine. So what's Nathaniel like? Wendigo? Uktena?" The usual guesses, one supposes, when someone insists on living in a tree with his native american mate.
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:03PM EST
"Wendigo."
Rising again to head off a short distance into the underbrush. Coming back with a metal pail, setting it down near him.
"In case you want it."
Nodding to the pail and the water within.
"Do you mind if I ask what you are?"
It was obvious with his words of mate and tribes, he was one of them or big trouble. Big trouble came in many forms, and sometimes those forms smiled before they killed you.
Santiago
Mon 11:10PM EST
"Strong tribe," his only comment to that. "Thank you." Whatever he is, someone taught him his manners. The third bird is plucked and gutted, and he stands up to find a suitable spit.
At her question he turns. A beat. Then a smile that does not show teeth. "I'm a Forseti of Great Fenris." - and waits for the inevitable surprise to pass through her eyes. The image of a Get varied, but certain things remained constant. Chief among them, the Nordic features. The pale eyes, blond hair, hard-angled face.
Santiago had black eyes. Black hair. Wide, high, smooth cheekbones, and a rounded, open brow. His ancestors did not come from Scandinavia and Germania. They came from Spain, settled in the deserts, bred with the natives, believed fervently in the One True God who died on the cross.
Santiago spits the birds on a stick, sets it up over the fire, and waits for his dinner to cook. Only then does he wash his hands in the pail of water, red running to pinken the water.
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:14PM EST
"I was born Uktena. Though to most whites, we all look alike. No matter which tribe you speak of. Wendigo, Uktena, Sioux, Miami, on and on. Indian is what they see."
Santiago
Mon 11:17PM EST
Santiago thinks a moment. Gives the birds a turn. Nods. "True enough. Does that bother you?"
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:19PM EST
"Nah, I find it amusing for the most part. And in most cases we have it better than other races that aren't white."
Glad he had finished with the guts. Her stomach calming down now.
Not making any comments on his coloring compaired to his trible.
"What brings you not only out here, but to this part of the world?"
Santiago
Mon 11:25PM EST
Quirk of an eyebrow. "That's an odd thing to say. Most people would argue the other way around."
Another turn of the birds. Another sip of coke. His black eyes flicker down to the fire, and he shrugs his shoulders. "Would you believe sightseeing?" His mouth curves.
"I grew up in the Chihuahua desert, and then I lived in New Mexico. I've been landlocked all my life, and I've only ever lived in the wild." He's older than the average Cliath, Santiago - mid-20s at least. Twenty years in the desert. "This place, though," a nod over his shoulder at the world at large, "it's close to the sea. And close to New York City." A grin. "But not too close."
Kennedy
Mon 11:28PM EST
The path was long and dark, small in comparison to some of the bigger deer trails, that cut its way through the dense line of trees. One would have to wonder what she was doing out here.. again. Late in the wee hours of night with no moon to shed light upon her way. A small turn of her head, as it tilts upward, casts a spray of pale blond hair from her dark-skinned featured. Skin, tanned and weathered by the sun's rays. Leaves and twigs sweep along course fabric in a soft hiss. Black nylon BDU's cling to the girl's narrow hips, tucked into the tops of her scuffed combat boots. A black t-shirt stretches across her chest, only adds to the nightime camoflauge as Kennedy made her way, as stealthly, as she could. Keen eyes, like twin pools of obsidian, scoped out the terrain, spying the dim light casted by a cooking fire. She made her way towards the light, drawn to it, out of curiosity.
Starling Morningmist
Mon 11:28PM EST
Smiles slowly, wondering why he was really here.
"Sightseeing. Me too."
Crossing her legs at the ankles and reaching for a stick to toss in the fire.
Santiago
Mon 11:35PM EST
His eyes meet hers for a moment. The smile remains, but he doesn't say anything more. They all had their reasons.
"Birds should be done in a little while." She hadn't plucked or gutted the fourth bird, but three fair-sized waterfowl should be enough. Nightblinded by the fire, Santiago doesn't notice Kennedy creeping up until the girl's almost into the clearing. The classic twig snapping, or perhaps just the movement at the corner of his eye, brings Santiago swinging about. The rifle is in his hand as though it had leapt there of its own accord, and leveling to his shoulder in the same liquid motion with which he turns.
Recognition. Relaxation. He lowers the rifle almost as soon as he's raised it. The moment of swift motion passes before it truly culminates. The gun returns to its place by the tree, blending with the shadows, and he offers the palehaired girl a smile.
"Evening, Kennedy. Just in time for dinner. This is Starling, Nathaniel's mate. Starling, Kennedy." He reaches forward to give the birds a turn. Fat drips into the fire and hisses. "Kennedy is kin to my tribe."
Billy Bedlam
Mon 11:37PM EST
another run through the Wendigo territory and he finishes up as is the nightly ritual at Nathaniel and starling's Camp. coming in through the back way, Hearing someone unfamiliar t the barrens in the camp, he unslings a bow and knocks an arrow before becoming visible...on edge lately...even his teeth on edge.
Matthew Burk
Mon 11:39PM EST
There's always something to find in the forests. He'd slept, he'd woken up, and now he'd gone off wandering again. Trying to get used to everything and everyone around the place he's going to be staying. Of course, he had to get past all the defences that Billy had set up... but he'd gotten in, and he went out the exact same way. Of course, since it is him, Matthew is humming softly to himself as he wanders, until once again cooking meat attracts his attention.
Kennedy
Mon 11:59PM EST
(Ode to Billy Bedlam.. *just cuz he smells funny*)
The crack of twig was possible, or the rumbling of hunger pains deep in her gullet from the smell of meat frying on the pan, could have given away her presence. Who knows? The wiry girl slips up on the edge of the clearing, dark eyes widening as big as the full moon, when Santiago swings around in a quick, fluid movement to train the rifle on her.
"AIEEEEPPP!!! DON'T.SHOOT.I.DIDN'T.DO.IT.I.SWEAR!!!" the words rush out in a hiss as slim arms shoot straight up, above her head. She remains unblinking, her heart leaping into her throat. Lungs expand to hold a sharp intake of breath.
She doesn't relax until Santiago resumes his place by the fire, still her arms remain in the air. Her heart pounding in her chest. "Duuuude, don't you know you shouldn't point those things at people. Ya might blow somebody's head of.. Like MINE!!" her arms drops now to flop limbly at her sides. She approaches the fire, turning to stare at the cook fowl. Brows rising up and down a few times quizzically. "Man, I didn't know Colonel Sanders delivered all the way out here in but fuck egypt."
Santiago
Tue 12:04AM EST
...evidently the rifle-brandishing scared Starling up the tree as well. Santiago's ears are ringing from Kennedy's screech. "Sorry," a wry grin as he gestures at the birds. "Help yourself. Save half for me."
He remembers the other morning. Six greasy jumbo sausages downed like chips.
As Matthew and Billy show up as well, Santiago rises to his feet - alert, but not aggressive. The gun is within easy reach, though it stays where it is, leaned against the tree. He nods first to Matthew and then looks at Billy. Billy's bow and arrow, more specifically. "Nathaniel?" he guesses, incorrectly, but not without reason.
Matthew Burk
Tue 12:07AM EST
Well that helped find the camp.. not just the smell of cooking food, but the screech. He appears into view in just a few moments. Not silent, but not loud either. Of course, as it is who it is, Matthew has a smile on his face. He didn't get a gun pointed at him... that's a victory in his book. He's certainly had more than a few first meetings that went worse than this.
"Hello."
Billy Bedlam
Tue 12:11AM EST
He shakes his head, Santiago now sits staring at an obsidian arrowhead that looks like it can do a LOT of damage. "Guess again...and while you're at it...tll me where Starling is."
Santiago
Tue 12:13AM EST
"Upstairs." Utter cool, or the appearance thereof. The lean, swarthy man nods up. "Kennedy must've scared her away with the screech."
Starling's gone. But Kennedy, Matthew and Billy showed up. There's three birds on the fire, and the fourth is yet to be plucked. Santiago gets to it. That'll be his dinner. This isn't his camp, but those were his birds, and the laws of hospitality still applied.
Sitting down as he plucks the final bird, "Caught me a few birds," a nod at the three staked over the fire. "Saw the fire and thought I'd meet the neighbors."
To Matthew, a nod. "Hi. Santiago Eyes-Like-Flint. Cliath Forseti."
Billy Bedlam
Tue 12:19AM EST
He grunts and moves towards the fire. kneeling down, he he unslings a satchel from his shoulder and sets it down
Matthew Burk
Tue 12:19AM EST
"Hi. Matthew Burk, Wide Eyes. Cliath Angalkuq."
What was a Forseti? It was Fenrir, that he knows.. but the rest, no clue. So, he gives Santiago the same in return. But since there seems to be so many natives around, well, Santiago'll probably figure his out first. No matter. It's not like he wants to hide it.
A glance over at the birds, and Matthew furrows his brow a little, thinking.
"I take it hunting's allowed in these parts?"
Kennedy
Tue 12:22AM EST
She looks around at the new people that emerge from the woods. Dark brows raising upward for a brief moment as introductions are placed. She bites her tongue, humming under her breath. Furballs.. All of'em. Or maybe just two of'em. She walks half-way, stopping just beyond the edge of the fire. Black eyes, fathomless in their depths, sweep over the cook fowl once more. She ignores the rumble in her gullet, dropping down to a crouch. Content for now to listen to the introductions.
Santiago
Tue 12:23AM EST
Santiago grins as an equally incomprehensible answer comes back. "Sorry. Old habit. Cliath Half-Moon of Great Fenris."
It might be noted that Santiago looks nothing like a Fenrir of stereotype and lore. Mexico, and before that Spain, runs thick in his blood. His skin is sunbrowned and his features rounded, cheekbones wide and high, eyes and hair dark.
He shrugs. "I wouldn't know." Another smile. "I'll find out sooner or later if it's not, I suppose." A nod to the birds and stands up, slinging the rifle easily over his shoulder. "Help yourself. I think the hostess disappearing is a hint that I've overstayed my welcome. You can find me in the Coggie cabins if you need me."
6:01am.
Santiago
Sat 05:55AM EST
5:58am. Her alarm's going off in 2 minutes.
DING-DONG.
It's preceded by the doorbell.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:02AM EST
Though Éva never flails for the alarm, she does this morning. "The hell?" Several groggy seconds, twisted by confusion, follow as she twists herself from the lush white sheets and stumbles to her feet, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
The alarm: clicked off. Or rather, clicked through the alarm mood to the radio mode. Santiago may hear the brief blare of white noise as she turns down the volume and switches it to the soothing sounds of Bob Edwards, the NPR announcer.
Struggling into a silk robe, the kinfolk pads quietly through her dark, still apartment. Peers through the peephole. Opens the door, and stares, wordlessly, for a long, stretched moment.
Santiago
Sat 06:07AM EST
6:01am. This is when he usually sleeps. Not today. Not this morning.
Her wordless stare meets the shape he cuts in the doorway. He's in his killing clothes again. Pants and no shirt. A pair of black tattoos, complex and interwoven and flowing and not quite identical, twist over his shoulders and down his sides. Lean and sinewy rather than large and bulky, the shape of his ribs are faintly visible beneath a sheath of muscle as hard as wood, beneath the black shapes.
A beat. Then he walks forward through the door, and she'll either step aside or be pushed back. The minute he passes through the door what were once tattoos are now the guns, familiar perhaps. There is no moment of transition. It was tattoo. It is gun. Simple as that.
"Shut the door. Lock it."
What?
"Do as I say!"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:17AM EST
He is in his killing clothes, and she is in her sleepthings. What different pictures they present. He is hard and dark, half-bare. Feral. She is disordered from sleep, dressed in a pair of white satiny pajamas strewn with pale pink roses, dark hair a disordered mess around her shoulders. He walks forward; she stumbles back, the wordless stare bleeds into a twist of puzzlement and something close to alarm.
"You - " (Shut the door. Lock it.) Her reflexes are slowed and thick with sleep, but it is an oddly recalcitrant look she sends him. " - can't - " (Do as I say!)
Only then does she snap into obedience, shutting the door firmly and clicking the locks home with unaccountably trembling hands.
"What the hell - " She does not look at him, but at least her voice, low and urgent, does not tremble. Her hand remains curved over the junction between frame and door. He is behind her, her back is turned, and though she does not like it, she comforts herself with the delusion of flight. Through the now-locked door, out, away. " - is going on?
Santiago
Sat 06:40AM EST
(What the hell)
" - sh! - " Hand held up, index and middle fingers upright and tense, rest curled in a simulacrum of relaxation.
(is going on?)
One dark eye shuts gently as the other peers through the peephole. Silence reigns. Gradually she can hear banging outside. Crash goes the neighbor's aluminum trashcan. Cracklecrackle, the shrubs trampled. Stomp, stomp, stomp up the stairs and WHAM on the door.
"Motherfucking little shit!" WHAM. The doorknob rattles furiously. The door shakes and so does the wall. A picture falls off its nail. The deadbolt holds. WHAM. "Come out and--"
Watching, Eva will never know - no matter how many times she closes her eyes and reconstructs the scene for herself in her mind - how he moved so fast, so smooth, and so silent. The locks are turned back in a blur of lean sunbrowned fingers, the knob turned; the door begins to fly open under the assault and Santiago is strafing sideways, sliding, as the door whisks and misses his nose by an inch. An enormous man comes in swinging. Santiago dodges left, takes the motion and swings it into a three-sixty turn, clockwise around the charging man like a matador of his native country, and slams his elbow into the back of the skull.
The man hits the floor and the door shuts again, locks and bolts, and Santiago slides back into the ready position, cautious, until he is certain the man is out.
Then he leans down, grabs him beneath the ears, and twists.
crakk.
A foot chicken-kicks. Goes still. Santiago holds his fingers over the carotid until he's certain the heart has stopped.
Then he straightens, mouth a grim line, guns swinging unused at his sides. "I'm sorry for bringing violence into your home. He was home with his wife and children. I couldn't do it there, and there were bystanders in the streets." He looks about him, nods to himself. "I'll leave his body in the Umbra."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:58AM EST
"You ca - " Breath, caught suddenly, the cusp of something close to a sob, hisses out from between her clenched teeth before the weak sound can form. Her hands clench into fists at her side and her arms swing rigidly. "What if someone saw him - " Abruptly bitten off. It makes no difference, in the end. There is no reasoning with the unreasonable. The man is already dead before she has begun to move again, stalking three paces away from the door, into the house - the body, her floor. Her floor, the body, and the murdered standing upright beside her. "You can't do this."
The sky outside is dark, gray with rainclouds, but paling in the east. In the yard, a the dogwood blooms, pale petals brushed pink at the tips, pastel counterpart to the hot rush of color in her cheek, still imprinted with the crease of a sheet that became tangled beenath her as she slept.
Anger then: suddenly, blinding, virulent and visceral. It begins in the pit of her stomach and lances through her in a wild rush of blind sensation that leaves her shaking.
(She wants to throttle him. The desire is complete and immediate, unmediated by sense or sensability, a raw rush of id so electric she could almost believe the mussed strands of her dark hair are standing on end.)
Her anger is no more than a thimbleful compared to the tsunami of rage that even the lowliest Garou carries with him, each and every day. And so she does not turn back, and so she dare not turn back, though every instinct screams to find something, tear something, break something.
"Get out." Her eyes are still squeezed closed. The pretty white robe flares out around her ankles, dances still in the reverberations from her precipitous rush away. "Get out."
Santiago
Sat 07:06AM EST
His lips part within the frame of his goatee. He draws breath like he might say something. Instead, he leans down, grabs the recently deceased by the collar, and straightens again. Lean, supple, carven muscles stand out along the line of arm and shoulder and neck. He would not be able to do this as little as half a minute ago. You cannot drag the living but unawakened into the Umbra without special permission. A Gift.
But this man is only meat now.
Santiago disappears. The air seems to pop in his wake, and then there's stillness. All signs of violence are gone as suddenly as it had burst upon her, but she knows that if someone cared enough to send the police here, they would find traces of the dead man. DNA from skin flakes on the door. From saliva where his mouth hit the floor. From urine where the sympathetic and parasympathetic feeds to his bladder cut out in one fell stroke and let loose the sphincters. Evidence of his passing - a bewildering dead end that will never solve a mystery taken to the mystic level, but could easily ruin her career.
The air pops again. Santiago, alone this time. He looks at her for a minute. Then, "Don't just stand there. We need to clean the mess up. I need paper towels. Carpet cleaner if you have it. 409 or anything like it if you don't. Move, hurry!"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 07:22AM EST
The blind, instinctual grip of her visceral rage has passed when he returns. It leaves her spent, faintly nauseous, and still shaking with anger. He commands her again, and for a moment she stands there lock-stock still, forcing each and every last scenario of death and doom and disaster firmly out of her mind. The assaults abates, and she sets her jaw against the bitter images, the certain shame, the disaster of police and and scandal and professional death, if, in the end, no other.
No other death, but for the man somehow still here, but not, on the other side of the wall she cannot even begin to sense, let alone breach, for all that she is too keenly aware of its presence.
Motion then: fine, furious motion. The chafing music of her pajamas as she erupts into motion and stalks through her apartment to the kitchen. From the kitchen, the clatter of cabinets slamming open and closed, and then she is returning with am armful of cleaning products cradles close to her body, released to fall clattering to the threadbare faux-Persian rug.
She looks at him then, for the first time since he came in, or perhaps for the first time since he opened the door for the dead man walking who followed him, careening through the streets. She looks at him - the flat planes of his face, but never quite his eyes - and her own face is blank of all but a cold rage drawn from some deep, dark, embittered well.
"I said, get out. And I mean get out." Suddenly, she closes her eyes tightly and drops to one knee, sorting through the products for carpet cleaner and ammonia to destroy all traces of him: DNA and fingerprints, blood and bile, urine, traceries of the spittle that foamed at the corner of his mouth. "I will clean this up." Each word is sharp and precise and sure, but clipped to its most meager length. " - and I want you to go."
Santiago
Sat 07:30AM EST
"No - " and he catches her by the wrist before she can press towel to soiled hardwood. The towel is forcibly wrested from her and then he stands, pulling her with him. "I will clean this up. You will get out. Go somewhere where you will have an alibi if worst should come to worst and someone should have seen him come into your apartment and not leave."
He releases her wrist, finally. An edict of a Half-Moon is hard to resist, particularly when backed by such hard eyes under such heavy, straight eyebrows. A beat passes. Santiago drops to a crouch rather than kneeling, and begins to deal with the mess. A moment later, noting her still there, he speaks again. Quieter this time. "It's unlikely anyone saw and cared. Put it out of your mind now and leave."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 07:43AM EST
The quiet is broken only by the low murmur of Noah Adams in the background. His voice, soothing, drones the news of the day as if he were reading a particularly enchanting recipe. Tariq Aziz was captured in Iraq, today, after... The news delivered with the proper mixture of lightness and somber undertone, and she hears none of it.
Unconsciously, her hand rises to her sleep-toussled hair. And where the hell am I supposed to go? The question rises, bitter as bile in her throat, but she swallows it hard and quickly. Though the words are more of a barb than a plea, she rememders her lessons well, always: Shadow Lords do not plead. Perhaps he could read it in the crease between her brows, in the flat line of her mouth, the thinned lips pressed firmly together.
Abrutply, she turns on her (bare) heel a moment later. The robe flares wild around her legs, swishes as she stalks away through the cheery hallway and disappears. She has the presence of mind, even, to keep herself from slamming the door shut.
Five minutes later, she emerges from the hallway, dressed in joggings shorts of leggings, a t-shirt and a hooded pullover. Her sleep-tangled hair is pulled back into a thick pony tail and her eyes are shadowed by the brim of a baseball cap. The Shadow Lord brushes by the Fenrir without another glance, looping around the heart of the crime scene. The locks click and tumble. The door swings open, and she is gone.
Sat 05:55AM EST
5:58am. Her alarm's going off in 2 minutes.
DING-DONG.
It's preceded by the doorbell.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:02AM EST
Though Éva never flails for the alarm, she does this morning. "The hell?" Several groggy seconds, twisted by confusion, follow as she twists herself from the lush white sheets and stumbles to her feet, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
The alarm: clicked off. Or rather, clicked through the alarm mood to the radio mode. Santiago may hear the brief blare of white noise as she turns down the volume and switches it to the soothing sounds of Bob Edwards, the NPR announcer.
Struggling into a silk robe, the kinfolk pads quietly through her dark, still apartment. Peers through the peephole. Opens the door, and stares, wordlessly, for a long, stretched moment.
Santiago
Sat 06:07AM EST
6:01am. This is when he usually sleeps. Not today. Not this morning.
Her wordless stare meets the shape he cuts in the doorway. He's in his killing clothes again. Pants and no shirt. A pair of black tattoos, complex and interwoven and flowing and not quite identical, twist over his shoulders and down his sides. Lean and sinewy rather than large and bulky, the shape of his ribs are faintly visible beneath a sheath of muscle as hard as wood, beneath the black shapes.
A beat. Then he walks forward through the door, and she'll either step aside or be pushed back. The minute he passes through the door what were once tattoos are now the guns, familiar perhaps. There is no moment of transition. It was tattoo. It is gun. Simple as that.
"Shut the door. Lock it."
What?
"Do as I say!"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:17AM EST
He is in his killing clothes, and she is in her sleepthings. What different pictures they present. He is hard and dark, half-bare. Feral. She is disordered from sleep, dressed in a pair of white satiny pajamas strewn with pale pink roses, dark hair a disordered mess around her shoulders. He walks forward; she stumbles back, the wordless stare bleeds into a twist of puzzlement and something close to alarm.
"You - " (Shut the door. Lock it.) Her reflexes are slowed and thick with sleep, but it is an oddly recalcitrant look she sends him. " - can't - " (Do as I say!)
Only then does she snap into obedience, shutting the door firmly and clicking the locks home with unaccountably trembling hands.
"What the hell - " She does not look at him, but at least her voice, low and urgent, does not tremble. Her hand remains curved over the junction between frame and door. He is behind her, her back is turned, and though she does not like it, she comforts herself with the delusion of flight. Through the now-locked door, out, away. " - is going on?
Santiago
Sat 06:40AM EST
(What the hell)
" - sh! - " Hand held up, index and middle fingers upright and tense, rest curled in a simulacrum of relaxation.
(is going on?)
One dark eye shuts gently as the other peers through the peephole. Silence reigns. Gradually she can hear banging outside. Crash goes the neighbor's aluminum trashcan. Cracklecrackle, the shrubs trampled. Stomp, stomp, stomp up the stairs and WHAM on the door.
"Motherfucking little shit!" WHAM. The doorknob rattles furiously. The door shakes and so does the wall. A picture falls off its nail. The deadbolt holds. WHAM. "Come out and--"
Watching, Eva will never know - no matter how many times she closes her eyes and reconstructs the scene for herself in her mind - how he moved so fast, so smooth, and so silent. The locks are turned back in a blur of lean sunbrowned fingers, the knob turned; the door begins to fly open under the assault and Santiago is strafing sideways, sliding, as the door whisks and misses his nose by an inch. An enormous man comes in swinging. Santiago dodges left, takes the motion and swings it into a three-sixty turn, clockwise around the charging man like a matador of his native country, and slams his elbow into the back of the skull.
The man hits the floor and the door shuts again, locks and bolts, and Santiago slides back into the ready position, cautious, until he is certain the man is out.
Then he leans down, grabs him beneath the ears, and twists.
crakk.
A foot chicken-kicks. Goes still. Santiago holds his fingers over the carotid until he's certain the heart has stopped.
Then he straightens, mouth a grim line, guns swinging unused at his sides. "I'm sorry for bringing violence into your home. He was home with his wife and children. I couldn't do it there, and there were bystanders in the streets." He looks about him, nods to himself. "I'll leave his body in the Umbra."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:58AM EST
"You ca - " Breath, caught suddenly, the cusp of something close to a sob, hisses out from between her clenched teeth before the weak sound can form. Her hands clench into fists at her side and her arms swing rigidly. "What if someone saw him - " Abruptly bitten off. It makes no difference, in the end. There is no reasoning with the unreasonable. The man is already dead before she has begun to move again, stalking three paces away from the door, into the house - the body, her floor. Her floor, the body, and the murdered standing upright beside her. "You can't do this."
The sky outside is dark, gray with rainclouds, but paling in the east. In the yard, a the dogwood blooms, pale petals brushed pink at the tips, pastel counterpart to the hot rush of color in her cheek, still imprinted with the crease of a sheet that became tangled beenath her as she slept.
Anger then: suddenly, blinding, virulent and visceral. It begins in the pit of her stomach and lances through her in a wild rush of blind sensation that leaves her shaking.
(She wants to throttle him. The desire is complete and immediate, unmediated by sense or sensability, a raw rush of id so electric she could almost believe the mussed strands of her dark hair are standing on end.)
Her anger is no more than a thimbleful compared to the tsunami of rage that even the lowliest Garou carries with him, each and every day. And so she does not turn back, and so she dare not turn back, though every instinct screams to find something, tear something, break something.
"Get out." Her eyes are still squeezed closed. The pretty white robe flares out around her ankles, dances still in the reverberations from her precipitous rush away. "Get out."
Santiago
Sat 07:06AM EST
His lips part within the frame of his goatee. He draws breath like he might say something. Instead, he leans down, grabs the recently deceased by the collar, and straightens again. Lean, supple, carven muscles stand out along the line of arm and shoulder and neck. He would not be able to do this as little as half a minute ago. You cannot drag the living but unawakened into the Umbra without special permission. A Gift.
But this man is only meat now.
Santiago disappears. The air seems to pop in his wake, and then there's stillness. All signs of violence are gone as suddenly as it had burst upon her, but she knows that if someone cared enough to send the police here, they would find traces of the dead man. DNA from skin flakes on the door. From saliva where his mouth hit the floor. From urine where the sympathetic and parasympathetic feeds to his bladder cut out in one fell stroke and let loose the sphincters. Evidence of his passing - a bewildering dead end that will never solve a mystery taken to the mystic level, but could easily ruin her career.
The air pops again. Santiago, alone this time. He looks at her for a minute. Then, "Don't just stand there. We need to clean the mess up. I need paper towels. Carpet cleaner if you have it. 409 or anything like it if you don't. Move, hurry!"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 07:22AM EST
The blind, instinctual grip of her visceral rage has passed when he returns. It leaves her spent, faintly nauseous, and still shaking with anger. He commands her again, and for a moment she stands there lock-stock still, forcing each and every last scenario of death and doom and disaster firmly out of her mind. The assaults abates, and she sets her jaw against the bitter images, the certain shame, the disaster of police and and scandal and professional death, if, in the end, no other.
No other death, but for the man somehow still here, but not, on the other side of the wall she cannot even begin to sense, let alone breach, for all that she is too keenly aware of its presence.
Motion then: fine, furious motion. The chafing music of her pajamas as she erupts into motion and stalks through her apartment to the kitchen. From the kitchen, the clatter of cabinets slamming open and closed, and then she is returning with am armful of cleaning products cradles close to her body, released to fall clattering to the threadbare faux-Persian rug.
She looks at him then, for the first time since he came in, or perhaps for the first time since he opened the door for the dead man walking who followed him, careening through the streets. She looks at him - the flat planes of his face, but never quite his eyes - and her own face is blank of all but a cold rage drawn from some deep, dark, embittered well.
"I said, get out. And I mean get out." Suddenly, she closes her eyes tightly and drops to one knee, sorting through the products for carpet cleaner and ammonia to destroy all traces of him: DNA and fingerprints, blood and bile, urine, traceries of the spittle that foamed at the corner of his mouth. "I will clean this up." Each word is sharp and precise and sure, but clipped to its most meager length. " - and I want you to go."
Santiago
Sat 07:30AM EST
"No - " and he catches her by the wrist before she can press towel to soiled hardwood. The towel is forcibly wrested from her and then he stands, pulling her with him. "I will clean this up. You will get out. Go somewhere where you will have an alibi if worst should come to worst and someone should have seen him come into your apartment and not leave."
He releases her wrist, finally. An edict of a Half-Moon is hard to resist, particularly when backed by such hard eyes under such heavy, straight eyebrows. A beat passes. Santiago drops to a crouch rather than kneeling, and begins to deal with the mess. A moment later, noting her still there, he speaks again. Quieter this time. "It's unlikely anyone saw and cared. Put it out of your mind now and leave."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 07:43AM EST
The quiet is broken only by the low murmur of Noah Adams in the background. His voice, soothing, drones the news of the day as if he were reading a particularly enchanting recipe. Tariq Aziz was captured in Iraq, today, after... The news delivered with the proper mixture of lightness and somber undertone, and she hears none of it.
Unconsciously, her hand rises to her sleep-toussled hair. And where the hell am I supposed to go? The question rises, bitter as bile in her throat, but she swallows it hard and quickly. Though the words are more of a barb than a plea, she rememders her lessons well, always: Shadow Lords do not plead. Perhaps he could read it in the crease between her brows, in the flat line of her mouth, the thinned lips pressed firmly together.
Abrutply, she turns on her (bare) heel a moment later. The robe flares wild around her legs, swishes as she stalks away through the cheery hallway and disappears. She has the presence of mind, even, to keep herself from slamming the door shut.
Five minutes later, she emerges from the hallway, dressed in joggings shorts of leggings, a t-shirt and a hooded pullover. Her sleep-tangled hair is pulled back into a thick pony tail and her eyes are shadowed by the brim of a baseball cap. The Shadow Lord brushes by the Fenrir without another glance, looping around the heart of the crime scene. The locks click and tumble. The door swings open, and she is gone.
bad egg in the cuckoo's nest.
Santiago
Sat 01:44AM EST
BLAM.
Gunshot. 4 blocks away from Cuckoo's nest. Southwest. Boardwalk tourists start. Look around nervously. People pull out cellphones. Call the cops. Sirens in the distance.
(silence.)
A few minutes later, a man walks out of an alley, one block from Cuckoo's nest. North. He must have buttoned his shirt wrong because he's redoing it, clean, worn white cotton closing over swarthy skin. He walks without hurry. Seemingly without particular care for his surroundings. He stops under a streetlight and fishes in his pockets, not for cigarettes but for a pack of gum. A police cruiser whips by, lights flashing, and he looks up with the curiosity of any passerby, watching it pass.
Blister
Sat 01:45AM EST
There’s a mock growl and that swing is underhanded instead of normal. Didn’t knee him in the forehead, but slapped the back of his head instead. Even if there’s laughter behind it. So, out of the warehouse, arms sliding into oversized shapeless coat, baseball cap grabbed and set atop spiky mullet to help ward off the rain. Low slung thuggish walk, hands tucked into pockets, and they head toward the boardwalk and food..
Burgerwrapper
Sat 01:53AM EST
He hears the gunshot as they exit the nest. Frowns and pauses his head tilts and he chitters. Nods Chitters.
"Garou... came out of the umbra... questioned some guy... Then shot the fucker.... That way"
He points.
"Son of a bitch...."
Blister
Sat 01:56AM EST
There’s a snap of head upwards at the gunshot, waiting until Burger does his thing, before nodding, and steps head that way automatically. “In the nest?” The jokes, and even heartfelt confessions gone – tucked away. All business now.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 01:59AM EST
He nods "Yeah.. fuckers heading this way. The glass spirts I set up are keeping an..... well they don't have eyes buyt you get the drift. Come on. "
The Baron
Sat 02:01AM EST
~The tall black man heads down the street in Cuckoo's part of the boardwalk. He moves with a stride that says he doesn't care, or don't fuck with him. Its hard to tell. He stands at 6'0", and if you could guess his age, it seems to be well over 30, but he looks like a street denizen, so its hard to tell. He has a lithe frame, if you could tell that from his clothes. He wears an old button up shirt, some jeans that look ready to stand on their own. His shoes are well worn, and his jacket is a bright yellow, with a faded "Hertz" Logo on the back. He pauses in the rain as he hears the hub bub and commotion of the police, gun shots~ Shit, fuckers act as if they never heard a gun before......~He bends down to find one of his many packs of cigarettes on his body and pulls one out, lighting it, regardless of the rain. His hair is matted, and looks as if it defiantly hasn't been washed in some time. Not exactly homeless looking, but not on the up and up either, thats for sure~ MOTHER FUCKERS.......~He screams at no one in particular, as he moves into the borders of the packs territory~
Blister
Sat 02:03AM EST
There’s a nod, fingers patting down pockets, finding pack and lighter, as direction adjusts toward where Burger’s spirits tell them the man is headed for an intercept course. “I’m comin, I’m coming. Now – he mighta had a reason, let’s not castrate him right off.” Smirked, even as shoulders roll, body reacting toward the sudden shot of adrenalin. Long strides eat the ground, though for all the world, the Ahroun looks to be relaxed, comfortable, at ease.
Santiago
Sat 02:05AM EST
Another distant siren. Another police cruiser screaming past, lights and sound, sound and fury. Santiago pops a stick of gum in his mouth and begins to walk - toward Burger and Blister, for those keeping track. His gait is slow and easy, smooth and fluid. It's raining tonight, but not hard, and he is not the only one without an umbrella.
A family of four cuts across his path, the giggling children dashing for a cotton candy vendor. He stops completely, easily, and without stumbling. Lets them pass, chuckling, a lean hand coming out to tousle the hair of one of the tykes before nodding cordially to the parents. They move past; Santiago continues his way.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:06AM EST
He mutters "FUcker's in the way of me gettin' my grub on. Don't make me all keen and fluffy round the edges ya know?" He walks and keeps an eye out.
Hishead tilted to the side as the spirits give sit reps to McGyver and MdGyver gives them to him. Nodding after a bit
"That's 'm"
The Baron
Sat 02:08AM EST
~The Baron looks around as he is walking, as if he knows what he is looking for. Perhaps he does, perhaps he doesn't. He gets sight of Burgerwrapper, Blister, and Santiago meeting, and leans up against a building, across the street from them. He watches them with intent, muttering under his breath as he takes another drag of his smoke~
Blister
Sat 02:12AM EST
“Like ya ain’t been snackin all day.” Smirked, as half a step puts the lean form a bit ahead of burger. Sometimes, the Ahroun takes the lead. This seems to be one of those times – maybe Blister drew the short straw tonight, and Burger will take the lead tomorrow. No matter.
The mullet-headed Gnawer doesn’t hesitate as they draw closer to Santiago. A nod for McGyver’s information, and then there’s a flicker of recognition, and flutter of feathers. ~ seen him around a while back – but not in the Nest.~
There ain’t nuthin that could be called fine about the Gnawer. Nothing gender defining either. And the metis mutant seems perfectly comfortable with that. A stop in front of Santiago, and dryly muttered “evening.”
Santiago
Sat 02:15AM EST
A screen of people, colorful, noisy, cheerful. When they pass Santiago's black eyes are already locked on Burger and Blister like he knew they'd be there, knew they were coming to see him. As Blister slows to a stop, so does he.
Roman-cut black hair, cropped short, brushed forward close to the skull. A neat goatee. Lean and hard of face and body, his eyes are black beneath thick straight brows, and they do not seem to reflect the slight smile of greeting parting his beard. He nods to the apparent higher-ranking one. "Evening."
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:18AM EST
He keeps walking and then stops. Having fanned out a bit to Blisters left he hooks his fingers in his pants. Pulls them up then thrusts out a bony hip all strikin' a pose like and gives Santa the once over. Burger is in jump boots, Baggy cargo pants, a teeshirt that reads "MARY WAS A WHORE" under the urban cammo surplss jacket. On his forhead are a pair of WWII flight goggles. Hair is darkblue and mussed.
Blister
Sat 02:22AM EST
Like he knew they’d be comin. Course, that ain’t too hard a deal as the territory is clearly marked – enough a blind fuckin Garou would know they’d come runnin should shit go down. Or even when it ain’t goin done, just to make their presence known. They’re the friendly type, after all.
Hand shoves into pocket of jeans, the other occupied with keeping a steady inhalation of poison into lungs that’ll never show the effects of such abuse. Shapeless army jacket hides the rest of equally shapeless form as eyes lazily look over Santiago. “Busy night out there, it’d seem. I’m sure ya already know that, however. Also know where ya are, hm?”
Santiago
Sat 02:25AM EST
People passing behind. To either side. Sometimes between. Santiago steps aside for each, weaving between the flux without ever looking away from the Garou before him, nor where he steps.
A small nod. "And who you must be." A tilt of his head toward the Baron, though his eyes don't slant that way. "He's watching us. Should he be? Let's speak somewhere else."
Eyes like a nighthawk.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:31AM EST
He grunts looking over to the Baron. Looked kinda like their sort of people and he looks back to Sata and nods his head to an alley. Seems the guy liked them after all
"After you Bubbaluga."
Blister
Sat 02:33AM EST
Eyes slide toward the Baron, and narrow slightly. A jerk of chin toward him for Burger. Flutter of feathers follows. ~Watch him – I’ll take him into the alley – stayin close., just going a bit down… Keep the line open.~ out loud, there’s only a.. “Maybe he should, maybe he shouldn’t. And walk with me.” A gesture toward the alley, where the clouds don’t hang.This time a night, no one wants to head to the poorly lighted areas, and they’re headed for dinner, gambling, and hotels to get some rest before doing the same tomorrow. A pause until Santiago takes that first step, and the Ahroun falls into step with him.
Santiago
Sat 02:35AM EST
"Santiago," says the lean stranger - a name, one supposes - and then he turns and heads for the alley.
Inside, he leans back against the wall, spits his gum out discreetly into the palm of his hand, and sticks it to the wall. A last glance toward the Baron. Then he looks at the freak of an Ahroun, waiting to see what she(he?) wanted of him.
Blister
Sat 02:39AM EST
“Blister.” A name for a name, though the lean freak doesn’t take position against a wall, rather stands ground in the middle of the alley relaxed slouch of thuggish style. He waits. The Gnawer waits. Before finally. “Just Santiago, or you go better manners then that since we’re outa earshot of the others.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:40AM EST
He walks to the opening of the alley and leans aginst the wall watcing across the street. Patting down his pockets he comes out with a box. There is a delighted sound that escapes him. A pair of SLIDERS!! WOOT!
Popping the box open he pulls the first one out and munches.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:41AM EST
Seeing the dude meander back out of thier territory he ducks into the alley and tosses Blister the other slider. Always about the pack.
Santiago
Sat 02:43AM EST
The beard parts for his smile, and then the smile becomes a grin. Santiago laughs, revealing straight white teeth. His black eyes dance - or rather, they glint. Gleam like coins. But surely that's a trick of the dim light.
"Santiago Eyes-Like-Flint, Blister. Cliath Forseti of Great Fenris. And you?"
Blister
Sat 02:47AM EST
Burger ducks back in, and hand slides from pocket to catch the tossed slider, vivid gaze watching Santiago with a slight smirk. A bite taken, chewed, swallowed, before there’s an answer, however, and then. “Blister, Cliath Arhoun Gnawer of the Cuckoo’s Clutch.” A nod to Burger to add his introduction as well – even as he continues to keep half an eye on the mouth of the alley. “And yur in the Cuckoo’s Nest. And we’re told you’ve got something to do with the cops flocking down south a ways… we don’t want no shit going down in our Nest… I’m sure you understand.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:49AM EST
"Burgerwrapper, Clith BoneGnawer, Theurge of Cuckoos Clutch, Card totin' member of The Swarm Baby." He nods and blows santa a kiss.
Santiago
Sat 02:52AM EST
Incline of chin. Even leaning against the wall he somehow holds himself straight, head high, proud as an eagle. "Understandable. But there was already shit in your nest." Break away - nod to Burgerwrapper without a falter in speech. "I got rid of him for you."
Blister
Sat 02:55AM EST
There’s a slow smirk, and lift of pierced brow, as the rest of the slider is eaten, before fingers are wiped on denim, hand returns to pocket. “Really. Do tell. Course, bein as the shot was just south of the Nest, yet you took refuge in it after, you can see why I’m concerned. We like t’take out our own trash, after all, and seems ya took away some of our fun. How bout some details.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:58AM EST
He grunts and finishes off what he conciders, and would fight dules over, one of the best foods on the planet. Let the Fangies keep their wine and SCONES, Give him a bag of sliders and some grape soda and he's a pup in heaven. At the moment he's eyeing Santigo. If nothing else he knew the guy was garou and few would claim to be Get that wern't I mean. fuck. If I was going to lie I'd pick something with half a brain and a bigger dick.
He watches, as he watches Blisters back. he's graceful for a lanky smuck and his movments seem almost timed to Blisters. Concert. Synergy man.
PACK
Santiago
Sat 03:02AM EST
"The prey was mine," simply, crisply. "I have been watching him for a long time, since before he hid in your land. And now he is dead." He reaches into his pockets and deftly removes a neatly-folded square of newsprint. Holds it out to Blister.
Yaddayaddayadda...rape/homicide...yaddablah...plea bargain, manslaughter, 5 years, chance of parole in 2.
"That man was guilty," Santiago informs Blister as s/he reads. "Gaia's own truth tells me so. He deserved more than what the human courts gave him." A shrug of lean shoulders. "He received his just dues."
Blister
Sat 03:09AM EST
Pierced brow lifts a bit farther, and the paper taken and read. Not exactly quickly, or completely, but enough to get the general gist of the crimes committed. The word Rape gets a tightening around thick lips, but that’s the only reaction, before passing the newsprint on to Burger without looking – just knowing where he is. Pack, baybee. There’s a nod, then, and a slight smirk. “So it would seem. Well then.” A pause as final drag is taken, and butt falls to wet alley floor, fitzing out, and stomped on for good measure. Second hand tucks into pocket as well. “Something of a Vigilante, are ya? I kin respect that. Long as ya keep yur nose clean in my Nest. Ain’t gonna begrudge ya yur prey – that’s yur business. But the Cuckoo’s is my business. ‘preicate yur takin him outside the boundries – ‘preciate ya doin that for any others, as well. Don’t need no cops poking around here – no uppity elders neither.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 03:14AM EST
Burger reads the article. PDQ too. A growl escapes him. He starts to tremble. And twitch. Varied color fur sprouts on his forarms and then shrinks back in. THe growel deepening as he finishes out the page. Stiffly his arm extends to Santa and he snarls
"A RAPIST, in OUR turf is MY PREY."
in a voice that even a mother would find hard to love. Still. he doesn't frenzy. That's something.
Santiago
Sat 03:16AM EST
"Something like that," agrees(?) Santiago. Simple nod to the rest. "I'll try," and midway through that, the black eyes slip to Burger. Eyebrow rises. A lean hand snaps the newspaper back, folds it neatly, puts it back in his pocket. "Then kill him before I do next time," replies the desertborn, "and all our problems are solved."
Blister
Sat 03:21AM EST
Gaze snaps to Burger, and narrows there, putting it together quickly and only nodding when he doesn’t frenzy. Ruffled feathers ~Easy there, big guy. Just a meeting of the minds, remember? Damage already done.~ before gaze returns almost lazily to Santiago. “Ain’t got a problem man – just a bit of respect expected and given. We ain’t hard t’find. In fact – if ya voice yur looking for us, we’ll find you, if there seems to be a problem getting someone outside the boundries, or ya need back up. We don’t mind people passin through, long as they keep their nose clean, same as any other pack would expect – same as ya would yourself, I’d imagine.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 03:24AM EST
He leans aginst the wall and mutters. Looking in the little box that the sliders came in he rips it fully open and licks a bit of cheese from the inside and sucks at the greese. Rapists make him freak out then it's just a bad night for everyone.
He nods.
Santiago
Sat 03:27AM EST
An unreadable blackeyed look. A beat.
"I don't have a pack at the moment. But the point is taken and the offer is appreciated." Nods all around. "I'm done here. My car is parked a block that way." Nod toward the direction he'd been heading in before the sidetracking. "You can find me in the Pine Barrens if you need to. I rent a cabin from the Child of Gaian couple near Batsto."
Blister
Sat 03:32AM EST
There’s a nod, and the Ahroun takes a moment to light another cigarette, dragging deep before scratching just above an ear, then resituating ball cap on spiky hair. “Have a good evening, then, Santiago.” No nice ta meetcha or other happy blowin smoke up the ass bullshit, just a simple goodbye as a step back is taken, givin him plenty of room between the two Gnawers. As vivid gaze turns and rests on burger. ~y’ll’right?~
Burgerwrapper
Sat 03:35AM EST
He gurns and nods reaching out to caress Momma Cuckoos feathers back.
"Yeah I'll be alright. If anything I'm just pissed the guy got out so easy. I'd have played with him in "The Pit" For a week or two."
Blister knows he means the Abattoir under the werewhouse.
Santiago
Sat 03:36AM EST
Another beat. Then Santiago pushes off the wall and walks out of the alley, footsteps as quiet as snowfall. They see him backlit for a moment at the mouth of the alley, looking back the way he came, lean and sure of motion - and then he turns and slips out of their frame of vision.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Sat 01:44AM EST
BLAM.
Gunshot. 4 blocks away from Cuckoo's nest. Southwest. Boardwalk tourists start. Look around nervously. People pull out cellphones. Call the cops. Sirens in the distance.
(silence.)
A few minutes later, a man walks out of an alley, one block from Cuckoo's nest. North. He must have buttoned his shirt wrong because he's redoing it, clean, worn white cotton closing over swarthy skin. He walks without hurry. Seemingly without particular care for his surroundings. He stops under a streetlight and fishes in his pockets, not for cigarettes but for a pack of gum. A police cruiser whips by, lights flashing, and he looks up with the curiosity of any passerby, watching it pass.
Blister
Sat 01:45AM EST
There’s a mock growl and that swing is underhanded instead of normal. Didn’t knee him in the forehead, but slapped the back of his head instead. Even if there’s laughter behind it. So, out of the warehouse, arms sliding into oversized shapeless coat, baseball cap grabbed and set atop spiky mullet to help ward off the rain. Low slung thuggish walk, hands tucked into pockets, and they head toward the boardwalk and food..
Burgerwrapper
Sat 01:53AM EST
He hears the gunshot as they exit the nest. Frowns and pauses his head tilts and he chitters. Nods Chitters.
"Garou... came out of the umbra... questioned some guy... Then shot the fucker.... That way"
He points.
"Son of a bitch...."
Blister
Sat 01:56AM EST
There’s a snap of head upwards at the gunshot, waiting until Burger does his thing, before nodding, and steps head that way automatically. “In the nest?” The jokes, and even heartfelt confessions gone – tucked away. All business now.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 01:59AM EST
He nods "Yeah.. fuckers heading this way. The glass spirts I set up are keeping an..... well they don't have eyes buyt you get the drift. Come on. "
The Baron
Sat 02:01AM EST
~The tall black man heads down the street in Cuckoo's part of the boardwalk. He moves with a stride that says he doesn't care, or don't fuck with him. Its hard to tell. He stands at 6'0", and if you could guess his age, it seems to be well over 30, but he looks like a street denizen, so its hard to tell. He has a lithe frame, if you could tell that from his clothes. He wears an old button up shirt, some jeans that look ready to stand on their own. His shoes are well worn, and his jacket is a bright yellow, with a faded "Hertz" Logo on the back. He pauses in the rain as he hears the hub bub and commotion of the police, gun shots~ Shit, fuckers act as if they never heard a gun before......~He bends down to find one of his many packs of cigarettes on his body and pulls one out, lighting it, regardless of the rain. His hair is matted, and looks as if it defiantly hasn't been washed in some time. Not exactly homeless looking, but not on the up and up either, thats for sure~ MOTHER FUCKERS.......~He screams at no one in particular, as he moves into the borders of the packs territory~
Blister
Sat 02:03AM EST
There’s a nod, fingers patting down pockets, finding pack and lighter, as direction adjusts toward where Burger’s spirits tell them the man is headed for an intercept course. “I’m comin, I’m coming. Now – he mighta had a reason, let’s not castrate him right off.” Smirked, even as shoulders roll, body reacting toward the sudden shot of adrenalin. Long strides eat the ground, though for all the world, the Ahroun looks to be relaxed, comfortable, at ease.
Santiago
Sat 02:05AM EST
Another distant siren. Another police cruiser screaming past, lights and sound, sound and fury. Santiago pops a stick of gum in his mouth and begins to walk - toward Burger and Blister, for those keeping track. His gait is slow and easy, smooth and fluid. It's raining tonight, but not hard, and he is not the only one without an umbrella.
A family of four cuts across his path, the giggling children dashing for a cotton candy vendor. He stops completely, easily, and without stumbling. Lets them pass, chuckling, a lean hand coming out to tousle the hair of one of the tykes before nodding cordially to the parents. They move past; Santiago continues his way.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:06AM EST
He mutters "FUcker's in the way of me gettin' my grub on. Don't make me all keen and fluffy round the edges ya know?" He walks and keeps an eye out.
Hishead tilted to the side as the spirits give sit reps to McGyver and MdGyver gives them to him. Nodding after a bit
"That's 'm"
The Baron
Sat 02:08AM EST
~The Baron looks around as he is walking, as if he knows what he is looking for. Perhaps he does, perhaps he doesn't. He gets sight of Burgerwrapper, Blister, and Santiago meeting, and leans up against a building, across the street from them. He watches them with intent, muttering under his breath as he takes another drag of his smoke~
Blister
Sat 02:12AM EST
“Like ya ain’t been snackin all day.” Smirked, as half a step puts the lean form a bit ahead of burger. Sometimes, the Ahroun takes the lead. This seems to be one of those times – maybe Blister drew the short straw tonight, and Burger will take the lead tomorrow. No matter.
The mullet-headed Gnawer doesn’t hesitate as they draw closer to Santiago. A nod for McGyver’s information, and then there’s a flicker of recognition, and flutter of feathers. ~ seen him around a while back – but not in the Nest.~
There ain’t nuthin that could be called fine about the Gnawer. Nothing gender defining either. And the metis mutant seems perfectly comfortable with that. A stop in front of Santiago, and dryly muttered “evening.”
Santiago
Sat 02:15AM EST
A screen of people, colorful, noisy, cheerful. When they pass Santiago's black eyes are already locked on Burger and Blister like he knew they'd be there, knew they were coming to see him. As Blister slows to a stop, so does he.
Roman-cut black hair, cropped short, brushed forward close to the skull. A neat goatee. Lean and hard of face and body, his eyes are black beneath thick straight brows, and they do not seem to reflect the slight smile of greeting parting his beard. He nods to the apparent higher-ranking one. "Evening."
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:18AM EST
He keeps walking and then stops. Having fanned out a bit to Blisters left he hooks his fingers in his pants. Pulls them up then thrusts out a bony hip all strikin' a pose like and gives Santa the once over. Burger is in jump boots, Baggy cargo pants, a teeshirt that reads "MARY WAS A WHORE" under the urban cammo surplss jacket. On his forhead are a pair of WWII flight goggles. Hair is darkblue and mussed.
Blister
Sat 02:22AM EST
Like he knew they’d be comin. Course, that ain’t too hard a deal as the territory is clearly marked – enough a blind fuckin Garou would know they’d come runnin should shit go down. Or even when it ain’t goin done, just to make their presence known. They’re the friendly type, after all.
Hand shoves into pocket of jeans, the other occupied with keeping a steady inhalation of poison into lungs that’ll never show the effects of such abuse. Shapeless army jacket hides the rest of equally shapeless form as eyes lazily look over Santiago. “Busy night out there, it’d seem. I’m sure ya already know that, however. Also know where ya are, hm?”
Santiago
Sat 02:25AM EST
People passing behind. To either side. Sometimes between. Santiago steps aside for each, weaving between the flux without ever looking away from the Garou before him, nor where he steps.
A small nod. "And who you must be." A tilt of his head toward the Baron, though his eyes don't slant that way. "He's watching us. Should he be? Let's speak somewhere else."
Eyes like a nighthawk.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:31AM EST
He grunts looking over to the Baron. Looked kinda like their sort of people and he looks back to Sata and nods his head to an alley. Seems the guy liked them after all
"After you Bubbaluga."
Blister
Sat 02:33AM EST
Eyes slide toward the Baron, and narrow slightly. A jerk of chin toward him for Burger. Flutter of feathers follows. ~Watch him – I’ll take him into the alley – stayin close., just going a bit down… Keep the line open.~ out loud, there’s only a.. “Maybe he should, maybe he shouldn’t. And walk with me.” A gesture toward the alley, where the clouds don’t hang.This time a night, no one wants to head to the poorly lighted areas, and they’re headed for dinner, gambling, and hotels to get some rest before doing the same tomorrow. A pause until Santiago takes that first step, and the Ahroun falls into step with him.
Santiago
Sat 02:35AM EST
"Santiago," says the lean stranger - a name, one supposes - and then he turns and heads for the alley.
Inside, he leans back against the wall, spits his gum out discreetly into the palm of his hand, and sticks it to the wall. A last glance toward the Baron. Then he looks at the freak of an Ahroun, waiting to see what she(he?) wanted of him.
Blister
Sat 02:39AM EST
“Blister.” A name for a name, though the lean freak doesn’t take position against a wall, rather stands ground in the middle of the alley relaxed slouch of thuggish style. He waits. The Gnawer waits. Before finally. “Just Santiago, or you go better manners then that since we’re outa earshot of the others.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:40AM EST
He walks to the opening of the alley and leans aginst the wall watcing across the street. Patting down his pockets he comes out with a box. There is a delighted sound that escapes him. A pair of SLIDERS!! WOOT!
Popping the box open he pulls the first one out and munches.
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:41AM EST
Seeing the dude meander back out of thier territory he ducks into the alley and tosses Blister the other slider. Always about the pack.
Santiago
Sat 02:43AM EST
The beard parts for his smile, and then the smile becomes a grin. Santiago laughs, revealing straight white teeth. His black eyes dance - or rather, they glint. Gleam like coins. But surely that's a trick of the dim light.
"Santiago Eyes-Like-Flint, Blister. Cliath Forseti of Great Fenris. And you?"
Blister
Sat 02:47AM EST
Burger ducks back in, and hand slides from pocket to catch the tossed slider, vivid gaze watching Santiago with a slight smirk. A bite taken, chewed, swallowed, before there’s an answer, however, and then. “Blister, Cliath Arhoun Gnawer of the Cuckoo’s Clutch.” A nod to Burger to add his introduction as well – even as he continues to keep half an eye on the mouth of the alley. “And yur in the Cuckoo’s Nest. And we’re told you’ve got something to do with the cops flocking down south a ways… we don’t want no shit going down in our Nest… I’m sure you understand.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:49AM EST
"Burgerwrapper, Clith BoneGnawer, Theurge of Cuckoos Clutch, Card totin' member of The Swarm Baby." He nods and blows santa a kiss.
Santiago
Sat 02:52AM EST
Incline of chin. Even leaning against the wall he somehow holds himself straight, head high, proud as an eagle. "Understandable. But there was already shit in your nest." Break away - nod to Burgerwrapper without a falter in speech. "I got rid of him for you."
Blister
Sat 02:55AM EST
There’s a slow smirk, and lift of pierced brow, as the rest of the slider is eaten, before fingers are wiped on denim, hand returns to pocket. “Really. Do tell. Course, bein as the shot was just south of the Nest, yet you took refuge in it after, you can see why I’m concerned. We like t’take out our own trash, after all, and seems ya took away some of our fun. How bout some details.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 02:58AM EST
He grunts and finishes off what he conciders, and would fight dules over, one of the best foods on the planet. Let the Fangies keep their wine and SCONES, Give him a bag of sliders and some grape soda and he's a pup in heaven. At the moment he's eyeing Santigo. If nothing else he knew the guy was garou and few would claim to be Get that wern't I mean. fuck. If I was going to lie I'd pick something with half a brain and a bigger dick.
He watches, as he watches Blisters back. he's graceful for a lanky smuck and his movments seem almost timed to Blisters. Concert. Synergy man.
PACK
Santiago
Sat 03:02AM EST
"The prey was mine," simply, crisply. "I have been watching him for a long time, since before he hid in your land. And now he is dead." He reaches into his pockets and deftly removes a neatly-folded square of newsprint. Holds it out to Blister.
Yaddayaddayadda...rape/homicide...yaddablah...plea bargain, manslaughter, 5 years, chance of parole in 2.
"That man was guilty," Santiago informs Blister as s/he reads. "Gaia's own truth tells me so. He deserved more than what the human courts gave him." A shrug of lean shoulders. "He received his just dues."
Blister
Sat 03:09AM EST
Pierced brow lifts a bit farther, and the paper taken and read. Not exactly quickly, or completely, but enough to get the general gist of the crimes committed. The word Rape gets a tightening around thick lips, but that’s the only reaction, before passing the newsprint on to Burger without looking – just knowing where he is. Pack, baybee. There’s a nod, then, and a slight smirk. “So it would seem. Well then.” A pause as final drag is taken, and butt falls to wet alley floor, fitzing out, and stomped on for good measure. Second hand tucks into pocket as well. “Something of a Vigilante, are ya? I kin respect that. Long as ya keep yur nose clean in my Nest. Ain’t gonna begrudge ya yur prey – that’s yur business. But the Cuckoo’s is my business. ‘preicate yur takin him outside the boundries – ‘preciate ya doin that for any others, as well. Don’t need no cops poking around here – no uppity elders neither.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 03:14AM EST
Burger reads the article. PDQ too. A growl escapes him. He starts to tremble. And twitch. Varied color fur sprouts on his forarms and then shrinks back in. THe growel deepening as he finishes out the page. Stiffly his arm extends to Santa and he snarls
"A RAPIST, in OUR turf is MY PREY."
in a voice that even a mother would find hard to love. Still. he doesn't frenzy. That's something.
Santiago
Sat 03:16AM EST
"Something like that," agrees(?) Santiago. Simple nod to the rest. "I'll try," and midway through that, the black eyes slip to Burger. Eyebrow rises. A lean hand snaps the newspaper back, folds it neatly, puts it back in his pocket. "Then kill him before I do next time," replies the desertborn, "and all our problems are solved."
Blister
Sat 03:21AM EST
Gaze snaps to Burger, and narrows there, putting it together quickly and only nodding when he doesn’t frenzy. Ruffled feathers ~Easy there, big guy. Just a meeting of the minds, remember? Damage already done.~ before gaze returns almost lazily to Santiago. “Ain’t got a problem man – just a bit of respect expected and given. We ain’t hard t’find. In fact – if ya voice yur looking for us, we’ll find you, if there seems to be a problem getting someone outside the boundries, or ya need back up. We don’t mind people passin through, long as they keep their nose clean, same as any other pack would expect – same as ya would yourself, I’d imagine.”
Burgerwrapper
Sat 03:24AM EST
He leans aginst the wall and mutters. Looking in the little box that the sliders came in he rips it fully open and licks a bit of cheese from the inside and sucks at the greese. Rapists make him freak out then it's just a bad night for everyone.
He nods.
Santiago
Sat 03:27AM EST
An unreadable blackeyed look. A beat.
"I don't have a pack at the moment. But the point is taken and the offer is appreciated." Nods all around. "I'm done here. My car is parked a block that way." Nod toward the direction he'd been heading in before the sidetracking. "You can find me in the Pine Barrens if you need to. I rent a cabin from the Child of Gaian couple near Batsto."
Blister
Sat 03:32AM EST
There’s a nod, and the Ahroun takes a moment to light another cigarette, dragging deep before scratching just above an ear, then resituating ball cap on spiky hair. “Have a good evening, then, Santiago.” No nice ta meetcha or other happy blowin smoke up the ass bullshit, just a simple goodbye as a step back is taken, givin him plenty of room between the two Gnawers. As vivid gaze turns and rests on burger. ~y’ll’right?~
Burgerwrapper
Sat 03:35AM EST
He gurns and nods reaching out to caress Momma Cuckoos feathers back.
"Yeah I'll be alright. If anything I'm just pissed the guy got out so easy. I'd have played with him in "The Pit" For a week or two."
Blister knows he means the Abattoir under the werewhouse.
Santiago
Sat 03:36AM EST
Another beat. Then Santiago pushes off the wall and walks out of the alley, footsteps as quiet as snowfall. They see him backlit for a moment at the mouth of the alley, looking back the way he came, lean and sure of motion - and then he turns and slips out of their frame of vision.
Out of sight, out of mind.
lo, the rats.
Kennedy
Fri 04:40AM EST
The Pine Barrens were a far off cry from the normal haunts of the city. It was a much different place. And it carried a different set of rules. Kennedy wandered down a gravel road, listening to the soft sweeps of her baggy jeans as the tattered thread-hems swept along the road. Mud and dust covering the fabric. Long, lanky links of pale blond hair fell around her face to frame it. Dark eyes, like twin obsidian pools, swept back and forth over her surroundings. She was cautious, yet relaxed all at the same time...
Santiago
Fri 04:46AM EST
People in the barrens, now, they're a pretty hardy, salt-of-the-earth lot. None of that all-night partyin' like them cityfolk. All the Coggie cabins are dark, and almost all of them are still - except one. Santiago's.
On his porch, there's movement. Very quiet. The old rocking chair creaks gently back and forth...back and forth. The night's frigid to a temperate-dweller, but when you come from the desert, where the difference between night and day can be nearly a hundred degrees - upper 20s to lower 120s - 47 isn't so bad. He's casually dressed, drawstring pants cutting just above the navel (no sloppy sagging here) on a flat washboard stomach; plain white shirt unbuttoned, and pale against his swarthy skin. At the very edges, mostly hidden by the fall of the shirt, are the tail end of twinned tattoos that apparently wind down the sides of his ribcage.
It's a night at home. Santiago's just relaxing. There's a cool pepsi on his knee and his senses are open to the night, breathing it in as it breathes around him. Wind rustles the trees and then the sound of feet on a road come to him. The motion of the rocker doesn't stop, doesn't slw, but his black eyes begin to track the girl.
Kennedy
Fri 05:01AM EST
The wind rustles through trees and branches, playing along gravel road to stir a faint bit of dust along the way. It sweeps through the heavy volumes of army green fabric, whipping the tail ends of the trench coat that drapes lazily over her lean, wiry frame. A frame that hid a thin line of muscle in her bones, built smal, built thin. Built for speed and not physical strength, but it was hard to see all that sometimes. When it was hidden beneath the baggy clothes. Black baby doll shirt stretches across her chest, exposing a bit of mid-riff, the sharp-pointed edges of a tattoo almost wraps the small expanse of her lower back (..just above the waist band.) More tattoos, tribal glyphs laid hidden beneath the material of clothes. Her secrets if the right person could decipher them.
The faint scents of the city carried itself on that wind. Clean scents. No trash. No dumpster-diving. She cleaned up well when she had the chance to. There was a nervous jerk, in the sudden twist of her head, as it turns, almost at a cant to stare at the dark rows of cabins that began to run before her vision. Her movements slow down, giving her time to focus, otherwise, perceptive eyes.
Santiago
Fri 05:04AM EST
Sleep by day. Hunt by night. The life of a desert predator...and his eyes, trained by the utter lightlessness of an overcast night on the high desert, are sharp as a screech owl's. All the lights are off by the moon is still half-full. Waning now, it rises late in the night, sets after daybreak, and casts enough light for the girl, perhaps, to see motion on the porch. And if she should look his way, Santiago raises a hand in greeting. Slow. Easy. No sudden movements here. No jerkiness, either: he moved with a sureness, a liquidity, that made it seem as though his joints were oiled.
After a moment the hand lowers again to the scrolled arm of the rocker. His other hand remains loosely wrapped around his Pepsi. He waits to see what the girl will do.
Kennedy
Fri 05:09AM EST
Movement... What her eyes sought they found, sweeping over to focus her gaze upon the man on the porch. The hand in the air, waving to her, a sign of greeting. It came from the cabin, she now pauses in front of. Her shoulders roll beneath the coat, her head rolls, left and right, on her shoulders to pop a few joints. Curiosity plays on her face, as Kennedy accepts the greeting as a sign to come over. Dirty converse set motion to her steps, pants swishing along the ground,from her movements, as she heads up towards the cabin. "Evenin'.. or should I say morin'." A slight chuckle in her words, voice carrying on the air to greet Santigo.
Santiago
Fri 05:12AM EST
He has an easy enough smile. You might even say gentle. It shows no teeth, bears no threat, and parts the black frame of his neat goatee. Sharp black eyes inspect her; in this light, it's hard to see that his eyes are as dark, as hard, as they are. "Morning will do." Pause to sip the Pepsi. All the while his eyes stay on her and note every last little detail. "You're out early."
Kennedy
Fri 05:19AM EST
She comes to stop at the first step of the porch, one sneakered foot lifts to rest on the edge. Small hands peek out of the large sleeves of her coat, sliding around to rest on her front jean pockets, sliding inside to find a place to hide. "Yea, I suppose I am. I just decided to go for a reeeeally long walk.. And here I am!" The corners of her mouth twist upward into a wide grin, as a cheery tone etches in her voice. Her eyes, just as dark as his, sweep up to survey the porch, the rocker, the pepsi. Him. From foot to the top of his head. Those eyes fixing on his face finally to just stare, unblinking.
Santiago
Fri 05:24AM EST
Black eyebrows, thick but even, rise over black eyes. "And here you are, indeed." A moment. Then the rocking chair creaks and rumbles over the wooden planks of the porch as he rises - but he himself moves without sound. There's an impression of flow: each motion blending to the next. His silence and sureness of foot could rival those of a mountain cat. "Come on up." Since she'd begun to already. "Want a drink?" He jiggles his can of Pepsi, and tilts his head toward the roughhewn door on his small, roughhewn cabin.
Kennedy
Fri 05:30AM EST
His words caress over her ears, as her head jerks down, eyes moving to stare at the can when it jiggled. Ooh, yea... Lashes flutter over her eyes a few times, as she starts up the steps. "Sure. I'd like one. My throat is a bit parched. I can't remember the last time I had a soda." It would also wash down that roadkill she polished off a couple miles back on the road.. She scampers up onto the porch, a light bounce on the balls of her feet. As she looks over towards the door, curious now to what lay inside. Maybe something good... "You gotta a name, mister? Or do I just call ya, El Silento." a soft giggle bubbles in her throat, grinning up at him.
Santiago
Fri 05:43AM EST
The grin is, perhaps surprisingly, returned. His teeth are even and white and gleam faintly in the night. "Santiago," he replies, simply, and pushes the door open. "You?"
Hinges squeal softly. Santiago makes a note to himself to oil them before the night is done. There's no lock. This is unsurprising for three reasons. One, hardly anyone wanders out here. Two, it's unlikely he - or anyone out here - had anything truly valuable in their homes. And three, it's the thief who should be worried, not the theft victim, when the dens of werewolves are concerned.
Inside his home is unremarkable. Everything can be summed up with one sentence: old and spartan, but clean and well-maintained.
The living room and kitchen are conjoined. In the former there's a a couch against the left wall, sagging but clean. In front of that is a very simple, unadorned coffee table. Against the opposite wall - no more than eight feet away, if that - is a 20" TV dating from the 80s, if not earlier. Beyond this little set-up is the small utilitarian kitchen: a fridge, a sink, a stove, a table that could seat four with a bit of squeezing, but has only one chair before it. The only decoration she can see - if you could call it that - is a largeish wood cross, little more than two uneven sticks joined at right angles, hanging on the wall, out of the way, over a small endtable at the far end of the couch that holds an old-fashioned clock and a phone.
Off to the right side there's a door to, presumably, the bedroom and bathroom. It's ajar. Everything is shrouded in gloom as he walks halfway across the living room before realizing that his unexpected guest might prefer a bit of light. He treks back to the center of the room. Reaches up. Pulls the brass cord and clicks a dim bulb on.
More light spills out of the refrigerator as he opens it and steps aside. "Take your pick." Not much in there. Meat, vegetables, milk and pepsi. No sweets, no alcohol.
Kennedy
Fri 05:58AM EST
"Kennedy." one word answer to mimic his. He seems easy going enough to set her at ease. She enters the cabin, her head moving all over to let her eyes drink in every tiny detail. Nothing of value in this place. Not even a priceless dust bunny to scope out. If felt like she was teleported back in time. Where style and taste didn't even bother to provide a decent furnishing. Sooo, unlike the posh condo of those city wolves. "You country folk like to live a simple life." the comment is let slip in a casual voice. The odd cross slides along her vision, catching her attention and warrants a second look. "You a religious man, Santiago?" A glance back at him, the dim light filtering from the bulb and refrigerator cast shadows to play across her sun-kissed face. Skin weathered and worn, by travel more, than time spent on the streets. She starts to peel the trenchcoat off, seeing no need to wear it. It folds up over her left arm. The short sleeves of her shirt, riding up a muscled bicep on her right arm to reveal the tribal slashes of a tattooed glyph peeking out. "Pepsi is fine. I see. you live alone? No pretty lady to keep you company?"
Santiago
Fri 06:09AM EST
Santiago shrugs smoothly. Long, deft fingers snag up and Pepsi and flip it her way. He nudges the door closed with his other hand and takes another sip out of his own red, white and blue can. "I think it's just me." This answer has the well-worn sound of a tried-and-true response. "My neighbors have a little more in the way of creature comforts. I just moved in."
Somehow, she probably doubts this place will get any more furnished even if he lived here a hundred years.
There's no wall between the eat-in kitchen and the living room, so he leans his shoulder against the woodplank center wall of the cabin - the one dividing the outer rooms from the inner. The position skims one half of his shirt against his body, but the other half falls away a distance. One side of the matched set of tattoos is revealed in greater detail - not glyphs, but a fanciful, vivid series of curving and intersecting black lines, nearly as complex as a Celtic knot but more fluid, more liquid, climbing the ladder of his ribs to curve over his shoulder and disappear around back. Like a harness, almost.
His regard, dark as a nighthawk's and about as piercing, follows her glance to the cross. He shakes his head. "My father was. Before I was born." He adds a smile to the explanation. "It's a keepsake of him. He was a good man." Then he breaks into a laugh, shaking his head again. "I'd bore a pretty lady. Anyway, I like to live alone."
Another sip. He nods at the glyphs halfshown. "What's that?" Leave it to her to tell him or no. He has a side to him he does not show anyway, and so, he allows the same in others. Santiago is, if nothing else, fair.
Kennedy
Fri 06:26AM EST
The Pepsi flies towards her, hands snare upward into the air with a sudden quickness, (not quite found in most normal folk) to catch the can. Fingers curling, a talon-like hold, on the cold, wet metal. Perhaps to keep it from slipping in her grip, or just out of habit. The trenchcoat sways against her arm, feeling heavy as she lowers her arms. One hand releases from the can, yanking the coat off. She moves closer to the table, dropping it on the corner. It dangles over the edge, the fabric rubbing together as it settles.
"How long have you been living here? Doesn't seem like a long time by the way the dust has settled. Not that there is much of any." A slight smirk.
Her eyes turn up, following his movements, her head angled to the side a little. She studies his frame, drinking in the details of his appearance, taking note of the way the shirt settles on his frame. The dark shadows of tattoowork that reveal themselves along his ribs.
"I can't see how you would bore a pretty lady. A man that is eye candy like yourself." She chuckles, wiggling her brows at him. Before turning her attention to her right shoulder. "This ol'thing?" The can remains unopened, held in her right hand. The cold wet fingers of her left hand run up her arm to pull back the sleeve, turning to show him more of the tattoo. Black lines flow in a tribal pattern. The detail of the glyph was unmistakeable to the tribe it paid homage to. Any Fenrir or Garou would know. "Something I picked up when I was younger."
Santiago
Fri 06:34AM EST
Her teasing compliment gets a slight smile out of him, but little else. Maybe he just didn't care to go to jail for flirting back at someone ten years his junior. Santiago takes another sip, this one tilting the can far back, draining the last of the soda. He crunches the can between his hands without too much trouble, but it's certainly not the effortless squish that one might expect from the more - er - exemplary members of his tribe.
"That's an interesting mark," he comments lightly. "Where did you get it?" ...the weight of Gaia's eyes suddenly seems to fill the air. Take a breath, though, and the illusion passes. It's only Santiago's cabin, which is really Kimber and Corran's cabin. The interior is small and plain, but the furnishings are sparse enough that there still seems to be a lot of room left over.
Kennedy
Fri 06:49AM EST
"How did I get it?" thin, dark brows, an odd contrast to the pale blond hair that frames her face, rise upward in a quizzical expression. "Well... I sat down in a chair. This guy, a friend of mine, really big guy, took some ink in this little metal gun that had a motor and drew the tattoo on my shoulder. That's how I got it. Cost me a five bucks and a bottle of Thor's Hammer Vodka.. Course he was smart enough to pencil in the pattern first on my arm. All free hand. Just wish the guy could pencil in his dick the right way..." She shrugs her shoulder, dropping her hand away, cold fingers slide down his arm.. There was truth in her words. Every last little detail as the weight of Gaia's eyes could determine.. Gaia's eyes... Kennedy would have fallen to the floor laughing if she knew what he'd done. But she is clueless, seeming innocent in her talkative explanation to his question. Her eyes drop to the sweating can in her hand. She pops the tab back, opening it. The can is lifted up to her lips as she takes a looong pull from the can.
Santiago
Fri 06:55AM EST
And the can is, of course, a can of pepsi. Totally normal and all that. Santiago isn't in the habit of keeping cans of arsenic in his fridge. Seeing her drink seems to remind him. He turns around and heads into the kitchen, dropping the flattened can into the recycling bin. Live in a Coggie's cabin and you have to get used to their treehugging. Kimber got all huffy if you didn't put out your recycling bin every week for collection. Santiago suspected part of that had to do with the five cents a can the recycling center paid Kimber. But considering how cheap the board was here, he wasn't complaining.
His voice is a little muffled by the cabinet the recycling bin is stored in, "Why would you get something like that?"
Kennedy
Fri 07:04AM EST
The contents of the soda are drained before she even answers him. Her hand drops down, holding the empty can now. She looks over at him, "My dad had one. It looked cool. I like it... it has senitmental value if nothing else. Though, I'm not really hardy like those blokes. I can drink sorta.. but not fight. I'm in no way Jose a fighter. Too chicken for that. I got better uses than being all big and butch"
Santiago
Fri 07:16AM EST
"Kin to the Fenrir, then?" - tossed off casually as he rises. Something he's learned living his twenty-six, twenty-seven years. You can say the craziest things, and as long as you take a casual enough tone to it, most people would be more than willing to believe they heard something else if they didn't understand you.
Kennedy
Fri 07:19AM EST
She laughs a little, nodding her head. "Aiyup, about as close to kin that I am ever gonna get. Get it.. GET.." she chuckles, shaking her head. "Ah, god... I kill myself sometimes.. Ok so it wasn't that funny."
Santiago
Fri 07:23AM EST
He turns around. Some crackling mysticism seems to leave the room, noted only in its absence. "As you're ever going to get?" Risen eyebrows as he pulls the fridge open again. About time for a early-morning snack for him. A package of sausages removed, and the jug of milk. He pulls a skillet off its nail on the wall and fires up the gas stove, the flames blue and nearly invisible in the early morning light. "Want breakfast? Out of eggs, sorry."
Kennedy
Fri 07:29AM EST
"Well yea, it's not like I grow 9ft tall with fur and stuff. So, I'm going to be close to kin. Well.. am kin. Dunno. It's all complicated-like.. Then again I was never a normal child." She perks up at the offer of breakfast. "Suuure... I'm famished I would love some.." Her eyes turn upon the refrigerator, staring into it. She looks the kitchen over, walking over, her hands cup the can, trying to make some effort to crush it. "You got a waste bin?"
Santiago
Fri 07:38AM EST
Santiago lets it rest there. If he kept this up, he'd be parroting her for hours. Complicated-like? Close to kin? Dunno?
Unwrapping the tray of sausages, peeling four off, thinking better of it, adding another four. A nod of his head toward the cabinet down by his left leg. "Recycling bin in there." Back to her, sunlight sets irregular points of light into his short, roman-cropped black hair, each hair lying close to his skull, brushed forward. It casts the shadow of his body against the unbuttoned, looser fit of the shirt. With his back to her the tattoo is covered, but what she's seen of it shows that the two halves nearly - but not quite - mirror one another.
The sausages start hissing in the pan. He pours a glass of milk, and then finds another from a high cabinet. Looks at it in the sun. It's obviously not seen much use - the dust is thick on it. He rinses it off in the sink and pours a second glass for himself. The first glass he hands to her.
Rolling the sausages slowly in the pan, he sips milk. "You should probably know this. I'm a Get of Fenris myself. Just moved here last month." He nods at the ceiling light over his shoulder. "Turn that off for me, will you? Save energy and all."
Kennedy
Fri 07:45AM EST
She comes over to the cabinet, bending down to open it and toss her can inside. She looks up at him, studying him again. Her body straightens up, head turns to dart black eyes to the wet glass, the first rays of sunlight, dance off a wet droplet holding her attention. She looks out the window for a moment, as if spellbound by the dawn. A smile touching her face. "Really? You wolf or kin?" The first glass of milk accepted gleefully. Drinking some of it down as she walks over to do as he asked. A free hand reaches up to grab the cord and tug, turning off the light.
Santiago
Fri 07:51AM EST
A glance over his shoulder: sunlight burning deep in the black eye, smile parting the neatly trimmed goatee. "Wolf." He trusts his own easily enough. Shaking the pan to flip them all at once, he lets them sizzle another moment before scraping the sausages out on a plate. Before the oil starts to drip, he tips the skillet back to horizontal, sets it in the sink, plugs the drain, squirts soap in liberally, and turns the water out.
While the sink fills, he holds the plate out to her. All six greasy sausages (...and a glass of ice-cold milk. surefire stomachache for 90% of the population.) are for her, apparently.
Kennedy
Fri 07:56AM EST
"Whoo hooo..Food!" The glass of milk is set down on the table. She reaches for the plate, picking at the hot links with her fingers gingerly. "Mucho gracias, Santiago." not even bothering with a fork.. The link is plucked up, hand raises up as her head tilts back, swallowing half the link before she bites down on it and chews..before popping the rest in her mouth. The sausage links are devoured rather quickly, you'd think the girl hadn't ever eaten a thing in her life.
Santiago
Fri 08:04AM EST
"De nada, Kennedy." The ease with which the spanish rolls off his tongue gives some hint to his mothertongue. The water goes off, and there's only the sound of scrubbing and eating, then rinsing and draining. By the time the skillet is washed, her sausages are long gone. Santiago looks down at the dripping clean skillet, up at her. "Should I make more?"
Kennedy
Fri 08:08AM EST
"Noo.. I'm good." She smirks, picks up the glass of milk to polish it off, something to help the wash the grease away. She licks her lips, walking over to set the dirty dishes down in the sink. She smiles up at him. "My thanks for the hospitality. It is mighty generous of you.. I don't see that too often. It's nice."
Santiago
Fri 08:13AM EST
More soap. More water. The process starts again. While he's waiting for the soap to sud he turns to her, one hand dripping into the sink, the other to the floor. A brief, quizzical quiet. Then he shrugs, turns back and strikes the water off in the same wasteless gesture. Move silent, move swift: graceful like a hunting-hawk. "Like I said. De nada. It's nothing. You're family. Even if you eat like a terror." A brief grin as he picks up the sponge to clean her plate. Since there was a goodbye implicit in her words he adds, watching her reflection in the window over the sink, "Come by again. Nighttime. I sleep in the days."
Kennedy
Fri 08:17AM EST
"Funny... I tend to up during the day more than the night. I'll have to do that though. It isn't too far out of my way.." She flashes him a toothy grin, turning back for her trenchcoat, sweeping it up off the table. She looks back over at him. "I might eat like at terror, but that was about the best I've had in quite a while. Better than my normal food consumption.. I should go though. Sun is up, I can see better by day. Gotta get back to my hovel."
Santiago
Fri 08:23AM EST
"Most people are," he returns. A glance over his shoulder, a nod sufficing for a goodbye. He didn't want to wave and fling soapy water around. "See you around, Kennedy."
Kennedy
Fri 08:28AM EST
Kennedy smiles, her head bobs in a quick nod as she slides the trenchcoat back on. "See ya, Santa." She giggles, a bounce in her step as she heads for the door. She scampers out quickly to the porch, taking a leap off the top porch step to jump down. She lands in a crouch in front of his porch, sitting there for a moment, elbows rest on boney knees. She looks up, turning her head to glance back at the door. Her left hand drops down, a finger drawing strange glyphs into the gravel dirt. She slowly stands up, looking down at them with a smile.Kennedy starts to walk away, mumuring in a soft yet strange dialect to the wind.
Fri 04:40AM EST
The Pine Barrens were a far off cry from the normal haunts of the city. It was a much different place. And it carried a different set of rules. Kennedy wandered down a gravel road, listening to the soft sweeps of her baggy jeans as the tattered thread-hems swept along the road. Mud and dust covering the fabric. Long, lanky links of pale blond hair fell around her face to frame it. Dark eyes, like twin obsidian pools, swept back and forth over her surroundings. She was cautious, yet relaxed all at the same time...
Santiago
Fri 04:46AM EST
People in the barrens, now, they're a pretty hardy, salt-of-the-earth lot. None of that all-night partyin' like them cityfolk. All the Coggie cabins are dark, and almost all of them are still - except one. Santiago's.
On his porch, there's movement. Very quiet. The old rocking chair creaks gently back and forth...back and forth. The night's frigid to a temperate-dweller, but when you come from the desert, where the difference between night and day can be nearly a hundred degrees - upper 20s to lower 120s - 47 isn't so bad. He's casually dressed, drawstring pants cutting just above the navel (no sloppy sagging here) on a flat washboard stomach; plain white shirt unbuttoned, and pale against his swarthy skin. At the very edges, mostly hidden by the fall of the shirt, are the tail end of twinned tattoos that apparently wind down the sides of his ribcage.
It's a night at home. Santiago's just relaxing. There's a cool pepsi on his knee and his senses are open to the night, breathing it in as it breathes around him. Wind rustles the trees and then the sound of feet on a road come to him. The motion of the rocker doesn't stop, doesn't slw, but his black eyes begin to track the girl.
Kennedy
Fri 05:01AM EST
The wind rustles through trees and branches, playing along gravel road to stir a faint bit of dust along the way. It sweeps through the heavy volumes of army green fabric, whipping the tail ends of the trench coat that drapes lazily over her lean, wiry frame. A frame that hid a thin line of muscle in her bones, built smal, built thin. Built for speed and not physical strength, but it was hard to see all that sometimes. When it was hidden beneath the baggy clothes. Black baby doll shirt stretches across her chest, exposing a bit of mid-riff, the sharp-pointed edges of a tattoo almost wraps the small expanse of her lower back (..just above the waist band.) More tattoos, tribal glyphs laid hidden beneath the material of clothes. Her secrets if the right person could decipher them.
The faint scents of the city carried itself on that wind. Clean scents. No trash. No dumpster-diving. She cleaned up well when she had the chance to. There was a nervous jerk, in the sudden twist of her head, as it turns, almost at a cant to stare at the dark rows of cabins that began to run before her vision. Her movements slow down, giving her time to focus, otherwise, perceptive eyes.
Santiago
Fri 05:04AM EST
Sleep by day. Hunt by night. The life of a desert predator...and his eyes, trained by the utter lightlessness of an overcast night on the high desert, are sharp as a screech owl's. All the lights are off by the moon is still half-full. Waning now, it rises late in the night, sets after daybreak, and casts enough light for the girl, perhaps, to see motion on the porch. And if she should look his way, Santiago raises a hand in greeting. Slow. Easy. No sudden movements here. No jerkiness, either: he moved with a sureness, a liquidity, that made it seem as though his joints were oiled.
After a moment the hand lowers again to the scrolled arm of the rocker. His other hand remains loosely wrapped around his Pepsi. He waits to see what the girl will do.
Kennedy
Fri 05:09AM EST
Movement... What her eyes sought they found, sweeping over to focus her gaze upon the man on the porch. The hand in the air, waving to her, a sign of greeting. It came from the cabin, she now pauses in front of. Her shoulders roll beneath the coat, her head rolls, left and right, on her shoulders to pop a few joints. Curiosity plays on her face, as Kennedy accepts the greeting as a sign to come over. Dirty converse set motion to her steps, pants swishing along the ground,from her movements, as she heads up towards the cabin. "Evenin'.. or should I say morin'." A slight chuckle in her words, voice carrying on the air to greet Santigo.
Santiago
Fri 05:12AM EST
He has an easy enough smile. You might even say gentle. It shows no teeth, bears no threat, and parts the black frame of his neat goatee. Sharp black eyes inspect her; in this light, it's hard to see that his eyes are as dark, as hard, as they are. "Morning will do." Pause to sip the Pepsi. All the while his eyes stay on her and note every last little detail. "You're out early."
Kennedy
Fri 05:19AM EST
She comes to stop at the first step of the porch, one sneakered foot lifts to rest on the edge. Small hands peek out of the large sleeves of her coat, sliding around to rest on her front jean pockets, sliding inside to find a place to hide. "Yea, I suppose I am. I just decided to go for a reeeeally long walk.. And here I am!" The corners of her mouth twist upward into a wide grin, as a cheery tone etches in her voice. Her eyes, just as dark as his, sweep up to survey the porch, the rocker, the pepsi. Him. From foot to the top of his head. Those eyes fixing on his face finally to just stare, unblinking.
Santiago
Fri 05:24AM EST
Black eyebrows, thick but even, rise over black eyes. "And here you are, indeed." A moment. Then the rocking chair creaks and rumbles over the wooden planks of the porch as he rises - but he himself moves without sound. There's an impression of flow: each motion blending to the next. His silence and sureness of foot could rival those of a mountain cat. "Come on up." Since she'd begun to already. "Want a drink?" He jiggles his can of Pepsi, and tilts his head toward the roughhewn door on his small, roughhewn cabin.
Kennedy
Fri 05:30AM EST
His words caress over her ears, as her head jerks down, eyes moving to stare at the can when it jiggled. Ooh, yea... Lashes flutter over her eyes a few times, as she starts up the steps. "Sure. I'd like one. My throat is a bit parched. I can't remember the last time I had a soda." It would also wash down that roadkill she polished off a couple miles back on the road.. She scampers up onto the porch, a light bounce on the balls of her feet. As she looks over towards the door, curious now to what lay inside. Maybe something good... "You gotta a name, mister? Or do I just call ya, El Silento." a soft giggle bubbles in her throat, grinning up at him.
Santiago
Fri 05:43AM EST
The grin is, perhaps surprisingly, returned. His teeth are even and white and gleam faintly in the night. "Santiago," he replies, simply, and pushes the door open. "You?"
Hinges squeal softly. Santiago makes a note to himself to oil them before the night is done. There's no lock. This is unsurprising for three reasons. One, hardly anyone wanders out here. Two, it's unlikely he - or anyone out here - had anything truly valuable in their homes. And three, it's the thief who should be worried, not the theft victim, when the dens of werewolves are concerned.
Inside his home is unremarkable. Everything can be summed up with one sentence: old and spartan, but clean and well-maintained.
The living room and kitchen are conjoined. In the former there's a a couch against the left wall, sagging but clean. In front of that is a very simple, unadorned coffee table. Against the opposite wall - no more than eight feet away, if that - is a 20" TV dating from the 80s, if not earlier. Beyond this little set-up is the small utilitarian kitchen: a fridge, a sink, a stove, a table that could seat four with a bit of squeezing, but has only one chair before it. The only decoration she can see - if you could call it that - is a largeish wood cross, little more than two uneven sticks joined at right angles, hanging on the wall, out of the way, over a small endtable at the far end of the couch that holds an old-fashioned clock and a phone.
Off to the right side there's a door to, presumably, the bedroom and bathroom. It's ajar. Everything is shrouded in gloom as he walks halfway across the living room before realizing that his unexpected guest might prefer a bit of light. He treks back to the center of the room. Reaches up. Pulls the brass cord and clicks a dim bulb on.
More light spills out of the refrigerator as he opens it and steps aside. "Take your pick." Not much in there. Meat, vegetables, milk and pepsi. No sweets, no alcohol.
Kennedy
Fri 05:58AM EST
"Kennedy." one word answer to mimic his. He seems easy going enough to set her at ease. She enters the cabin, her head moving all over to let her eyes drink in every tiny detail. Nothing of value in this place. Not even a priceless dust bunny to scope out. If felt like she was teleported back in time. Where style and taste didn't even bother to provide a decent furnishing. Sooo, unlike the posh condo of those city wolves. "You country folk like to live a simple life." the comment is let slip in a casual voice. The odd cross slides along her vision, catching her attention and warrants a second look. "You a religious man, Santiago?" A glance back at him, the dim light filtering from the bulb and refrigerator cast shadows to play across her sun-kissed face. Skin weathered and worn, by travel more, than time spent on the streets. She starts to peel the trenchcoat off, seeing no need to wear it. It folds up over her left arm. The short sleeves of her shirt, riding up a muscled bicep on her right arm to reveal the tribal slashes of a tattooed glyph peeking out. "Pepsi is fine. I see. you live alone? No pretty lady to keep you company?"
Santiago
Fri 06:09AM EST
Santiago shrugs smoothly. Long, deft fingers snag up and Pepsi and flip it her way. He nudges the door closed with his other hand and takes another sip out of his own red, white and blue can. "I think it's just me." This answer has the well-worn sound of a tried-and-true response. "My neighbors have a little more in the way of creature comforts. I just moved in."
Somehow, she probably doubts this place will get any more furnished even if he lived here a hundred years.
There's no wall between the eat-in kitchen and the living room, so he leans his shoulder against the woodplank center wall of the cabin - the one dividing the outer rooms from the inner. The position skims one half of his shirt against his body, but the other half falls away a distance. One side of the matched set of tattoos is revealed in greater detail - not glyphs, but a fanciful, vivid series of curving and intersecting black lines, nearly as complex as a Celtic knot but more fluid, more liquid, climbing the ladder of his ribs to curve over his shoulder and disappear around back. Like a harness, almost.
His regard, dark as a nighthawk's and about as piercing, follows her glance to the cross. He shakes his head. "My father was. Before I was born." He adds a smile to the explanation. "It's a keepsake of him. He was a good man." Then he breaks into a laugh, shaking his head again. "I'd bore a pretty lady. Anyway, I like to live alone."
Another sip. He nods at the glyphs halfshown. "What's that?" Leave it to her to tell him or no. He has a side to him he does not show anyway, and so, he allows the same in others. Santiago is, if nothing else, fair.
Kennedy
Fri 06:26AM EST
The Pepsi flies towards her, hands snare upward into the air with a sudden quickness, (not quite found in most normal folk) to catch the can. Fingers curling, a talon-like hold, on the cold, wet metal. Perhaps to keep it from slipping in her grip, or just out of habit. The trenchcoat sways against her arm, feeling heavy as she lowers her arms. One hand releases from the can, yanking the coat off. She moves closer to the table, dropping it on the corner. It dangles over the edge, the fabric rubbing together as it settles.
"How long have you been living here? Doesn't seem like a long time by the way the dust has settled. Not that there is much of any." A slight smirk.
Her eyes turn up, following his movements, her head angled to the side a little. She studies his frame, drinking in the details of his appearance, taking note of the way the shirt settles on his frame. The dark shadows of tattoowork that reveal themselves along his ribs.
"I can't see how you would bore a pretty lady. A man that is eye candy like yourself." She chuckles, wiggling her brows at him. Before turning her attention to her right shoulder. "This ol'thing?" The can remains unopened, held in her right hand. The cold wet fingers of her left hand run up her arm to pull back the sleeve, turning to show him more of the tattoo. Black lines flow in a tribal pattern. The detail of the glyph was unmistakeable to the tribe it paid homage to. Any Fenrir or Garou would know. "Something I picked up when I was younger."
Santiago
Fri 06:34AM EST
Her teasing compliment gets a slight smile out of him, but little else. Maybe he just didn't care to go to jail for flirting back at someone ten years his junior. Santiago takes another sip, this one tilting the can far back, draining the last of the soda. He crunches the can between his hands without too much trouble, but it's certainly not the effortless squish that one might expect from the more - er - exemplary members of his tribe.
"That's an interesting mark," he comments lightly. "Where did you get it?" ...the weight of Gaia's eyes suddenly seems to fill the air. Take a breath, though, and the illusion passes. It's only Santiago's cabin, which is really Kimber and Corran's cabin. The interior is small and plain, but the furnishings are sparse enough that there still seems to be a lot of room left over.
Kennedy
Fri 06:49AM EST
"How did I get it?" thin, dark brows, an odd contrast to the pale blond hair that frames her face, rise upward in a quizzical expression. "Well... I sat down in a chair. This guy, a friend of mine, really big guy, took some ink in this little metal gun that had a motor and drew the tattoo on my shoulder. That's how I got it. Cost me a five bucks and a bottle of Thor's Hammer Vodka.. Course he was smart enough to pencil in the pattern first on my arm. All free hand. Just wish the guy could pencil in his dick the right way..." She shrugs her shoulder, dropping her hand away, cold fingers slide down his arm.. There was truth in her words. Every last little detail as the weight of Gaia's eyes could determine.. Gaia's eyes... Kennedy would have fallen to the floor laughing if she knew what he'd done. But she is clueless, seeming innocent in her talkative explanation to his question. Her eyes drop to the sweating can in her hand. She pops the tab back, opening it. The can is lifted up to her lips as she takes a looong pull from the can.
Santiago
Fri 06:55AM EST
And the can is, of course, a can of pepsi. Totally normal and all that. Santiago isn't in the habit of keeping cans of arsenic in his fridge. Seeing her drink seems to remind him. He turns around and heads into the kitchen, dropping the flattened can into the recycling bin. Live in a Coggie's cabin and you have to get used to their treehugging. Kimber got all huffy if you didn't put out your recycling bin every week for collection. Santiago suspected part of that had to do with the five cents a can the recycling center paid Kimber. But considering how cheap the board was here, he wasn't complaining.
His voice is a little muffled by the cabinet the recycling bin is stored in, "Why would you get something like that?"
Kennedy
Fri 07:04AM EST
The contents of the soda are drained before she even answers him. Her hand drops down, holding the empty can now. She looks over at him, "My dad had one. It looked cool. I like it... it has senitmental value if nothing else. Though, I'm not really hardy like those blokes. I can drink sorta.. but not fight. I'm in no way Jose a fighter. Too chicken for that. I got better uses than being all big and butch"
Santiago
Fri 07:16AM EST
"Kin to the Fenrir, then?" - tossed off casually as he rises. Something he's learned living his twenty-six, twenty-seven years. You can say the craziest things, and as long as you take a casual enough tone to it, most people would be more than willing to believe they heard something else if they didn't understand you.
Kennedy
Fri 07:19AM EST
She laughs a little, nodding her head. "Aiyup, about as close to kin that I am ever gonna get. Get it.. GET.." she chuckles, shaking her head. "Ah, god... I kill myself sometimes.. Ok so it wasn't that funny."
Santiago
Fri 07:23AM EST
He turns around. Some crackling mysticism seems to leave the room, noted only in its absence. "As you're ever going to get?" Risen eyebrows as he pulls the fridge open again. About time for a early-morning snack for him. A package of sausages removed, and the jug of milk. He pulls a skillet off its nail on the wall and fires up the gas stove, the flames blue and nearly invisible in the early morning light. "Want breakfast? Out of eggs, sorry."
Kennedy
Fri 07:29AM EST
"Well yea, it's not like I grow 9ft tall with fur and stuff. So, I'm going to be close to kin. Well.. am kin. Dunno. It's all complicated-like.. Then again I was never a normal child." She perks up at the offer of breakfast. "Suuure... I'm famished I would love some.." Her eyes turn upon the refrigerator, staring into it. She looks the kitchen over, walking over, her hands cup the can, trying to make some effort to crush it. "You got a waste bin?"
Santiago
Fri 07:38AM EST
Santiago lets it rest there. If he kept this up, he'd be parroting her for hours. Complicated-like? Close to kin? Dunno?
Unwrapping the tray of sausages, peeling four off, thinking better of it, adding another four. A nod of his head toward the cabinet down by his left leg. "Recycling bin in there." Back to her, sunlight sets irregular points of light into his short, roman-cropped black hair, each hair lying close to his skull, brushed forward. It casts the shadow of his body against the unbuttoned, looser fit of the shirt. With his back to her the tattoo is covered, but what she's seen of it shows that the two halves nearly - but not quite - mirror one another.
The sausages start hissing in the pan. He pours a glass of milk, and then finds another from a high cabinet. Looks at it in the sun. It's obviously not seen much use - the dust is thick on it. He rinses it off in the sink and pours a second glass for himself. The first glass he hands to her.
Rolling the sausages slowly in the pan, he sips milk. "You should probably know this. I'm a Get of Fenris myself. Just moved here last month." He nods at the ceiling light over his shoulder. "Turn that off for me, will you? Save energy and all."
Kennedy
Fri 07:45AM EST
She comes over to the cabinet, bending down to open it and toss her can inside. She looks up at him, studying him again. Her body straightens up, head turns to dart black eyes to the wet glass, the first rays of sunlight, dance off a wet droplet holding her attention. She looks out the window for a moment, as if spellbound by the dawn. A smile touching her face. "Really? You wolf or kin?" The first glass of milk accepted gleefully. Drinking some of it down as she walks over to do as he asked. A free hand reaches up to grab the cord and tug, turning off the light.
Santiago
Fri 07:51AM EST
A glance over his shoulder: sunlight burning deep in the black eye, smile parting the neatly trimmed goatee. "Wolf." He trusts his own easily enough. Shaking the pan to flip them all at once, he lets them sizzle another moment before scraping the sausages out on a plate. Before the oil starts to drip, he tips the skillet back to horizontal, sets it in the sink, plugs the drain, squirts soap in liberally, and turns the water out.
While the sink fills, he holds the plate out to her. All six greasy sausages (...and a glass of ice-cold milk. surefire stomachache for 90% of the population.) are for her, apparently.
Kennedy
Fri 07:56AM EST
"Whoo hooo..Food!" The glass of milk is set down on the table. She reaches for the plate, picking at the hot links with her fingers gingerly. "Mucho gracias, Santiago." not even bothering with a fork.. The link is plucked up, hand raises up as her head tilts back, swallowing half the link before she bites down on it and chews..before popping the rest in her mouth. The sausage links are devoured rather quickly, you'd think the girl hadn't ever eaten a thing in her life.
Santiago
Fri 08:04AM EST
"De nada, Kennedy." The ease with which the spanish rolls off his tongue gives some hint to his mothertongue. The water goes off, and there's only the sound of scrubbing and eating, then rinsing and draining. By the time the skillet is washed, her sausages are long gone. Santiago looks down at the dripping clean skillet, up at her. "Should I make more?"
Kennedy
Fri 08:08AM EST
"Noo.. I'm good." She smirks, picks up the glass of milk to polish it off, something to help the wash the grease away. She licks her lips, walking over to set the dirty dishes down in the sink. She smiles up at him. "My thanks for the hospitality. It is mighty generous of you.. I don't see that too often. It's nice."
Santiago
Fri 08:13AM EST
More soap. More water. The process starts again. While he's waiting for the soap to sud he turns to her, one hand dripping into the sink, the other to the floor. A brief, quizzical quiet. Then he shrugs, turns back and strikes the water off in the same wasteless gesture. Move silent, move swift: graceful like a hunting-hawk. "Like I said. De nada. It's nothing. You're family. Even if you eat like a terror." A brief grin as he picks up the sponge to clean her plate. Since there was a goodbye implicit in her words he adds, watching her reflection in the window over the sink, "Come by again. Nighttime. I sleep in the days."
Kennedy
Fri 08:17AM EST
"Funny... I tend to up during the day more than the night. I'll have to do that though. It isn't too far out of my way.." She flashes him a toothy grin, turning back for her trenchcoat, sweeping it up off the table. She looks back over at him. "I might eat like at terror, but that was about the best I've had in quite a while. Better than my normal food consumption.. I should go though. Sun is up, I can see better by day. Gotta get back to my hovel."
Santiago
Fri 08:23AM EST
"Most people are," he returns. A glance over his shoulder, a nod sufficing for a goodbye. He didn't want to wave and fling soapy water around. "See you around, Kennedy."
Kennedy
Fri 08:28AM EST
Kennedy smiles, her head bobs in a quick nod as she slides the trenchcoat back on. "See ya, Santa." She giggles, a bounce in her step as she heads for the door. She scampers out quickly to the porch, taking a leap off the top porch step to jump down. She lands in a crouch in front of his porch, sitting there for a moment, elbows rest on boney knees. She looks up, turning her head to glance back at the door. Her left hand drops down, a finger drawing strange glyphs into the gravel dirt. She slowly stands up, looking down at them with a smile.Kennedy starts to walk away, mumuring in a soft yet strange dialect to the wind.
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