[Éva]
Fri 02:36 EDT 2:30 a.m.
The phone rings. She offers no greeting when he answers, and says only, "I need to speak with you." In the background, the hum of voices. Typewriters. The occasional shout, a drunken rant from a holding cell.
Arrests do not stop because the sun has set, because business hours are over, because the courtrooms are silent. Nor do a suspect's rights stop, then. I want a lawyer. And so: a lawyer comes, 3:00 p.m. or 2:30 a.m.
"I should have a break in an hour. There's an all-night diner two blocks from the main police station, or I could meet you at my apartment, if it's not too late." Her voice is tired and diffident, almost swallowed by the background noise.
[Santiago]
Fri 02:44 EDT The phone rings. He has no answering machine, only a jangling trapezoidal ancient brick of a phone. He hears it on the third ring, walking home in the dark with his rifle slung over his shoulder, two hares in his opposite hand. Their small feet brush the earth, hanging lifeless. The phone's on to its fifth ring by the time he runs in the back door and scoops the receiver up...
...and to his ear. "Yes?"
The phone clashes against his rifle when he wedges it on his shoulder. The hares still hang from his hand. He furrows his brow, casts a glance toward the wall clock in the kitchen. He makes a quick calculation in his head. From here to Camden, one hour...yes, it should be possible.
"The diner's fine, as long as it's private enough for your purposes."
[Éva]
Fri 02:55 EDT Her own phone is a slim cellular affair, wedged between her chin and shoulder. Papers ruffle, lifeless in her hands, as the phone slips. She grasps for it as it tumbles, and lifts it to her cheek once more. "See you there, then."
Forty-five minutes later, she is in the diner: some booth by the window, far from the smoking section where detectives spend their coffee break (...and then some), far from the counter where beat cops perch at the counter, sampling pastries. It's not like they would welcome her presence among them. She is conscious, now and again, of their eyes upon her, of the murmur of their conversation like a distant tide. Her notes are spread before her. One elbow rests on the chipped linoleum table, fingers splayed open across her forehead, holding the weight of her bent head as she synthesizes and distills the information from her interviews that night.
The lights are bright and artificial and unflattering, at this late hour, to anyone's skin. There is a sallow cast to her skin in such light, at such an hour. The stark shadows highlight the ridge of her cheek, the faint shadows beneath her eyes.
[Santiago]
Fri 03:00 EDT At precisely 3:30am (Santiago is not late. He is early, or he is not there at all) the door to the diner swings open to allow the Forseti entrance. One of the beat cops looks apprehensively in his direction; the other sips his coffee tiredly, distractedly, and obliviously.
He stands just inside the door a moment, scuffing his wet feet on the mat. It's raining again. It's always raining in Jersey. Rain dusts the shoulders of his coat, and catches between the strands of his short black hair. He picks her out of the sparse crowd easily and comes to her table, sliding out of the coat in a single liquid shrug.
It's tossed into the corner of the booth. He sits opposite her and beside his own coat, requesting a turkey sandwich and a glass of orange juice from the waitress. Then, as she moves away, he turns his attention on Eva. Merely, he waits to see what she will say to him.
[Éva]
Fri 03:12 EDT It's always raining in Jersey. This is somehow appropriate, then. The setting. The cops. The waitress, who brings the glass of orange juice and places it before Santiago with a clink, heavy glass on linoleum, then slides her hands to the small of her back and stretches out the kinks as she wanders back for the coffee pot. Refills all around.
Like the beat cops, Éva looks up as the door swings open, as the steady tattoo of rain on pavement becomes a dull roar of sound, as the door swings closed behind him. From beneath the shield of her hand, from behind the armor of her glasses, she watches his approach almost covertly, straightening only when he sits down opposite her.
"Jésus Delasquez." The murmured name is accompanied by an upward sweep of her gaze. She gathers her shoulders and leans forward, her voice quiet. Jésus Delasquez: condemned to death in a sentencing hearing one week after his conviction now lives on death row. The convoluted appeals process has started, of course. It seems endless, it always seems endless, unless its end signifies the end of your life in a 10' by 20' chamber, with straps on the gurney and a needle in your arm and wide glass picture windows so twenty or thirty people may crowd in and watch you die.
From beneath her bright yellow legal pad, she pulls a folded print-out, then slides it across the table to Santiago. He will open it to find a name and a picture: Detective First Class Gary Davis, smiling at the camera. There are other particulars. His date of hire. His promotions. His commendations, all listed on this, the first sheet of his personnel file.
[Santiago]
Fri 03:19 EDT A crisp, almost curt nod to the name. Santiago remembers. He remembers all of them: every last one of the men and women he's condemned to die, killed; found innocent, fought to free.
It's ironic that it is much easier to kill the freed guilty than it is to free the wrongfully condemned.
With a single piercing glance at her, he pulls the fold-out over to himself and unfolds it. Detective First Class Gary Davis. Black eyes skim the brief beneath, and then his long fingers fold it again.
"What is this for?" He lifts the glass of orange juice to his lips.
[Éva]
Fri 03:33 EDT Coffee cools in its ceramic mug, swimming with cream. The waitress refills her mug, then steps when Éva gestures almost curtly, offering a tired half-smile in recompense for the abrupt gesture.
"It's a hunch." She leans forward, the edge of the table pressing into her abdomen, and pitches her voice low, but not too low to carry to him. If she caught the edge of his piercing glance, her response is only a diffident edginess not inappropriate to the hour and the location.
Some wry, half-curved smile. "I heard rather alot from a suspect tonight, about Detective Davis. He does vice in the seventh and eight precincts." Her dark eyes rise, dart over his shoulder, skim over the detectives in their cloud of cigarette smoke, then return, watchful and weary. "She claimed," such precision. Accusations and rumors cannot be flung about without it. "he plays both sides of the fence and said he arrested her because she knew too much." She offers a quiet shake of her head and pinches the bridge of her nose with her delicate fingers. "It's not an uncommon allegation among prisoners, but I've heard the like before."
Her mouth thins, and her eyes grow distant, flickering once more to the detectives beyond his shoulder, the smoke lit by the ghastly flourescent lights. "The last man to make such an allegation, though, hanged himself in his cell before his arraignment. I went back and looked it up. He lived in the Friedrickson's building, before his death."
[Santiago]
Fri 03:39 EDT The flick of her glance over his shoulder is noted but not followed. He frowns at her without speaking, his fingertips resting atop the folded sheet of paper. He is still frowning at her when the waitress serves his sandwich.
"I'd like this to go, please," he says, abruptly turning his attention to the waitress. "Sorry for the trouble."
With a mutter and a glare, the waitress takes the sandwich back to the kitchen. Santiago counts out his bills, covering himself and Eva's coffee. When the waitress reappears he drains his orange juice, takes the doggy bag, and leans forward.
"Walk with me, Ms. Illeshazy."
Back on his feet, sandwich in its bag in one hand, pulling the coat on with the other.
[Éva]
Fri 03:45 EDT "Thank you." - to the waitress, as she returns with Santiago's doggy bag, a tired smile. The Fenrir need not hear her assent. Wordlessly, she gathers her notes and tucks them into her battered attaché case and rises from her seat, sliding the strap over her shoulder so that the scuffed leather bag hangs comfortably at her hip. "Have a good night."
The kinfolk falls into step behind him, pulling her rumpled suit coat straight, smoothing out her skirt. Low heels click on the worn floor with each step as she follows him to the door.
[Santiago]
Fri 03:52 EDT "Which way are you parked?" he asks her as they exit, and then they head in that direction.
For a minute or more they walk in silence. The drizzling rain is cold, running down his neck to seep into his collar. He ignores it utterly. Long have been the hours he's lain in wait on a dark night waiting for prey. A hare. A bird. A guilty man.
Then, "You are saying Delasquez," the full Spanish pronunciation on the name, instinctive and naturally avoiding the Anglicanization of the first syllable. Day, not del, "may have taken the fall for Davis, who may have killed the Friedricksens for knowing too much. Do I read you correctly, kinwoman?"
[Éva]
Fri 04:01 EDT She forgot about the rain. She forgot about the rain when she left the office this evening, and when she left home on her first call of the night. She forgot about the rain throughout the long night, which she spent knocking around the main police station, an unwelcome, necessary intrusion into their domain.
She forgot about the rain, and so know she walks close to the buildings, finding some small protection in their shadow. Arms wrapped around her torso, body hunched just forward, her footsteps clipped and quick and precise on the sidewalk.
"Yes." The stoplight swims through the darkness, a swarm of red, green, yellow smeared by the wet air. The intersection is empty, but she stops to press the walk button. She is not popular with the police: she might be daring arrest by jaywalking. Or perhaps it is merely some muscle memory, captured in echoed movement. "That is what I'm saying. Or, rather, speculating." Rainswept lashes lower, glance away.
The streets are empty, here. In the distance: a siren. In the distance: a siren or three.
[Santiago]
Fri 04:05 EDT She forgot about the rain. He does not care about the rain. So he has no umbrella to share with her, and anyway a little rain would not kill her.
Waiting at the stoplight, he looks at her, looks across the street, looks back. Then he removes the sheet of paper from within his coat and glances at it again. No address listed - but then, he did not need one.
"I will see about this." Looking straight ahead, he puts it back inside his coat. "Have you spoken to anyone else about it?"
[Éva]
Fri 04:12 EDT "Of course not." She offers him a diffident shrug, staring off down the rainslick street. Darkness, there, lit by luminous pools of amber light that glaze the blacktop at precise intervals. The rest of the night recedes into darkness. Above all: the orange sky. "No guarantees about Maria, though." The suspect, then. The tip. Éva's mouth twitches in a faint, wry frown. "She was raving. Likely, she's raving still."
Ahead of them, the police station, a massive brick affair. Beside it, the parking lot toward which she angles their path. Within the parking lot, her car amongst the cruisers, incongruous.
[Santiago]
Fri 04:16 EDT "Try to keep her quiet. Failing that, try to keep away from her. Don't be associated. Are you her defense attorney?" The light changes. He crosses the street with her, rain streaking the brown paper bag in his hand in dots and lines of wet.
[Éva]
Fri 04:19 EDT "I took her statement tonight." Her eyes flicker up to the hulking mass of the police station, the stone and brick architecture, Federal-style. When she glances back at him, sidelong, she offers a quiet shake of her head. "More than that, I don't know. I'll summarize the night's cases, and the supervising public defender will assign them in the morning."
[Santiago]
Fri 04:23 EDT "Don't be associated," he repeats, and then they are at the steps and she's heading up. He stops with a hint of surprise. He had thought she, at this hour, would be headed home.
He on level ground, she two brick steps up: he pauses. "Thank you for calling me, Ms. Illeshazy." A brief, small smile. "Don't work too late."
[Éva]
Fri 04:34 EDT She pivots on the steps, glancing back and just down, so that she may look over her glasses rather than through the wet lenses.
"Of course." Demurral, this, and automatic it is. Her left hand rises to her opposite shoulder, shifting the the strap of her briefcase. For a moment, her eyes flicker across his mouth. His small smile finds some tired echo in the curve of her lips as her hand falls to her side again. Glancing at her watch, "It shouldn't be much longer. The night's almost through."
Turning, then, she finishes the long climb up the long, high steps: granite slicked with rain. The brooding façade swallows her figure, overwhelms, as it was meant to do, the senses: the majesty of government; the implacability of the law. Inside, a different story, as most things are.
At the top of the steps, one hand on the heavy door, she pauses again, and casts a glance back. Her voice rises through the subtle wash of rain. "Drive safely." With this admonition, so absurdly ordinary, she pushes open the heavy wooden door and disappears inside.
you don't fit.
[Éva]
Thu 18:54 EDT "...community leaders in Florida are leading protests against the FCAT, calling on Governor Bush to place a moratorium on the FCAT and asking him to base graduation requirements on grades and attendance and other factors. Curry and other civil rights leaders are calling for a boycott of Florida products..."
News drones quietly from the stereo in the second floor flat. Pleasant voices, unpleasant words, soothingly delivered at the top of every hour. Éva pays it little attention at the moment. It's nothing, now, she had not heard earlier. She will need to wait for the local news at 11 to see the press coverage of the sentencing hearing she handled this afternoon. She'll need to wait for the morning to learn whether the Judge will take the jury's recommendation: death.
Distracted, abstracted, another man's life and death dancing at the edges of her mind. He sat stonily through the proceedings while his mother, behind them, collapsed into a quiet storm of weeping. Éva could hear the woman's breathing, irregular and heavy, but could not turn around. There was nothing she could say, anyway. She knew this was coming from the first.
Now, five hours after the Judge banged her gavel, one hour after she left the office (four hours of frantic phone calls to the prosecutor, her defense investigator, others, 11th hour pleas for mercy, the usual, offering life without parole in exchange for a cessation of all appeals), she's home.
The wide bank of windows are thrown open to the dying rays of the setting sun. They paint the room in reds and oranges, long fingers of the last rays of brilliant light. Her coffee table is covered with pointless notes and strategies (she knew this was coming. She knows what tomorrow will bring. What tomorrow always brings, some strange double helix of relief and frustation and sometimes, impotent rage.) but she stands at the windows, watching the sun die, knowing that the sun will return tomorrow, ignoring the background noise.
"...Capito says that the Geneva Conventions make clear that any state that tortures prisoners of war..."
Santiago]
Thu 18:54 EDT Her doorbell clangs through the old, open flat, doubtlessly jarring her out of [morbid] thought and back to reality. Outside she'll find the Forseti from the Pine Barrens, neat and comfortable in his old clothes, the faded jeans and the sturdy cotton shirts.
And his black eyes, boring holes through wood and steel.
"Kinwoman," he greets her, courteously enough, removed a distance perhaps. Then he hands her something - a grocery bag with a square object inside. Strawberries. Like for like.
[Éva]
Thu 19:01 EDT Though she has changed out of her court clothes (dry cleaning is expensive, particularly for someone living on a state salary), her hair is still pulled up and back, thick dark locks piled into a prim twist. Dark eyes flicker down to his hand, and her brows rise above the dark frames of her glasses in mild surprise.
"Thank you." It's a moment before she reacts, a moment before she reaches for the grocery bag bag, crooking her fingers to catch the handles and stepping back from the door. Her brows draw together, a sketch of a frown that finds no purchase on her mouth as she opens the plastic and glances inside. Over the curve of her shoulder, a glance toward the living room, "Come in?"
[Santiago]
Thu 19:05 EDT "Thank you."
Stepping so sedately over her threshold, it's hard to reconcile this man with the same half-bare savage that had half beat down her door and then murdered a man in her sight with terrifying and practiced speed. Aloofness. Carelessness, almost - but not quite.
He shuts the door behind himself. "Should I lock it?" fingers on the lock.
[Éva]
Thu 19:12 EDT "I think - " her mouth curves wry, and her voice is quiet and dry. He is not - they are not - creatures she can easily reconcile under any circumstances. " - I think that's not something I need to worry about in present company."
The city is spread out beneath her windows, or what remains of it. This neighborhood was once genteel, but is now in the midst of a long, slow slide to oblivion. She catches a glimpse of the high-rise HUD housing eight blocks away and her mouth tightens minutely. "Nevertheless, that would probably be wise." Her door is never unlocked. When he thinks to knock, he hears the locks tumble, two, three, four, and the chain pulled back, before the door is opened. Always.
Poised in the midst of the controlled chaos of her living room, she turns back toward him, the plastic grocery bag swinging against her thigh. After a moment's hesitation, she asks, "Can I get you anything?"
[Santiago]
Thu 19:18 EDT He looks at her for a minute. Then the goatee parts in a slight smile. He locks the door behind his back, the locks clicking home one, two, three, four.
The chain he leaves swinging. A shake of his head to her question. "I'm fine, thank you. You'll want to put those away in the refrigerator." It may be a second before she realizes he means the strawberries; his eyes don't leave her face. "I'll wait."
[Éva]
Thu 19:27 EDT "Yes, of course." Her reply comes quietly and automatically, without immediate understanding. Like most kin of her tribe, even in semi-exile here on the fringes of nowhere, she is a good soldier. They are used to taking orders.
His eyes on her face, her eyes on his - though never, ever, quite on his own eyes - it takes her unmoving moment to process the statement and glance down, abruptly, at the bag in her hand. Some small smile, then, brief and faintly rueful twists across her mouth as she lifts the bag in acknowledge and murmurs another of course beneath the cusp of her breath.
From the kitchen, moments later, "The information you wanted is in the red folder on the credenza by the door. It's really only what I expected."
The fridge wooshes open, then closed. The crackle of plastic, the low hum of the compressor, the subtle sounds of movement as she pauses there to gather herself. Éva is used to being the disconcerting one.
[Santiago]
Thu 19:34 EDT Disconcerting.
That's one way to put him. The desert-cat ease and silence of motion. The absolutely surety and self-possession of the man, as though nothing, nothing, could ever possibly faze him. And death was the least of the issues on that list.
He lifts the red folder from the credenza and pages through it. Sheafs of legalese annotated by her neat hand. He's glad for the notes. Otherwise it would be utterly incomprehensible. It came down to a brief and clear story, though: the Boy Scouts couldn't pay their taxes, and Endron bought it a year ago.
Santiago makes a note to himself to ask if it is possible to taint a building so thoroughly in the space of a year.
"Thank you," he says again, and shuts the folder. "Let me know if you find a link between Endron Oil and the laboratories."
[Éva]
Thu 19:50 EDT She has appeared at the entrance to the kitchen again, and now leans against the door frame, one shoulder, one neat hip. Ice cubes clink and crankle as they swim in her glass of ice water, held awkwardly against her body. She has been studying him while he reads, dark eyes framed by dark plastic frames that interrupt the smooth floor of her features and force one to focus not on her as a whole, as a thing, but individually, a deconstructed subject.
From where he stands, he can see her suit jacket tossed over the arm of the sofa, her shoulder holster discarded on the coffee table, obscured by the sheafs of paper tossed messily about, should he care to look.
He does not fit the casual surroundings, the framed posters - Ansel Adams, Gustav Klimt, Picasso - or the few oils or watercolors she purchased over the years as a favor to a struggling artist-friend from college, from her practice. He does not fit the room, with its pastels and its wide windows and their wavey, antique glass. He is a thing apart. If he catches her watching him, watching him read, she does not look away, though she does look just down, from his eyes to some indefinite point on his face below them.
"I'll do a corporate search and see what I can find out." She remarks in reply, after a moment. "I'll let you know."
[Santiago]
Thu 19:57 EDT And he does, of course, look at her. Keen as his own sight is, he cannot help but notice when another watches him, studyingly, trying perhaps to fit him in somehow in a room in which he does not, will never, fit into.
He fits the raw austerity of his Barrens home. He fits the wilderness. He fits, above all things, the wide flat expanses of the desert that always echo on in his blood; the sound of the wind on a silent night, the burn of the stars like pinpricks leaking sunshine. He fits these things, but not the quite cluttered comfort of her home.
His stare is not challenging, but it is direct, unwavering, unreadable, and discomfiting. "What are you thinking?" he asks her, and it is all the more so.
[Éva]
Thu 20:05 EDT The question takes her aback, and this shows. Her mouth opens, no sound comes, and closes again, melding into another precise, wry half-smile.
"You don't fit," a moment later, ice cubes clink in the glass as she lifts it in an expressive gesture. The evening. The settled living room, the walls she painted when she moved in two years ago, the quiet drone of a cooking show on NPR for background noise. "That's all."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:09 EDT Perhaps the question amuses him. At least, it makes him smile faintly. His black eyes rove the room slowly before they return to bear on her. "In here?" - gently, as though poking fun.
[Éva]
Thu 20:13 EDT His black eyes rove the room. Her brow eyes follow the track of his gaze, and she may well wonder what he sees. She may well see it as though alien, for those few moments.
"In here," she confirms. Then, shifting against the door frame enough to uncurl her free hand, she taps her temple with her index finger. "In here, too."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:16 EDT At this, his lips part in a brief grin, though not a quick one. "Why not?" A tap of his own temple. "In here, I mean."
[Éva]
Thu 20:26 EDT "I don't - " she stops, midsentence, quietly shaking her head. The answer I don't know seems false, somehow. Despite the reputation of her profession, falsehoods sit strange on her shoulders, squirm for correction. "It's not easy to articulate. One spends one's time in that world," a quiet incline of her head toward the windows, the dying city, the sky beyond, "drowning in that world, swimming in that world, but carries another around, too. Inexplicable as that world is, cause and effect seems to have a closer relationship than they do in this one. Reason, even unreason, is explicable.
"Also - " another quick grin, pressed tight across her mouth. " - I can't tell what you're thinking. Even if I could guess, I suspect I still wouldn't understand."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:33 EDT A pause. "I am thinking..." another. Faint frown; he looks out the window in a belated echo of her indication of such. The sunset is washing from the sky, red and gold into purple and blue and black. The stars are beginning to shine.
"...that it must be rather something to know you as a friend. But then, neither of us seem the type to befriend easily." He tucks the folder under his arm, then, having never entered more than five feet into her personal domain. "I think I should leave you to your peace now, kinwoman. And by the way," a nod to the papers scattered on her coffee table, "I was sorry to hear of your loss."
[Éva]
Thu 20:46 EDT Mmmph. Wordless agreement offered in echo of his statement. He has entered no more than five feet into her home; she has retreated to the most distant perimeter of that space.
"We didn't have a chance." The gesture is caught in her peripheral vision, for her eyes remain on his face. Ice clinks a discordant, pretty little cord against glass as she shifts position minutely, once more.
"Don't be sorry, Santiago." Her smile has another cast to it now, an echo of the sorrow like the shadows that linger after dawn. "It's better this way. Had we prevailed, you would have passed sentence on your own."
She pauses, then, and the smile fades to nothing. Nothing at all. "Good night, Eyes-Like-Flint."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:52 EDT No acquiesence. No denial. Neither is needed when she found the truth on her own. He merely inclines his head to her, and then reaches behind him to unlock the doors. One, two, three, four.
"Goodnight, Ms. Illeshazy."
And the door closes softly behind him, leaving her to lock it again, and bar it, bolt it, lock it and chain it against the darkness outside.
Thu 18:54 EDT "...community leaders in Florida are leading protests against the FCAT, calling on Governor Bush to place a moratorium on the FCAT and asking him to base graduation requirements on grades and attendance and other factors. Curry and other civil rights leaders are calling for a boycott of Florida products..."
News drones quietly from the stereo in the second floor flat. Pleasant voices, unpleasant words, soothingly delivered at the top of every hour. Éva pays it little attention at the moment. It's nothing, now, she had not heard earlier. She will need to wait for the local news at 11 to see the press coverage of the sentencing hearing she handled this afternoon. She'll need to wait for the morning to learn whether the Judge will take the jury's recommendation: death.
Distracted, abstracted, another man's life and death dancing at the edges of her mind. He sat stonily through the proceedings while his mother, behind them, collapsed into a quiet storm of weeping. Éva could hear the woman's breathing, irregular and heavy, but could not turn around. There was nothing she could say, anyway. She knew this was coming from the first.
Now, five hours after the Judge banged her gavel, one hour after she left the office (four hours of frantic phone calls to the prosecutor, her defense investigator, others, 11th hour pleas for mercy, the usual, offering life without parole in exchange for a cessation of all appeals), she's home.
The wide bank of windows are thrown open to the dying rays of the setting sun. They paint the room in reds and oranges, long fingers of the last rays of brilliant light. Her coffee table is covered with pointless notes and strategies (she knew this was coming. She knows what tomorrow will bring. What tomorrow always brings, some strange double helix of relief and frustation and sometimes, impotent rage.) but she stands at the windows, watching the sun die, knowing that the sun will return tomorrow, ignoring the background noise.
"...Capito says that the Geneva Conventions make clear that any state that tortures prisoners of war..."
Santiago]
Thu 18:54 EDT Her doorbell clangs through the old, open flat, doubtlessly jarring her out of [morbid] thought and back to reality. Outside she'll find the Forseti from the Pine Barrens, neat and comfortable in his old clothes, the faded jeans and the sturdy cotton shirts.
And his black eyes, boring holes through wood and steel.
"Kinwoman," he greets her, courteously enough, removed a distance perhaps. Then he hands her something - a grocery bag with a square object inside. Strawberries. Like for like.
[Éva]
Thu 19:01 EDT Though she has changed out of her court clothes (dry cleaning is expensive, particularly for someone living on a state salary), her hair is still pulled up and back, thick dark locks piled into a prim twist. Dark eyes flicker down to his hand, and her brows rise above the dark frames of her glasses in mild surprise.
"Thank you." It's a moment before she reacts, a moment before she reaches for the grocery bag bag, crooking her fingers to catch the handles and stepping back from the door. Her brows draw together, a sketch of a frown that finds no purchase on her mouth as she opens the plastic and glances inside. Over the curve of her shoulder, a glance toward the living room, "Come in?"
[Santiago]
Thu 19:05 EDT "Thank you."
Stepping so sedately over her threshold, it's hard to reconcile this man with the same half-bare savage that had half beat down her door and then murdered a man in her sight with terrifying and practiced speed. Aloofness. Carelessness, almost - but not quite.
He shuts the door behind himself. "Should I lock it?" fingers on the lock.
[Éva]
Thu 19:12 EDT "I think - " her mouth curves wry, and her voice is quiet and dry. He is not - they are not - creatures she can easily reconcile under any circumstances. " - I think that's not something I need to worry about in present company."
The city is spread out beneath her windows, or what remains of it. This neighborhood was once genteel, but is now in the midst of a long, slow slide to oblivion. She catches a glimpse of the high-rise HUD housing eight blocks away and her mouth tightens minutely. "Nevertheless, that would probably be wise." Her door is never unlocked. When he thinks to knock, he hears the locks tumble, two, three, four, and the chain pulled back, before the door is opened. Always.
Poised in the midst of the controlled chaos of her living room, she turns back toward him, the plastic grocery bag swinging against her thigh. After a moment's hesitation, she asks, "Can I get you anything?"
[Santiago]
Thu 19:18 EDT He looks at her for a minute. Then the goatee parts in a slight smile. He locks the door behind his back, the locks clicking home one, two, three, four.
The chain he leaves swinging. A shake of his head to her question. "I'm fine, thank you. You'll want to put those away in the refrigerator." It may be a second before she realizes he means the strawberries; his eyes don't leave her face. "I'll wait."
[Éva]
Thu 19:27 EDT "Yes, of course." Her reply comes quietly and automatically, without immediate understanding. Like most kin of her tribe, even in semi-exile here on the fringes of nowhere, she is a good soldier. They are used to taking orders.
His eyes on her face, her eyes on his - though never, ever, quite on his own eyes - it takes her unmoving moment to process the statement and glance down, abruptly, at the bag in her hand. Some small smile, then, brief and faintly rueful twists across her mouth as she lifts the bag in acknowledge and murmurs another of course beneath the cusp of her breath.
From the kitchen, moments later, "The information you wanted is in the red folder on the credenza by the door. It's really only what I expected."
The fridge wooshes open, then closed. The crackle of plastic, the low hum of the compressor, the subtle sounds of movement as she pauses there to gather herself. Éva is used to being the disconcerting one.
[Santiago]
Thu 19:34 EDT Disconcerting.
That's one way to put him. The desert-cat ease and silence of motion. The absolutely surety and self-possession of the man, as though nothing, nothing, could ever possibly faze him. And death was the least of the issues on that list.
He lifts the red folder from the credenza and pages through it. Sheafs of legalese annotated by her neat hand. He's glad for the notes. Otherwise it would be utterly incomprehensible. It came down to a brief and clear story, though: the Boy Scouts couldn't pay their taxes, and Endron bought it a year ago.
Santiago makes a note to himself to ask if it is possible to taint a building so thoroughly in the space of a year.
"Thank you," he says again, and shuts the folder. "Let me know if you find a link between Endron Oil and the laboratories."
[Éva]
Thu 19:50 EDT She has appeared at the entrance to the kitchen again, and now leans against the door frame, one shoulder, one neat hip. Ice cubes clink and crankle as they swim in her glass of ice water, held awkwardly against her body. She has been studying him while he reads, dark eyes framed by dark plastic frames that interrupt the smooth floor of her features and force one to focus not on her as a whole, as a thing, but individually, a deconstructed subject.
From where he stands, he can see her suit jacket tossed over the arm of the sofa, her shoulder holster discarded on the coffee table, obscured by the sheafs of paper tossed messily about, should he care to look.
He does not fit the casual surroundings, the framed posters - Ansel Adams, Gustav Klimt, Picasso - or the few oils or watercolors she purchased over the years as a favor to a struggling artist-friend from college, from her practice. He does not fit the room, with its pastels and its wide windows and their wavey, antique glass. He is a thing apart. If he catches her watching him, watching him read, she does not look away, though she does look just down, from his eyes to some indefinite point on his face below them.
"I'll do a corporate search and see what I can find out." She remarks in reply, after a moment. "I'll let you know."
[Santiago]
Thu 19:57 EDT And he does, of course, look at her. Keen as his own sight is, he cannot help but notice when another watches him, studyingly, trying perhaps to fit him in somehow in a room in which he does not, will never, fit into.
He fits the raw austerity of his Barrens home. He fits the wilderness. He fits, above all things, the wide flat expanses of the desert that always echo on in his blood; the sound of the wind on a silent night, the burn of the stars like pinpricks leaking sunshine. He fits these things, but not the quite cluttered comfort of her home.
His stare is not challenging, but it is direct, unwavering, unreadable, and discomfiting. "What are you thinking?" he asks her, and it is all the more so.
[Éva]
Thu 20:05 EDT The question takes her aback, and this shows. Her mouth opens, no sound comes, and closes again, melding into another precise, wry half-smile.
"You don't fit," a moment later, ice cubes clink in the glass as she lifts it in an expressive gesture. The evening. The settled living room, the walls she painted when she moved in two years ago, the quiet drone of a cooking show on NPR for background noise. "That's all."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:09 EDT Perhaps the question amuses him. At least, it makes him smile faintly. His black eyes rove the room slowly before they return to bear on her. "In here?" - gently, as though poking fun.
[Éva]
Thu 20:13 EDT His black eyes rove the room. Her brow eyes follow the track of his gaze, and she may well wonder what he sees. She may well see it as though alien, for those few moments.
"In here," she confirms. Then, shifting against the door frame enough to uncurl her free hand, she taps her temple with her index finger. "In here, too."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:16 EDT At this, his lips part in a brief grin, though not a quick one. "Why not?" A tap of his own temple. "In here, I mean."
[Éva]
Thu 20:26 EDT "I don't - " she stops, midsentence, quietly shaking her head. The answer I don't know seems false, somehow. Despite the reputation of her profession, falsehoods sit strange on her shoulders, squirm for correction. "It's not easy to articulate. One spends one's time in that world," a quiet incline of her head toward the windows, the dying city, the sky beyond, "drowning in that world, swimming in that world, but carries another around, too. Inexplicable as that world is, cause and effect seems to have a closer relationship than they do in this one. Reason, even unreason, is explicable.
"Also - " another quick grin, pressed tight across her mouth. " - I can't tell what you're thinking. Even if I could guess, I suspect I still wouldn't understand."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:33 EDT A pause. "I am thinking..." another. Faint frown; he looks out the window in a belated echo of her indication of such. The sunset is washing from the sky, red and gold into purple and blue and black. The stars are beginning to shine.
"...that it must be rather something to know you as a friend. But then, neither of us seem the type to befriend easily." He tucks the folder under his arm, then, having never entered more than five feet into her personal domain. "I think I should leave you to your peace now, kinwoman. And by the way," a nod to the papers scattered on her coffee table, "I was sorry to hear of your loss."
[Éva]
Thu 20:46 EDT Mmmph. Wordless agreement offered in echo of his statement. He has entered no more than five feet into her home; she has retreated to the most distant perimeter of that space.
"We didn't have a chance." The gesture is caught in her peripheral vision, for her eyes remain on his face. Ice clinks a discordant, pretty little cord against glass as she shifts position minutely, once more.
"Don't be sorry, Santiago." Her smile has another cast to it now, an echo of the sorrow like the shadows that linger after dawn. "It's better this way. Had we prevailed, you would have passed sentence on your own."
She pauses, then, and the smile fades to nothing. Nothing at all. "Good night, Eyes-Like-Flint."
[Santiago]
Thu 20:52 EDT No acquiesence. No denial. Neither is needed when she found the truth on her own. He merely inclines his head to her, and then reaches behind him to unlock the doors. One, two, three, four.
"Goodnight, Ms. Illeshazy."
And the door closes softly behind him, leaving her to lock it again, and bar it, bolt it, lock it and chain it against the darkness outside.
ms. illeshazy
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:05AM EST
Sunday: lazy day. The bright warm sky is interrupted now and against by fast-moving banks of thunderstorms, spring-rain, cloudbursts, followed by a blooming dappled sky. Éva spent the morning as she spends every Sunday morning: reading the New York Times in bed, with cappuccino and chocolate croissant from François' Pastry Shoppe, across Levitt Street of St. Mary's, listening to NPR.
At 1 p.m., she served brunch to a small group of friends on her wide back balcony: a rosemary/sausage/egg/asiago strada, crisp waffles and bacon, mimosas, and for dessert a flourless chocolate cake, tiny and decadent and rich, topped with a ring of the strawberries she picked up at the Burlington fruit stand, or those self-same strawberries in whole, farm-fresh cream. The last hours of the afternoon, she potted plants, proud red geraniums with green spikes for height and trailing vinca for effect flanking the door leading to the stairs leading to her spacious second-story flat in the old Victorian house, then filled the windowboxes with impatiens and alyssum and, by the kitchen, basil and chives and oregano and sage and lemon verbena and chocolate mint, for tea.
Éva doesn't work on Sunday. Éva doesn't think about work on Sunday, if she can possibly avoid it. It is the one day a week that is wholly hers, and so she cooks and gardens and walks and sees her friends, or just spends a long day perusing every inch of the Times, down to reviews of new galleries or installations she will never get to see.
By evening, the dishes are done and the potting soil swept from the stoop and half the paper has migrated from the bedroom to the living room. The television is turned to the Home and Garden network, but muted. She's half-way through Taylor Branch's endless biography of Lyndon Johnson, and rarely glances up. On the coffee table before her, her usual nightcap: a single glass of red wine.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:05AM EST
Sunday: lazy day. The bright warm sky is interrupted now and against by fast-moving banks of thunderstorms, spring-rain, cloudbursts, followed by a blooming dappled sky. Éva spent the morning as she spends every Sunday morning: reading the New York Times in bed, with cappuccino and chocolate croissant from François' Pastry Shoppe, across Levitt Street of St. Mary's, listening to NPR.
At 1 p.m., she served brunch to a small group of friends on her wide back balcony: a rosemary/sausage/egg/asiago strada, crisp waffles and bacon, mimosas, and for dessert a flourless chocolate cake, tiny and decadent and rich, topped with a ring of the strawberries she picked up at the Burlington fruit stand, or those self-same strawberries in whole, farm-fresh cream. The last hours of the afternoon, she potted plants, proud red geraniums with green spikes for height and trailing vinca for effect flanking the door leading to the stairs leading to her spacious second-story flat in the old Victorian house, then filled the windowboxes with impatiens and alyssum and, by the kitchen, basil and chives and oregano and sage and lemon verbena and chocolate mint, for tea.
Éva doesn't work on Sunday. Éva doesn't think about work on Sunday, if she can possibly avoid it. It is the one day a week that is wholly hers, and so she cooks and gardens and walks and sees her friends, or just spends a long day perusing every inch of the Times, down to reviews of new galleries or installations she will never get to see.
By evening, the dishes are done and the potting soil swept from the stoop and half the paper has migrated from the bedroom to the living room. The television is turned to the Home and Garden network, but muted. She's half-way through Taylor Branch's endless biography of Lyndon Johnson, and rarely glances up. On the coffee table before her, her usual nightcap: a single glass of red wine.
Santiago
Sat 05:11AM EST
A knock on the door.
He promised he'd knock next time. He is, if nothing else, a man (beast) who keeps his promises. A peek through the peephole reveals him in the slanting light of the single bulb in the hallway. Outside, the dusk is still fading. His hands are in his pockets, relaxed, his shirt buttoned and not too terribly wrinkled, all things considered. He looks off down the hall at some unknown point that catches his attention. He seems, for the moment, almost normal.
The illusion fades when the door opens. It's the rage, perhaps, which seethes under the skin of even this most quiet of Fenrirs. Or perhaps it's just the penetrating, direct, unsettling gaze, black and steady above the smile.
"Ms. Illeshazy." Somehow 'kinwoman' has become 'Ms. Illeshazy'. "May I come in?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:20AM EST
She is still for a moment, framed by the door. Sunday, Sunday evening, and she is not dressed in her professional armor. No, she is dressed casually: whine cotton yoga pants with a drawstring waist, rolled at the cuffs to hang loose around her calves, and a loose sleeveless cotton shirt, black. Dark hair is pulled up and away from her face, cinched into a thick, sagging ponytail.
A moment, she is still. Then: "Come in," spoken as she steps back from the door to allow him entrance. Another moment as she closes the door behind him, clicking two of the many locks home, habitual action, that. Turning, she passes behind him and into the open living room proper, where she stands, still and watchful. "What can I do for you?"
What should she call him, exactly?
"Oh, and have a seat. Can I..." after thought, this whole line of questions and offers. "...get you anything?"
Santiago
Sat 05:29AM EST
"I'm not staying long." This is a relief, probably. This is also a polite declining of the offered seat, the offered 'anything'. He remains standing just inside the door. The slanting evening light bolsters the interior lighting. He looks around the space once, a glance in passing, no more, as though he were scanning his surroundings in for private comparison to the last he was here.
Minus a body, it is very much unchanged.
His regard returns to her. Out here he smiles less, snaps straight to the point more. Ironically, she's out of her professional armor and in her home, making at least an attempt to play the hostess. The attempt is shorn through easily; it's down to business again.
"Would you have any sort of access to public records? Any information on who owns a tract a land, a group of buildings?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:39AM EST
Minus a body, it is unchanged: hardwood floors and old, cheap Persian rugs, worn almost to the threads but soft and warm as sin beneath her feet. Warm wood, soft canvases, and a room filled with bookshelves, half of which are recent purchases, the others, well, must be remnants of student days, of the concrete block and brick variety. The paper is spread across the couch and coffee table, but otherwise the living room is tidy as a picture postcard.
She stops, mid-step, half-way around the low, overstuffed couch and turns to face him. "Anyone can find that. The various county assessors' offices maintain property rolls that list the owner, any liens or judgments against the property, easements or zoning restrictions." Lightly - defensively, perhaps - her arms across, mid-torso. She smiles then, and though the expression is starched and a bit self-deprecating, it is not exactly warm. "In short: yes. What do you need to know?"
Santiago
Sat 05:44AM EST
"Anyone can find the records, true. But I've got a hunch that they might've hidden their tracks a little better than that."
He comes a few steps into the room. He takes a seat after all, waiting until he's settled to explain. "There's a complex of sorts in the Pine Barrens, not too far from the town of Manahawkin. Word has it Endron supposedly has some of their drilling equipment stashed there.
"But there've been some strange wyrmcreatures in the Barrens these days. 'Normal' wolves that can take the warform. I think they came out of the complex. There's some talk of a Neuro Lab sharing the premises with Endron. I figure this lab might have something to do with the wolves, because Gaia cetainly didn't make them like this.
"I'd like to know who's staked out there. Who owns those buildings, and who owns the land they're sitting on. What the link is between the companies, if they're both there." A shrug, and a wan smile. "Find out as much as you can about the complex. And find out how long they've been there if you can."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:53AM EST
"I'll need precise coordinates for the land. Property law isn't my specialty, but - " a mild shrug punctuates the statement. She turns and skims through one of the bookcases, sinks into a crouch, and soon pulls out a thick bound volume. Straightening, she turns around again, now leafing through the pages. "I can do traces on the holding corporations, if any." She glances up, and pauses her rapid skim of the pages, holding her place with her index finger. "Manahawkin, did you say?"
Receiving his nod of confirmation, she puts the book down in front of him, open to a detailed series of maps around Manahawkin: topographical, land use, population density, and last, a street map so detailed that almost every address is shown, covering 6 pages, at least, even for such a small town. "Can you give me a more precise location?"
Santiago
Sat 05:57AM EST
He pores over the map for a moment. It's equally hard to find locations on a map too broad, or too detailed. Finally he circles an area with his finger in one of the insets.
"Right here."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:05AM EST
She sits on the very edge of the couch and leans over, tracing from the area he circled to the edge of the map.
Latitude.
Longitude.
...and page number, to be safe.
Satisfied, she retrieves a pencil and notepad from a small basket beneath the coffee table and writes down the coordinates. "I should have the information to you by Tuesday evening. Wednesday evening, at the latest," she says, though in truth she will have it by Monday. It's an important lesson: never promise more than you can give. Always deliver more than you promised.
Santiago
Sat 06:11AM EST
While she writes down the coordinates and page number, he carefully folds the fold-out map back into the book. Then he closes the volume with a thump. Leaning forward, he sets it on the coffee table. There, too, it thumps down - a venerable tome of property knowledge. You expect a cloud of dust to rise.
A beat. Then Santiago rises smoothly. "Thank you, kinwoman." He never failed to thank her for her efforts. Whether that's patronization or genuine gratitude, she's probably yet to decide. Either way, he's already turning to go. "I can stop by to pick it up. Save you the drive out, if you like."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:24AM EST
"You're welcome." Like so many things, the response is automatic and crisp. To the uneducated ear, there is even a smile in her voice. Like many things, the smile is deceptive and professional, necessary in her line of work. Necessary in both her lines of work. She doesn't pause to consider whether his thanks are genuine or patronizing. Or, rather, if she thinks them genuine, she must know that they are tainted, on some level, by patronization, condescension. That they must be so tainted, because he is what he is, and she is what she is, and never the twain shall meet.
She follows him to the door, and pauses at the threshold. Another smile, flying at half-mast, just a twist of her mouth, really. "Normally," undoing the locks, swinging open the door for him. "I would accept the offer, but I don't know when I'll have it ready. Better for me to make one trip than for you to waste two."
She steps back, giving him room to leave. "If there's anything else -" It's unspoken, but clear even without the invitation: she knows her place within the hierarchy, the bare minimum of her duty to the full-blooded members of the Nation fighting their endless war. " - let me know. Goodnight - " The last word hangs in the air a moment. She is not sure what to call him, what title, what name, whether she should call him anything at all. Her hand is curved around the wooden edge of the door, and in lieu of his name, she repeats herself, more firmly this time: "Goodnight."
And the door clicks closed.
Sat 05:05AM EST
Sunday: lazy day. The bright warm sky is interrupted now and against by fast-moving banks of thunderstorms, spring-rain, cloudbursts, followed by a blooming dappled sky. Éva spent the morning as she spends every Sunday morning: reading the New York Times in bed, with cappuccino and chocolate croissant from François' Pastry Shoppe, across Levitt Street of St. Mary's, listening to NPR.
At 1 p.m., she served brunch to a small group of friends on her wide back balcony: a rosemary/sausage/egg/asiago strada, crisp waffles and bacon, mimosas, and for dessert a flourless chocolate cake, tiny and decadent and rich, topped with a ring of the strawberries she picked up at the Burlington fruit stand, or those self-same strawberries in whole, farm-fresh cream. The last hours of the afternoon, she potted plants, proud red geraniums with green spikes for height and trailing vinca for effect flanking the door leading to the stairs leading to her spacious second-story flat in the old Victorian house, then filled the windowboxes with impatiens and alyssum and, by the kitchen, basil and chives and oregano and sage and lemon verbena and chocolate mint, for tea.
Éva doesn't work on Sunday. Éva doesn't think about work on Sunday, if she can possibly avoid it. It is the one day a week that is wholly hers, and so she cooks and gardens and walks and sees her friends, or just spends a long day perusing every inch of the Times, down to reviews of new galleries or installations she will never get to see.
By evening, the dishes are done and the potting soil swept from the stoop and half the paper has migrated from the bedroom to the living room. The television is turned to the Home and Garden network, but muted. She's half-way through Taylor Branch's endless biography of Lyndon Johnson, and rarely glances up. On the coffee table before her, her usual nightcap: a single glass of red wine.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:05AM EST
Sunday: lazy day. The bright warm sky is interrupted now and against by fast-moving banks of thunderstorms, spring-rain, cloudbursts, followed by a blooming dappled sky. Éva spent the morning as she spends every Sunday morning: reading the New York Times in bed, with cappuccino and chocolate croissant from François' Pastry Shoppe, across Levitt Street of St. Mary's, listening to NPR.
At 1 p.m., she served brunch to a small group of friends on her wide back balcony: a rosemary/sausage/egg/asiago strada, crisp waffles and bacon, mimosas, and for dessert a flourless chocolate cake, tiny and decadent and rich, topped with a ring of the strawberries she picked up at the Burlington fruit stand, or those self-same strawberries in whole, farm-fresh cream. The last hours of the afternoon, she potted plants, proud red geraniums with green spikes for height and trailing vinca for effect flanking the door leading to the stairs leading to her spacious second-story flat in the old Victorian house, then filled the windowboxes with impatiens and alyssum and, by the kitchen, basil and chives and oregano and sage and lemon verbena and chocolate mint, for tea.
Éva doesn't work on Sunday. Éva doesn't think about work on Sunday, if she can possibly avoid it. It is the one day a week that is wholly hers, and so she cooks and gardens and walks and sees her friends, or just spends a long day perusing every inch of the Times, down to reviews of new galleries or installations she will never get to see.
By evening, the dishes are done and the potting soil swept from the stoop and half the paper has migrated from the bedroom to the living room. The television is turned to the Home and Garden network, but muted. She's half-way through Taylor Branch's endless biography of Lyndon Johnson, and rarely glances up. On the coffee table before her, her usual nightcap: a single glass of red wine.
Santiago
Sat 05:11AM EST
A knock on the door.
He promised he'd knock next time. He is, if nothing else, a man (beast) who keeps his promises. A peek through the peephole reveals him in the slanting light of the single bulb in the hallway. Outside, the dusk is still fading. His hands are in his pockets, relaxed, his shirt buttoned and not too terribly wrinkled, all things considered. He looks off down the hall at some unknown point that catches his attention. He seems, for the moment, almost normal.
The illusion fades when the door opens. It's the rage, perhaps, which seethes under the skin of even this most quiet of Fenrirs. Or perhaps it's just the penetrating, direct, unsettling gaze, black and steady above the smile.
"Ms. Illeshazy." Somehow 'kinwoman' has become 'Ms. Illeshazy'. "May I come in?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:20AM EST
She is still for a moment, framed by the door. Sunday, Sunday evening, and she is not dressed in her professional armor. No, she is dressed casually: whine cotton yoga pants with a drawstring waist, rolled at the cuffs to hang loose around her calves, and a loose sleeveless cotton shirt, black. Dark hair is pulled up and away from her face, cinched into a thick, sagging ponytail.
A moment, she is still. Then: "Come in," spoken as she steps back from the door to allow him entrance. Another moment as she closes the door behind him, clicking two of the many locks home, habitual action, that. Turning, she passes behind him and into the open living room proper, where she stands, still and watchful. "What can I do for you?"
What should she call him, exactly?
"Oh, and have a seat. Can I..." after thought, this whole line of questions and offers. "...get you anything?"
Santiago
Sat 05:29AM EST
"I'm not staying long." This is a relief, probably. This is also a polite declining of the offered seat, the offered 'anything'. He remains standing just inside the door. The slanting evening light bolsters the interior lighting. He looks around the space once, a glance in passing, no more, as though he were scanning his surroundings in for private comparison to the last he was here.
Minus a body, it is very much unchanged.
His regard returns to her. Out here he smiles less, snaps straight to the point more. Ironically, she's out of her professional armor and in her home, making at least an attempt to play the hostess. The attempt is shorn through easily; it's down to business again.
"Would you have any sort of access to public records? Any information on who owns a tract a land, a group of buildings?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:39AM EST
Minus a body, it is unchanged: hardwood floors and old, cheap Persian rugs, worn almost to the threads but soft and warm as sin beneath her feet. Warm wood, soft canvases, and a room filled with bookshelves, half of which are recent purchases, the others, well, must be remnants of student days, of the concrete block and brick variety. The paper is spread across the couch and coffee table, but otherwise the living room is tidy as a picture postcard.
She stops, mid-step, half-way around the low, overstuffed couch and turns to face him. "Anyone can find that. The various county assessors' offices maintain property rolls that list the owner, any liens or judgments against the property, easements or zoning restrictions." Lightly - defensively, perhaps - her arms across, mid-torso. She smiles then, and though the expression is starched and a bit self-deprecating, it is not exactly warm. "In short: yes. What do you need to know?"
Santiago
Sat 05:44AM EST
"Anyone can find the records, true. But I've got a hunch that they might've hidden their tracks a little better than that."
He comes a few steps into the room. He takes a seat after all, waiting until he's settled to explain. "There's a complex of sorts in the Pine Barrens, not too far from the town of Manahawkin. Word has it Endron supposedly has some of their drilling equipment stashed there.
"But there've been some strange wyrmcreatures in the Barrens these days. 'Normal' wolves that can take the warform. I think they came out of the complex. There's some talk of a Neuro Lab sharing the premises with Endron. I figure this lab might have something to do with the wolves, because Gaia cetainly didn't make them like this.
"I'd like to know who's staked out there. Who owns those buildings, and who owns the land they're sitting on. What the link is between the companies, if they're both there." A shrug, and a wan smile. "Find out as much as you can about the complex. And find out how long they've been there if you can."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 05:53AM EST
"I'll need precise coordinates for the land. Property law isn't my specialty, but - " a mild shrug punctuates the statement. She turns and skims through one of the bookcases, sinks into a crouch, and soon pulls out a thick bound volume. Straightening, she turns around again, now leafing through the pages. "I can do traces on the holding corporations, if any." She glances up, and pauses her rapid skim of the pages, holding her place with her index finger. "Manahawkin, did you say?"
Receiving his nod of confirmation, she puts the book down in front of him, open to a detailed series of maps around Manahawkin: topographical, land use, population density, and last, a street map so detailed that almost every address is shown, covering 6 pages, at least, even for such a small town. "Can you give me a more precise location?"
Santiago
Sat 05:57AM EST
He pores over the map for a moment. It's equally hard to find locations on a map too broad, or too detailed. Finally he circles an area with his finger in one of the insets.
"Right here."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:05AM EST
She sits on the very edge of the couch and leans over, tracing from the area he circled to the edge of the map.
Latitude.
Longitude.
...and page number, to be safe.
Satisfied, she retrieves a pencil and notepad from a small basket beneath the coffee table and writes down the coordinates. "I should have the information to you by Tuesday evening. Wednesday evening, at the latest," she says, though in truth she will have it by Monday. It's an important lesson: never promise more than you can give. Always deliver more than you promised.
Santiago
Sat 06:11AM EST
While she writes down the coordinates and page number, he carefully folds the fold-out map back into the book. Then he closes the volume with a thump. Leaning forward, he sets it on the coffee table. There, too, it thumps down - a venerable tome of property knowledge. You expect a cloud of dust to rise.
A beat. Then Santiago rises smoothly. "Thank you, kinwoman." He never failed to thank her for her efforts. Whether that's patronization or genuine gratitude, she's probably yet to decide. Either way, he's already turning to go. "I can stop by to pick it up. Save you the drive out, if you like."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 06:24AM EST
"You're welcome." Like so many things, the response is automatic and crisp. To the uneducated ear, there is even a smile in her voice. Like many things, the smile is deceptive and professional, necessary in her line of work. Necessary in both her lines of work. She doesn't pause to consider whether his thanks are genuine or patronizing. Or, rather, if she thinks them genuine, she must know that they are tainted, on some level, by patronization, condescension. That they must be so tainted, because he is what he is, and she is what she is, and never the twain shall meet.
She follows him to the door, and pauses at the threshold. Another smile, flying at half-mast, just a twist of her mouth, really. "Normally," undoing the locks, swinging open the door for him. "I would accept the offer, but I don't know when I'll have it ready. Better for me to make one trip than for you to waste two."
She steps back, giving him room to leave. "If there's anything else -" It's unspoken, but clear even without the invitation: she knows her place within the hierarchy, the bare minimum of her duty to the full-blooded members of the Nation fighting their endless war. " - let me know. Goodnight - " The last word hangs in the air a moment. She is not sure what to call him, what title, what name, whether she should call him anything at all. Her hand is curved around the wooden edge of the door, and in lieu of his name, she repeats herself, more firmly this time: "Goodnight."
And the door clicks closed.
scouting.
Santiago
Fri 11:52PM EST
..and wouldja look at that. One talen and one day later, he's barely even bruised.
Shirtless, gunslinging, showing only a few ugly yellowish bruises and a long line of claw scars along the right side, the swarthy Forseti approaches the gathering and nods to everyone present. Whomever that might be. "Thanks for the talen, Matthew." He slaps his lean, bare side, hard and ridged with the shape of muscle and ribs both. "Worked like a Charm."
...Garou humor.
Matthew Burk
Fri 11:53PM EST
"Ah... well, know we're down to 4."
A little sigh, and a quick turn as Santiago approaches.
"No problem... hope we have enough now."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 11:55PM EST
Billy nods quietly. "there will be enough. there will not be one for me."
Bloodless Star Howling
Fri 11:56PM EST
*She was there already, but they did not need to know it. She felt no urge to make her presence known yet, it was not necessary. Wollowing in the coolness of the mud beneath her paws, she listened to the drifting pieces of conversation that floated in and out on the breeze, alongside the stench of rotting meat. Frangrances both familiar and sweet. Above her, in a cloudless place, the dark shape of a bird crossed the sun and made shadows become infants for a moment, squawling in the silence of ethereal nothingness.
Peace. Tranquilitiy. The moment before shattering bones.*
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:00AM EST
"Not coming?"
And of course, Matthew frowns. This does not bode well. If Billy's not going, then they only have one Ahroun... and if Matthew goes to replace him, then.. well, matthew is NOT good in a fight, as he's said.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 12:00AM EST
The young Silver Fang is there, too. Seated quietly by the fire, she looks up as Santiago walks into the camp, then returns her attention to the flame. The firelight glances off her pale hair, resonates in her golden hair. Dressed simply, she is ready for the night's work.
Zoe Saldana
Sat 12:02AM EST
Settlign Corrina in for her nap she slipped bck outside, looking for Billy, all professional healer now, er supllies gathered into her bag once more...
"Alright... anyone else hurt out here?"
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:04AM EST
billy just points to the bodies of the war wolves...their heads hung from his lodge...and then tpo santiago...now only a little bruised.
Lucca
Sat 12:04AM EST
The wanderer made his way towards billy's camp. The map in his head helping him immensely. It was a knack to be able to travel somewhere and have memorized how to do it. He followed that blueprint now towards the camp.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:09AM EST
looking around quietly he says. "Everyone iis here that is going scouting...perhaps we should get underway."
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:10AM EST
"Do you wish for me to go?"
A glance over at Ana, and Matthew takes a step back, as if to say that she may have the right to go. They discussed this, albiet briefly.
Santiago
Sat 12:10AM EST
Santiago barely pays heed to the five war wolves whose heads adorned Billy's lodge. They did things differently. They fought well together, but Santiago keeps no remembrances of his slain foes. From his claws to the judgment of Fenris. From his judgment to the maw of the Abyss. That is how it is for him.
Once the greetings are done, simple and plain, Santiago squats in the sand, unslings his guns and lays them down. He rakes his fingers through the sand where he had fought last night, bled last night, killed last night and died last night.
Died, and rose again.
A handful of sand lifted. Grains are allowed to trickle between his fingers, a steady pale stream blown by the wind to scatter. Some few grains paint the leather and the steel of his guns and holster. He murmurs under his breath, lips moving in almost-silent prayer.
Father Fenris, there will be a hunt tonight, and the prey is knowledge.
Father Fenris, give me the wisdom to discern the enemy's tracks, for they are many and sly.
Father Fenris, give me the strength to withhold the kill, for they are only the offshoot and we seek the root.
Father Fenris, give me the honor to withstand the trials I might face, for in You I trust and for You I fight.
The last of the sand dusted from his hands slowly, thoughtfully. Then he lifts his guns from the beach and slings the holsters into place, one on either side, rough leather and cold steel and hard polymer against skin.
Agreement, "We should go now, Billy-rhya."
Zoe Saldana
Sat 12:12AM EST
"Do you mind if I stay out here then to keep an eye on Corrina?"
Settlign her things...
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 12:13AM EST
Time passes. *Whisper the shadows, but they are not shadows anymore. She moves forward through the gathering, her paws picking steps that are guided by instinct and not sight. She never relies on that, for it is faulty. It is sound and scent and feeling that accompanies her through life, now, and she makes the most of these as she crosses the clearing from one end to the other, slowly.*
Lucca
Sat 12:14AM EST
He makes his way into Billy's camp quietly without a word. expecting a Gathering so not being concerned to much at the sounds of one.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:15AM EST
He nods quietly as he looks at the group. then he looks at Bloodless star Howling. "glad you could join us...it's your show"
then he looks at Zoe. "Feel free zoe..."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 12:18AM EST
Billy speaks. Santiago speaks. Ana rises from her cross-legged position before the fire, rocking forward and then somehow unfolding to stand straight and tall as she can. Her usual garb: old jeans, an old t-shirt, broken-in hiking boots. As Matthew raises his question, the young Silver Fang half-turns and casts him a brief glances. Her eyes are pale, tonight, the sun behind a thin layer of gray cloud-cover, and the firelight dances within, reflected.
She says nothing. It's hardly her decision.
As she waits, she snaps a pair of heavy rubber bands from her wrist onto her hand, then reaches behind her back and doubles her braid once, and again, securing it each time until there is nothing onto which one can grab and the thick pale strands are webbed in elastic. "I'm ready."
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 12:20AM EST
Time passes. *She repeats, but it sounds more like an echo, now. Something from memory tickling its way across the surface of one's thoughts, sticky and hot. Like an overbaked apple dipped in honey. Tart, unpleasant, and cloying. Her tail flicks once, disturbing the peaceful slumber of a fat horsefly from one of the heavy leaves nearby and she passes into the forest, but not silently.*Is time. Show way...
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:23AM EST
He waits for a response. He was to make the talens, and prepare the way for others to go. But now, Billy seems to not wish to go. And so he waits once more, to find if he is to journey with them. A question, repeated.
"Am I to go with you?"
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:25AM EST
Looking at Matthew, he nods. "Stay by me Matthew and do Exactly as I tell you."
Santiago
Sat 12:26AM EST
He'd been halfturning to follow the Fostern Theurge - but now turns back. Black eyes flick between Matthew and Billy. He waits for the latter to make a call, shifting the itching, abrasive leather holsters on his shoulders.
Call made. He falls in behind Bloodless Star. The Theurge leads; the strongest fighter guards the rear. It's the way of things, instinctive.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 12:27AM EST
Another glance back, as Billy speaks again. It could almost seem idle, but it is not. There are no smiles on her young face as she falls into step behind Santiago. No smiles at all.
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:30AM EST
"As you say, Billy-rhya."
Usually he only uses the suffix to annoy Billy. But now, he's making sure that his place is clear. He is underneath Billy. And so, Billy calls the shots. Ducking his head to make sure the deferance in made clear, Matthew moves to gather the few things he needs. A knife. Some bags, of various things. And then, he moves to Billy's side. Ready for whatever.
Metro Staff
Sat 12:45AM EST
~Santiago takes the lead from Billys camp. He decides the most logical place to start would be from where the wolves were let out into the forest. Its a long trek from Billys camp. Santiago is very cautious, and several times there is a halt because of something supsicious. Though each time, there is an all clear. Its a beautiful night, some clouds in the air, and the distant roar of thunder from the storms down south, but they have yet to hit here again, the rain of the morning still fresh around. Its quiet, but the forest is not deathly quiet, the animals are chittering as par their usual, for the night at least. The spirits are also present, in their own worlds of course, vaguely aware of Gaia's warriors stalking silently. Its not long before they can hear the far off sounds of a lone highway, and Santiago knows he is close~
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:52AM EST
billy takes the rear guard position, walking quiertly, almost like a ghost, he keeps an eye on Matthew
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:52AM EST
billy takes the rear guard position, walking quiertly, almost like a ghost, he keeps an eye on Matthew
Santiago
Sat 12:56AM EST
"This is where the scent-trail began," murmurs the Forseti, and then gestures down the road. "I parked on the shoulder over there. It's a Tahoe. It should seat all of us."
And the Chevy does, indeed, seat all of them. There's even room in the back for Bloodless if she didn't care to leave her lupus shape. From there it's off to the races, heading straight for the town he had gone to a few days past. Along the way he fills them in - he'd followed a gut instinct along this road, and it led him to Manahawkin, where he'd spoken to an old man who told him about "Neuro Labs" and the oil drilling company setting up camp together, and the wolves on premise.
Nearly at Manahawkin, he takes a sideroad into the forests instead, looking for this fabled camp. About two or three miles away he parks the car in front of a small grocery store, closed, catering to the residents of these boonies. The engine goes silent and Santiago points through the windshield.
"It should be that way, Bloodless-rhya. Let's cross the gauntlet here and approach through the Penumbra."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:02AM EST
Billy Passes out the 4 Talens. one to Bloodless star One to Matthew, another to ana, and the Last to santiago as he takes in all the information
Metro Staff
Sat 01:03AM EST
~The area is rather quiet, most townsfolks in bed, or drinking in Manahawkin at this point. Though through the quiet air, once can almost hear a faint humming coming from deep within the woods. Its a interesting sound, not exactly easy to hear, one would think his ears are playing tricks on him, but its a steady hum.~
Ana Kozireski
Sat 01:06AM EST
Her reflection: caught in a golden mirror carried on a golden chain around her neck. Her reflection, as she climbs out of the Tahoe, half-hearing the instructions, half-feeling them.
Sure-footed on the narrow country road, rutted and potholed after the contraction and expansion, the long undermining winter, she covers her gut-deep feelings of unease (this is no real pack) with a façade of calm that services her well.
The edge of her eye, captured in the silvered glass, reflected back at her by the ambient light. Absently, she reaches out and accepts the talen Billy offers her. Absently, absently. She glances up the road, and down, peers at the windows of the grocery store and then finds her way to the edge of the treeline. One can never be too careful.
Her reflection: both pale eyes in the pale light, pale skin and a crown of golden pale hair, mobile mouth still, captured in the small rounded glass. (Pop -
Ver
....ti
.......go.
- goes the weasel. The light grows silvered, like the backing of her mirror. There's a slash in the fabric of the atmosphere before her, not so much bright, but pressing, the other half of a sundered soul, and then she's gone, across the web of worlds.)
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:08AM EST
*She is the first to halt and the last to cross over. Her eyes glaze in a fashion that is entirely unusual, settling upon the sharpness of reflections in a space uninhabited by physical reality. She can feel herself pushing, a certain stickiness clinging to her fur. It is like being born and giving birth at the same time. A sensation of pushing through and pushing out that turns the insides to outsides for a brief instant. It has been enough to make some garou fear that their guts will recreate themselves on their arms. It is a feeling that has often afflicted her. Not tonight.
Perched on a small rock, grooming its feathers, a dark-winged falcon spirit cants its head, watching as the garou materialize and melt themselves like butter-figures into the penumbral world.*
Santiago
Sat 01:12AM EST
Somewhere between Ana and Bloodless, Santiago slips across. For a Forseti, he manages this with remarkable ease. One moment he's on this side. The next (a circle of transparency seems to appear in his gut and expand outward until) he's gone.
Crossed.
In the Penumbra now, moonlit, the Forseti rolls his head on his shoulders to loosen his neck muscles. Then he shakes out his fingers, flexes them, and watches Bloodless for cues. Her lead now.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:14AM EST
He waits for Matthew to Cross, then he himself slips into the Umbra and falls into his place again
Matthew Burk
Sat 01:14AM EST
He follows close behind. Stepping free from the car, and closing his eyes. The other reason that he doesn't like the city. Difficulty. But a deep breath drawn in, and eyes open to stare into the windows of the car. Reflections. This world.. the next... a wrench, and he is there.
Metro Staff
Sat 01:16AM EST
~The forest itself is alive. Its spring, and the Glade Children are out of their slumber of winter, and the forests own spirits notice the new comers, some curious enough to take a closer look, others a little skittish, hurrying away, some indifferent. The forest takes on what any would hope, and assume. Vibrant and alive, yet, from within, a smell of taint, and decay, can be noticed~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:20AM EST
*The decay is not unusual, many things die, but it is strange here. So, too, is the taint. A scent that she had nearly put out of her mind, but that comes back all too soon. Shaking dust from her fur that glitters and fades, sparkling to nothingness around her paws, she pads forward towards the spirit.
A moment passes. A heartbeat. Slow and sluggish, made thick with the energies of magick that is not magick, but far too natural to be anything but real.
She locks gazes with the spirit, her maw opening, but the sounds that escape are like sighs and the slithering click-hisses of snakes through grass. The tongue of spiritual life. (Go. Find.)*
Ana Kozireski
Sat 01:25AM EST
Pale eyes flicker over the others as they push through, ticking off a mental list. No matter how close one is to one's spiritual self, the danger always remains. They could be trapped, somewhere in between worlds, suspended animation, or hijacked on their passage here. The threads that hold one half to the other grow frayed. When the worlds fall apart, the center, too, will fall away, shattered, spiral.
"The taint comes from your labs," a murmured aside to Santiago, quiet so as not to disturb the Fostern's communication with her spirit. "That way." The young woman nods her head as her hands skim down to slide the talen into the front pocket of her jeans. She tips her head to include Matthew and Billy in the gesture. It is so easy to get disoriented in the penumbra, if one does not know the landscape. "It's strong."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:29AM EST
Billy can hear it he can feel it...not completely healed after last nhight's attacks...at least he had his rage. turning to Look at Matthew, he speks in that soft half whisper he had learned through many battles. "Keep a kife close to hand and your wits about you...and Stay close but don't get in my way if weget attacked."
Santiago
Sat 01:32AM EST
A flicker of a glance toward Billy instructing Matthew. There might be annoyance there. If there is, it's bitten back; he returns his attention to Ana and nods. "We'll see what Rhya's falcon finds."
And he crouches again, folding easily into an alert sort of repose, eyes sharp, wrists upon knees. Listening and waiting.
Matthew Burk
Sat 01:32AM EST
A nod is all the answer his elder recieves, and the knife comes to hand. Very sharp. For skinning things he hunts.. and for fighting, if he has no other choice. Usually, there is a choice. But sometimes.. fingering the knife idly, Matthew does as told. Waits. Watches.
Metro Staff
Sat 01:34AM EST
~The bird flys high. As it makes its way deeper and deeper into the forest, the forest, loses life, and slowly, but surely, is blighted. It can see this, and after a few moments, circles on a set of buildings. It seems to be a former boy scout camp, converted to another type of use. Its hard to tell exactly, from high in teh sky, but its the source of the taint, and the start of the blight.~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:40AM EST
*She had not been expecting this. The images flood through her mind, a once-familiar practice that had become an incapable connection between the two following (No, don't go back. If you don't turn around you won't have to see...)...
The images come as a surprise, striking home into her mind and making her back up several steps, until she nearly bumps into Santiago's leg. She can see more sharply than she ever has before, through the falcon, and as he turns his head so, too, does her head turn to inspect the area around the camp. The buildings, the shadows. It is the only time she has ever seen color, and it blazes into her mind, so bright and brilliant that she nearly forgets her purpose.
Something (hatred, a black ichor, dripping stars) brings her back, and she clenches her jaw, her tail held high and alert.*
Santiago
Sat 01:44AM EST
Santiago sidesteps as Bloodless Star Howling backs up suddenly. This is easier said than done while crouching, but the Forseti manages to make it look simple. His movement is fluid and quick; he, too, raises his head in the direction the Fostern gazes in, though he can't discern what it is she sees.
A frisson of tension through the gathered five. One hand reaches to his guns, gently unclasping the holsters so he could draw them quickly if need be.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:47AM EST
Billy kneels with the War club in front of him like a twisted vision of a Templar knight. that crimson eye looks sinister...ane would almost say evil on the eerie glow of the Umbra...but Billy isn't an evil person. the war club swirls red nd black and seems to be watching everything. almost singing out in it's purpose, because it was created for one thing alone...to destroy life.
Metro Staff
Sat 01:47AM EST
~The Falcon makes its way back, not going over the camp this time, but just a little north of it. Though the center of the blight is not seen, the effects its starting to have on teh area are all too apparent. Gaia is dying here. The Falcon finally makes its way back to a tree near the group, settling and looking to Bloodless~
Metro Staff
Sat 01:47AM EST
~The Falcon makes its way back, not going over the camp this time, but just a little north of it. Though the center of the blight is not seen, the effects its starting to have on teh area are all too apparent. Gaia is dying here. The Falcon finally makes its way back to a tree near the group, settling and looking to Bloodless~
Ana Kozireski
Sat 01:48AM EST
Tension: her jaw clenches. Beneath her cheek, a tendon moves. Santiago sidesteps the lupus Fury, rising. The Silver Fang falls into an easy crouch, watchful now. A moment, before she lifts her voice, quiet on the umbral wind. "...what?"
Santiago
Sat 01:49AM EST
A shake of his head. "I don't know," soft and simple. Dark eyes snap to the falcon as it returns; of the group, he is likely the first to see it. When it has settled, he turns his attention to the Fostern Theurge. "What did you see?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:56AM EST
*The link it still too raw, and she does not have the words in her wolf-shape to communicate what she has seen. For those who do not have the intimate connection of spirit-to-soul, they can never understand what it is like to see through the eyes of something else. It is indescribable. She can only do her best to report what she was able to interpret. It is all interpretation, even when it is plain sight. A cracking of bones and joints fills the too-still air, and her body elongates while growing slimmer in places, stretching. The sinews snapping into place as the bones lock, and her head narrows. It is not a form she takes often, but it is necessary, for now. This body wears badly torn military-issue fatigues and a shirt that covers enough not to be obscene. She is not beautiful. She never will be. A slender pouch is around her neck, and she burrows her fingers into it, removing a few fine grains of some kind of sand which she brings to her nose, sniffing it, before casting it to the wind, a small frown on her lips.*
Death. Is camp, like things for boys who are young and learning to become men. World is dying all around, place bad. Things falling apart. Abandoned, but life beneath. Inside. *The understandings of a lupus.*
Santiago
Sat 01:59AM EST
"And could you see inside?" presses the Half-Moon, still crouched, though his hand slips away from the holsters now. "What's in the camp?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:05AM EST
Not big. Small. Like...boy place...*She struggles with the words, the interpretations not flowing well through the viscose fluids of languages that hinder translation.*Like lodge. For boys. Place for boys. *Does that make any sense? She's trying, and the frustration is welling inside of her gut. She clamps down on it for now, although it is...difficult.*
Small. Feeling...not inside but beneath.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:06AM EST
He grunts. "It's beneath an Eagle scout camp?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:09AM EST
*I'm not through, one question at a time! She glances at Billy, waiting for him to finish speaking before proceeding to continue with her description.*And buildings. Many buildings, build around lodge. Stand out plain in umbra.
Santiago
Sat 02:11AM EST
"Buildings shouldn't be able to manifest so solidly in the umbra, should they?" - a quiet inquiry, half to himself. Then the Forseti unfolds to his feet. "Maybe we should go and have a look ourselves. Maybe Peek across the Gauntlet if we can. Do you think it's safe, Rhya?"
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:11AM EST
"That makes sense. So the taint comes from below, but there are facilities all around, clear in the umbra." The young woman glances at the Fostern, pale brows rising as she seeks confirmation. "That's unusual. It usually takes some time..."
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:15AM EST
*She is hardly surprised that it's the only other female in the gathering who can interpret her comments properly. A glance is spared for Ana that seems to say "Yes, good job," without being too glaringly obvious, and she glances back to Santiago.*No, not usual. Buildings take time build presences. Taint, too. Is fast. Falcon saw no life, should be careful. May be traps, not trip by air, by walking.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:19AM EST
Standing slowly, his back gives out a series of staccato pops and cracks, his neck has started bleeding again, he he doesn't seem to notice as he moves towards the others. his rage seems almost like a phusical force...made moreso by the spiritual surroundings they are in Looking at Santiago then at the Lupuis Theurge, he finally says. "Your show...do we go or do we leave?"
Santiago
Sat 02:21AM EST
"But if someone were to purposefully taint and awaken a building, they could both manifest and be tainted in a short period of time, no?" - and then silence again, waiting for the call.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:24AM EST
The young Silver Fang returns the lupus' glance, meeting the Fostern's eyes briefly before dropping her head in respectful submission, as ever. She is largely quiet, though clearly attentive, turning her head from each to each as they speak.
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:25AM EST
Awaken building not simple, not like awaken tree. Spirit unhappy, surely if tainted. Hard work. Much effort, for such small camp. Think should get closer look, but caution. I go first. *She can't stand this human body anymore. It is horrendously inadequate. Forcing herself downwards and out, her body elongates, falling to all fours as the fur covers her form. It is a quick transformation, because it is familiar. Like breathing, or drinking clean water. The spirit follows as she begins to walk in the direction of the camp.*
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:27AM EST
Billy falls into place at the back of the line leaving matthew with the vehicle, his eyes miss very little and his ears miss even less
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:27AM EST
As Bloodless changes and begins padding toward the camp, the young Theurge's eyes lift, following the falcon's progress above the trees. The spirit's reactions and passage will be their surest indication of Bloodless' progress as she disappears into the Umbral forest.
Santiago
Sat 02:32AM EST
And somewhere in the middle, again, is Santiago, mouth set in a determined line in the bracket of his goatee now. As he goes the crunch of last year's leaves beneath his feet - not the physical manifestation but the very concept of it - lightens and softens and finally drops away entirely. Silent as a ghost, he moves forward, guns slapping soundlessly against his ribs.
Metro Staff
Sat 02:34AM EST
~Bloodless trek towards the camp is slow, as she is of course cautious. As she makes her way closer and closer, the taint of decay becomes more apparent. At first its a subtle change, some wilting, teh spirits losing life, and then into the blight, teh spirits are all but gone, save the banes. The place has a small number of banes. Most are actually seen in the camp, moving about, formori? Possibly. There is a fence around the camp, and the falcon can tell you from the air its a octagonal shape to it. There seems to be several large buildings. The center building is the focus of the taint. The humming comes from the building next to it, another source of the taint, though not as strong as the center building. From what you can tell, the building next to the center one is a large scale generator, as teh electricity can even be seen in teh umbra, the bolts dancing around the camp. The fence is not electrified, at least to the point to hurt anyone, its just, has currents running through a line around it, perhaps sensors?~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:37AM EST
*They are not here to cause a fuss right now, this is a scouting mission and nothing more. If they were aiming to attack they would have brought more ahroun, that's for sure. She gets as close as she feels comfortable, knowing that the spirits, the banes, will be more sensitive to her presence than anything else that might inhabit the camp. The ability to speak with them was a double-edged sword. Lowering herself to her belly, she inches forward through the leaves, pausing with nothing more than her nose and eyes visible behind a fallen and decaying branch as she watches the camp, inspecting the placement of buildings. It is strange, to see from two perspectives, but enlightening. Her body is motionless, and her breathing has stopped. She holds that breath in her lungs, filled with the rancid taste of death.*
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:39AM EST
He takes in the scene and nods quietly as he assesses the situation. a return trip would be made eventually and when it was...the generator would be the first thing that needed to go.
Santiago
Sat 02:40AM EST
Somewhere along the way, Santiago has become a wolf as well. He edges up beside the Theurge now, also crawling on his belly. The guns are gone, vanished into dark patterns barely seen in his fur, which is mottled, a mishmash of blacks and browns and reds and tans. Not at all the iron grey of a purebred Fenrir. Rather close, in fact, to the random scatter of furcolors found among the urrah tribes.
Stealth is easier in this form. Communication, too, can come quieter and subtler - a position of body, a height of tail.
"(ws) Too dangerous go in?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:43AM EST
Too dangerous. Banes guard, maybe...fomori. Might be more, can't see all. Our numbers too small, not safe. Electricity. *She grunts, low in her throat, and nudges her nose in the direction of the electrified fence. The smell of it makes her fur bristle, and her ears lay flat against her skull.*Patience. Learn much now. Not seen, come back, numbers more. Take out stinking generator.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:43AM EST
In their wake: another. The Silver Fang has changed as well. Where Santiago is mottled, she is pure as luna's bright light, silver-ruffed, magnificent. Silent behind them, lupine head canted, listening.
Metro Staff
Sat 02:44AM EST
Movement. It seems two of the banes are leaving the encampment. A patrol? What the hell were they up to? It seems they are starting to move around the perimeter of the camp, going the opposite way of Bloodless and Santiago, though, they will be near there position in 10 minutes. The camp is holding something. Its something that is changing the area around it, but, without a closer look, it would be hard to tell~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:47AM EST
*Their numbers are too small to risk being found out, especially now that it is obvious that the camp is being guarded. They might not see more than a handful of living things (in one fashion or another, alive), but that does not mean that there are not more. It would be best, in her opinion, not to venture any further. They have seen the layout, and have a more clear understanding of the kind of defense that they are up against. That is all that is necessary, for now. When she sees the banes begin to move out of the camp, she slides back slowly away from the fence and slithers to a standing position, moving back towards the vehicle.*Seen shape of fence, seen defenses with eyes, seen buildings, felt death. Is enough, for now. Make plan, come back. End pain of land.
Metro Staff
Sat 02:49AM EST
~Suddenly, there is an echo, a sound too out of place, to eerie. It reeks of the wrym, and it calls out J’ehaoth. It echoes the words over and over again. J'ehaoth. Then is silent~
Santiago
Sat 02:50AM EST
I could pick them off before they ever knew what was upon them...
It's an effort to squirm back on his belly. To stand again, shaking out his coat lightly. His tongue darts out and licks his muzzle, his nose. Another glance at the banes approaching (...I could kill them...), torn away.
"(ws) Yes Rhy--" break off; head snaps around, ears flattened. His dark eyes flash immediately to the banes, trying to discern if they made the call; if they responded to it. "What is that?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:52AM EST
*Her hackles rise slowly, but nothing more than that. The sound, while unnerving...was not one that she could put a name to. The spirit has already retreated, making its way back in anticipation of her own retreat and she can feel his impatience. (Hurry.) Lowering her head, she sniffs deeply of the umbral ground, her nostrils flaring as she moves away from the camp, her ears against her skull. Troubled.*Unfamiliar.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:54AM EST
Ears prick, then flatten at the eerie echo. Still in the umbral underbrush, beneath the low sweep of an ancient cedar tree still clinging to spiritual life, though its mirror in the living world no longer remains, backing up without turning around, until a screen of trees separates her from the camp. Then she dares movement enough to turn around and falls into a tireless wolfen lope: groundeating, at the Fostern's command.
Santiago
Sat 02:56AM EST
Staying just long enough to be sure the banes haven't spotted them, the mottled wolf backs slowly away into the screen of undergrowth. Once he, good as his eyes are, can no longer see the camp (and, it serves to assume, they can no longer see him) he turns on his hindlegs. For lack of a better word, he hauls ass.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:59AM EST
He frowns as he hears the word. neck cracking...this wasn't the spirit speech...it was a dead language...the language of the native people.the locals in fact. he stays where he is. crouched down in homid...they weren't ahrouns...he was and if bad comes to worse...he can buy some time He gives them a full 5 Minutes before he himself fades into the underbrush
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:03AM EST
*She returns to where they'd left the vehicle by a slightly roundabout path, her footsteps carrying her across different tracks than she had made coming to the camp. Obscuring. Strange. Above her, the falcon is distressed, and she watches as he flies off deeper into the forest, back towards the deeper recesses. Towards familiar skies. Unsettled by visions, she turns to watch the company lope into sight, her ears flicking this way and that. Listening for the ethereal whispers of spiritual pursuit.*
Santiago
Sat 03:06AM EST
It's the two-legged form that reconvenes at the stop where the vehicle was parked realmside. The holsters are back at his sides, unclasped. One of the guns, the SIG-SAUER, is in his hand but he hasn't seen fit to thumb the safety off yet. He doesn't have to think twice before he puts his back to a treetrunk. Silent, he too waits for signs of pursuit.
Only when none seem to be forthcoming does he speak. "The banes didn't react at all to the call. It was as though they'd become accustomed to it."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:08AM EST
The Silver Fang offers a glance back: their path, pursuit, or perhaps, merely, morbid curiousity. The same impulse that comes to humans when passing a wreck, or tasting a cavity. What is rotten is somehow as compelling as it is repellant.
The wolf is no longer a wolf. The wolf is now a woman. Or rather: a girl, whose body is still thin and nigh-straight, thin torso, narrow hips, straight proud bearing, the heritage of blood stamped across her features and shining in her eyes, crowning this form with that pale golden hair. "Did anyone recognize the call?"
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:10AM EST
It's a full 15 minutes before billy melts out of the tres, Bane Breaker across his shoulders he hadn't heard the speculation or the questions up to this point.
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:11AM EST
Yes. No. *Two answers, two questions. She approaches them as they are offered to her, and her responses are succinct. Precise. She will have to investigate this further, but it will be in the form of questioning spirits, now. She should have done that first, but she was not aware of how deeply the taint had penetrated the land around it. If there were a thousand excuses or only one, the outcome was still the same. They did receive information. She lifts her eyes towards Billy, and her voice is low in her throat.*Strange call. Not hear before. Should return back, have learned much.
Santiago
Sat 03:12AM EST
Santiago shakes his head no. "I could make a Questing Stone after we get back, and see if it led me anywhere," he offers.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:12AM EST
Looking at the trio, he speaks in his choked rasp of a voice. "any of you speak Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape"
Santiago
Sat 03:13AM EST
Another negative. "Let's talk in the car." With that the Half-Moon strains across the barrier between worlds.
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:14AM EST
Never hear of this language. *Speak what? She could almost assume he was speaking another language at them, if it weren't for the nature of the question. She feels more at ease here, and yet she acknowledges that there is less danger for them realmside at the moment. Any signs of their passage will be less easy to follow if they change worlds.*
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:20AM EST
Slipping to the phuysical world, he speaks. "My grandfather used toi know all the native languages in north America...He was a Shaman and a traveller...J'ehoath is Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape A dead language of the people that used to live around here...some of the locals would know what it means"
Santiago
Sat 03:21AM EST
Santiago is unlocking the Tahoe for the lot of them when he turns to Billy. "I could drop you off at the nearest town if you want to ask around."
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:21AM EST
Should ask. *She says, and she's looking directly at Billy, now. Her passage from Umbra to Earth was much too smooth, too practiced. She passed somewhere near the middle and appeared almost first among them. And why Billy? Easy to discern. She nods to Santiago, approving, and pads towards the truck.*
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:22AM EST
Across: the barrier stretches, taffy-like. She pushes through, startled by the sudden absence of breath. On the other side, she slides into the Tahoe and takes her seat. A narrow figure, she takes up very little room.
She glances toward Billy. "I can find out what it means, Billy-rhya." Finally, the brief curve of a smile that dies, stillborn, as she glances across her shoulder in the direction of the camp. "Princeton. They have a Native American studies department, and an oral history group. Doubtless, someone there would know."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:25AM EST
Smiling at Ana, he nods quietly. "You can do that if yoiu wish ana...but I think we would get a more sure answer if I were to come out and find a shaman." He takes his position in shotgun and cracks his neck then he looks at Santiago and nods. "find the local Reserve...drop ,me off there. then get Matthew home safely."
Santiago
Sat 03:27AM EST
Santiago opens the fifth door for Bloodless. The large wolf sinks the truck on its struts a few inches. He slams the tailgate down, locking it, and climbs in. Billy's in shotgun, Matthew and Ana are in the back.
"It's probably less conspicuous if Ana went to look it up, Rhya," Santiago says. "Until we get to the bottom of this, we can't rule anything out. The people in the local reservations could be involved."
There it is, plain and simple.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:30AM EST
He nods. "they could be...and then again...who are you going to trust a scholar? or someone that has grown up with the language? I'll be fine Santiago...I know the old ways and I know how to survive in the woods."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:36AM EST
"If it's a dead language, Billy-rhya," in the back, the young Silver Fang is quiet. It matters not: her presence radiates from her, the corona around a blazing star. "Then no one speaks it anymore. However, the choice is yours, as ever, Rhya."
Behind then, she rummages through her small pack, tucked between her feet, left in the Tahoe during their trek. Something snaps open: leather. The scratch of a pen upon paper. Beneath her breath, repetition: J'ehoath. Twice, thrice, until it is written down.
She falls quiet, then, though still: the nib of a fine pen upon fine paper, scratching, scratching. Should anyone glance over their shoulder: incomprehensible scrawl. Cyrillic and Polish alphabets, alternatively, flowing in a fine sure hand. But for the scratch of the pen, she's quiet for the rest of the ride.
Santiago
Sat 03:37AM EST
Santiago's lips thin, but he nods in the end. "All right, Rhya. But don't trust too lightly." He takes a right turn on the intersection, heading deeper into the woods instead of out. A mile or ten later, the Tahoe stops at the side of the road for Billy to get out.
"Can you get back yourself? I can pick you up here tomorrow night if you like."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:40AM EST
looking back at Ana he nods. "latin is a dead Language and it is still widely used ana this is kind of the same thing...It is not so dead that I did not recignize it...and many Shaman earn the dead languages for the prayers they hold and the stories that can't be translated properly.":
Looking at Santiago, he chuckles. "I'll make it back on my own...and thank you both for your concern."
Santiago
Sat 03:42AM EST
"See you in the Barrens, then. Good hunting, Billy-rhya."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:43AM EST
He nods. "Hoka hey." bleeing from his earlier wounds once more, he doesn't notice as he slips out and closes the door even before they pull away he has disappeared into the woods
Santiago
Sat 03:45AM EST
Santiago watches until Billy can't be seen anymore. Then he turns to cast an unreadable glance at Ana. "I'll take you to Trenton. I'll drop Matthew off on the way there."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:50AM EST
The girl didn't seem to notice much, not while she was writing. Not Billy's departure, not the change in atmosphere, and for a moment, perhaps, not the Forseti's comment. It's a moment before she glances up, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror.
"I have a car, Eyes-Like-Flint-yuf. I can find my way on my own, if you have something else that requires your attention." Her smile: sudden, the sun after the rain. "Though if not, I'd be glad of the company."
Fri 11:52PM EST
..and wouldja look at that. One talen and one day later, he's barely even bruised.
Shirtless, gunslinging, showing only a few ugly yellowish bruises and a long line of claw scars along the right side, the swarthy Forseti approaches the gathering and nods to everyone present. Whomever that might be. "Thanks for the talen, Matthew." He slaps his lean, bare side, hard and ridged with the shape of muscle and ribs both. "Worked like a Charm."
...Garou humor.
Matthew Burk
Fri 11:53PM EST
"Ah... well, know we're down to 4."
A little sigh, and a quick turn as Santiago approaches.
"No problem... hope we have enough now."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 11:55PM EST
Billy nods quietly. "there will be enough. there will not be one for me."
Bloodless Star Howling
Fri 11:56PM EST
*She was there already, but they did not need to know it. She felt no urge to make her presence known yet, it was not necessary. Wollowing in the coolness of the mud beneath her paws, she listened to the drifting pieces of conversation that floated in and out on the breeze, alongside the stench of rotting meat. Frangrances both familiar and sweet. Above her, in a cloudless place, the dark shape of a bird crossed the sun and made shadows become infants for a moment, squawling in the silence of ethereal nothingness.
Peace. Tranquilitiy. The moment before shattering bones.*
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:00AM EST
"Not coming?"
And of course, Matthew frowns. This does not bode well. If Billy's not going, then they only have one Ahroun... and if Matthew goes to replace him, then.. well, matthew is NOT good in a fight, as he's said.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 12:00AM EST
The young Silver Fang is there, too. Seated quietly by the fire, she looks up as Santiago walks into the camp, then returns her attention to the flame. The firelight glances off her pale hair, resonates in her golden hair. Dressed simply, she is ready for the night's work.
Zoe Saldana
Sat 12:02AM EST
Settlign Corrina in for her nap she slipped bck outside, looking for Billy, all professional healer now, er supllies gathered into her bag once more...
"Alright... anyone else hurt out here?"
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:04AM EST
billy just points to the bodies of the war wolves...their heads hung from his lodge...and then tpo santiago...now only a little bruised.
Lucca
Sat 12:04AM EST
The wanderer made his way towards billy's camp. The map in his head helping him immensely. It was a knack to be able to travel somewhere and have memorized how to do it. He followed that blueprint now towards the camp.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:09AM EST
looking around quietly he says. "Everyone iis here that is going scouting...perhaps we should get underway."
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:10AM EST
"Do you wish for me to go?"
A glance over at Ana, and Matthew takes a step back, as if to say that she may have the right to go. They discussed this, albiet briefly.
Santiago
Sat 12:10AM EST
Santiago barely pays heed to the five war wolves whose heads adorned Billy's lodge. They did things differently. They fought well together, but Santiago keeps no remembrances of his slain foes. From his claws to the judgment of Fenris. From his judgment to the maw of the Abyss. That is how it is for him.
Once the greetings are done, simple and plain, Santiago squats in the sand, unslings his guns and lays them down. He rakes his fingers through the sand where he had fought last night, bled last night, killed last night and died last night.
Died, and rose again.
A handful of sand lifted. Grains are allowed to trickle between his fingers, a steady pale stream blown by the wind to scatter. Some few grains paint the leather and the steel of his guns and holster. He murmurs under his breath, lips moving in almost-silent prayer.
Father Fenris, there will be a hunt tonight, and the prey is knowledge.
Father Fenris, give me the wisdom to discern the enemy's tracks, for they are many and sly.
Father Fenris, give me the strength to withhold the kill, for they are only the offshoot and we seek the root.
Father Fenris, give me the honor to withstand the trials I might face, for in You I trust and for You I fight.
The last of the sand dusted from his hands slowly, thoughtfully. Then he lifts his guns from the beach and slings the holsters into place, one on either side, rough leather and cold steel and hard polymer against skin.
Agreement, "We should go now, Billy-rhya."
Zoe Saldana
Sat 12:12AM EST
"Do you mind if I stay out here then to keep an eye on Corrina?"
Settlign her things...
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 12:13AM EST
Time passes. *Whisper the shadows, but they are not shadows anymore. She moves forward through the gathering, her paws picking steps that are guided by instinct and not sight. She never relies on that, for it is faulty. It is sound and scent and feeling that accompanies her through life, now, and she makes the most of these as she crosses the clearing from one end to the other, slowly.*
Lucca
Sat 12:14AM EST
He makes his way into Billy's camp quietly without a word. expecting a Gathering so not being concerned to much at the sounds of one.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:15AM EST
He nods quietly as he looks at the group. then he looks at Bloodless star Howling. "glad you could join us...it's your show"
then he looks at Zoe. "Feel free zoe..."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 12:18AM EST
Billy speaks. Santiago speaks. Ana rises from her cross-legged position before the fire, rocking forward and then somehow unfolding to stand straight and tall as she can. Her usual garb: old jeans, an old t-shirt, broken-in hiking boots. As Matthew raises his question, the young Silver Fang half-turns and casts him a brief glances. Her eyes are pale, tonight, the sun behind a thin layer of gray cloud-cover, and the firelight dances within, reflected.
She says nothing. It's hardly her decision.
As she waits, she snaps a pair of heavy rubber bands from her wrist onto her hand, then reaches behind her back and doubles her braid once, and again, securing it each time until there is nothing onto which one can grab and the thick pale strands are webbed in elastic. "I'm ready."
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 12:20AM EST
Time passes. *She repeats, but it sounds more like an echo, now. Something from memory tickling its way across the surface of one's thoughts, sticky and hot. Like an overbaked apple dipped in honey. Tart, unpleasant, and cloying. Her tail flicks once, disturbing the peaceful slumber of a fat horsefly from one of the heavy leaves nearby and she passes into the forest, but not silently.*Is time. Show way...
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:23AM EST
He waits for a response. He was to make the talens, and prepare the way for others to go. But now, Billy seems to not wish to go. And so he waits once more, to find if he is to journey with them. A question, repeated.
"Am I to go with you?"
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:25AM EST
Looking at Matthew, he nods. "Stay by me Matthew and do Exactly as I tell you."
Santiago
Sat 12:26AM EST
He'd been halfturning to follow the Fostern Theurge - but now turns back. Black eyes flick between Matthew and Billy. He waits for the latter to make a call, shifting the itching, abrasive leather holsters on his shoulders.
Call made. He falls in behind Bloodless Star. The Theurge leads; the strongest fighter guards the rear. It's the way of things, instinctive.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 12:27AM EST
Another glance back, as Billy speaks again. It could almost seem idle, but it is not. There are no smiles on her young face as she falls into step behind Santiago. No smiles at all.
Matthew Burk
Sat 12:30AM EST
"As you say, Billy-rhya."
Usually he only uses the suffix to annoy Billy. But now, he's making sure that his place is clear. He is underneath Billy. And so, Billy calls the shots. Ducking his head to make sure the deferance in made clear, Matthew moves to gather the few things he needs. A knife. Some bags, of various things. And then, he moves to Billy's side. Ready for whatever.
Metro Staff
Sat 12:45AM EST
~Santiago takes the lead from Billys camp. He decides the most logical place to start would be from where the wolves were let out into the forest. Its a long trek from Billys camp. Santiago is very cautious, and several times there is a halt because of something supsicious. Though each time, there is an all clear. Its a beautiful night, some clouds in the air, and the distant roar of thunder from the storms down south, but they have yet to hit here again, the rain of the morning still fresh around. Its quiet, but the forest is not deathly quiet, the animals are chittering as par their usual, for the night at least. The spirits are also present, in their own worlds of course, vaguely aware of Gaia's warriors stalking silently. Its not long before they can hear the far off sounds of a lone highway, and Santiago knows he is close~
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:52AM EST
billy takes the rear guard position, walking quiertly, almost like a ghost, he keeps an eye on Matthew
Billy Bedlam
Sat 12:52AM EST
billy takes the rear guard position, walking quiertly, almost like a ghost, he keeps an eye on Matthew
Santiago
Sat 12:56AM EST
"This is where the scent-trail began," murmurs the Forseti, and then gestures down the road. "I parked on the shoulder over there. It's a Tahoe. It should seat all of us."
And the Chevy does, indeed, seat all of them. There's even room in the back for Bloodless if she didn't care to leave her lupus shape. From there it's off to the races, heading straight for the town he had gone to a few days past. Along the way he fills them in - he'd followed a gut instinct along this road, and it led him to Manahawkin, where he'd spoken to an old man who told him about "Neuro Labs" and the oil drilling company setting up camp together, and the wolves on premise.
Nearly at Manahawkin, he takes a sideroad into the forests instead, looking for this fabled camp. About two or three miles away he parks the car in front of a small grocery store, closed, catering to the residents of these boonies. The engine goes silent and Santiago points through the windshield.
"It should be that way, Bloodless-rhya. Let's cross the gauntlet here and approach through the Penumbra."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:02AM EST
Billy Passes out the 4 Talens. one to Bloodless star One to Matthew, another to ana, and the Last to santiago as he takes in all the information
Metro Staff
Sat 01:03AM EST
~The area is rather quiet, most townsfolks in bed, or drinking in Manahawkin at this point. Though through the quiet air, once can almost hear a faint humming coming from deep within the woods. Its a interesting sound, not exactly easy to hear, one would think his ears are playing tricks on him, but its a steady hum.~
Ana Kozireski
Sat 01:06AM EST
Her reflection: caught in a golden mirror carried on a golden chain around her neck. Her reflection, as she climbs out of the Tahoe, half-hearing the instructions, half-feeling them.
Sure-footed on the narrow country road, rutted and potholed after the contraction and expansion, the long undermining winter, she covers her gut-deep feelings of unease (this is no real pack) with a façade of calm that services her well.
The edge of her eye, captured in the silvered glass, reflected back at her by the ambient light. Absently, she reaches out and accepts the talen Billy offers her. Absently, absently. She glances up the road, and down, peers at the windows of the grocery store and then finds her way to the edge of the treeline. One can never be too careful.
Her reflection: both pale eyes in the pale light, pale skin and a crown of golden pale hair, mobile mouth still, captured in the small rounded glass. (Pop -
Ver
....ti
.......go.
- goes the weasel. The light grows silvered, like the backing of her mirror. There's a slash in the fabric of the atmosphere before her, not so much bright, but pressing, the other half of a sundered soul, and then she's gone, across the web of worlds.)
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:08AM EST
*She is the first to halt and the last to cross over. Her eyes glaze in a fashion that is entirely unusual, settling upon the sharpness of reflections in a space uninhabited by physical reality. She can feel herself pushing, a certain stickiness clinging to her fur. It is like being born and giving birth at the same time. A sensation of pushing through and pushing out that turns the insides to outsides for a brief instant. It has been enough to make some garou fear that their guts will recreate themselves on their arms. It is a feeling that has often afflicted her. Not tonight.
Perched on a small rock, grooming its feathers, a dark-winged falcon spirit cants its head, watching as the garou materialize and melt themselves like butter-figures into the penumbral world.*
Santiago
Sat 01:12AM EST
Somewhere between Ana and Bloodless, Santiago slips across. For a Forseti, he manages this with remarkable ease. One moment he's on this side. The next (a circle of transparency seems to appear in his gut and expand outward until) he's gone.
Crossed.
In the Penumbra now, moonlit, the Forseti rolls his head on his shoulders to loosen his neck muscles. Then he shakes out his fingers, flexes them, and watches Bloodless for cues. Her lead now.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:14AM EST
He waits for Matthew to Cross, then he himself slips into the Umbra and falls into his place again
Matthew Burk
Sat 01:14AM EST
He follows close behind. Stepping free from the car, and closing his eyes. The other reason that he doesn't like the city. Difficulty. But a deep breath drawn in, and eyes open to stare into the windows of the car. Reflections. This world.. the next... a wrench, and he is there.
Metro Staff
Sat 01:16AM EST
~The forest itself is alive. Its spring, and the Glade Children are out of their slumber of winter, and the forests own spirits notice the new comers, some curious enough to take a closer look, others a little skittish, hurrying away, some indifferent. The forest takes on what any would hope, and assume. Vibrant and alive, yet, from within, a smell of taint, and decay, can be noticed~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:20AM EST
*The decay is not unusual, many things die, but it is strange here. So, too, is the taint. A scent that she had nearly put out of her mind, but that comes back all too soon. Shaking dust from her fur that glitters and fades, sparkling to nothingness around her paws, she pads forward towards the spirit.
A moment passes. A heartbeat. Slow and sluggish, made thick with the energies of magick that is not magick, but far too natural to be anything but real.
She locks gazes with the spirit, her maw opening, but the sounds that escape are like sighs and the slithering click-hisses of snakes through grass. The tongue of spiritual life. (Go. Find.)*
Ana Kozireski
Sat 01:25AM EST
Pale eyes flicker over the others as they push through, ticking off a mental list. No matter how close one is to one's spiritual self, the danger always remains. They could be trapped, somewhere in between worlds, suspended animation, or hijacked on their passage here. The threads that hold one half to the other grow frayed. When the worlds fall apart, the center, too, will fall away, shattered, spiral.
"The taint comes from your labs," a murmured aside to Santiago, quiet so as not to disturb the Fostern's communication with her spirit. "That way." The young woman nods her head as her hands skim down to slide the talen into the front pocket of her jeans. She tips her head to include Matthew and Billy in the gesture. It is so easy to get disoriented in the penumbra, if one does not know the landscape. "It's strong."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:29AM EST
Billy can hear it he can feel it...not completely healed after last nhight's attacks...at least he had his rage. turning to Look at Matthew, he speks in that soft half whisper he had learned through many battles. "Keep a kife close to hand and your wits about you...and Stay close but don't get in my way if weget attacked."
Santiago
Sat 01:32AM EST
A flicker of a glance toward Billy instructing Matthew. There might be annoyance there. If there is, it's bitten back; he returns his attention to Ana and nods. "We'll see what Rhya's falcon finds."
And he crouches again, folding easily into an alert sort of repose, eyes sharp, wrists upon knees. Listening and waiting.
Matthew Burk
Sat 01:32AM EST
A nod is all the answer his elder recieves, and the knife comes to hand. Very sharp. For skinning things he hunts.. and for fighting, if he has no other choice. Usually, there is a choice. But sometimes.. fingering the knife idly, Matthew does as told. Waits. Watches.
Metro Staff
Sat 01:34AM EST
~The bird flys high. As it makes its way deeper and deeper into the forest, the forest, loses life, and slowly, but surely, is blighted. It can see this, and after a few moments, circles on a set of buildings. It seems to be a former boy scout camp, converted to another type of use. Its hard to tell exactly, from high in teh sky, but its the source of the taint, and the start of the blight.~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:40AM EST
*She had not been expecting this. The images flood through her mind, a once-familiar practice that had become an incapable connection between the two following (No, don't go back. If you don't turn around you won't have to see...)...
The images come as a surprise, striking home into her mind and making her back up several steps, until she nearly bumps into Santiago's leg. She can see more sharply than she ever has before, through the falcon, and as he turns his head so, too, does her head turn to inspect the area around the camp. The buildings, the shadows. It is the only time she has ever seen color, and it blazes into her mind, so bright and brilliant that she nearly forgets her purpose.
Something (hatred, a black ichor, dripping stars) brings her back, and she clenches her jaw, her tail held high and alert.*
Santiago
Sat 01:44AM EST
Santiago sidesteps as Bloodless Star Howling backs up suddenly. This is easier said than done while crouching, but the Forseti manages to make it look simple. His movement is fluid and quick; he, too, raises his head in the direction the Fostern gazes in, though he can't discern what it is she sees.
A frisson of tension through the gathered five. One hand reaches to his guns, gently unclasping the holsters so he could draw them quickly if need be.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 01:47AM EST
Billy kneels with the War club in front of him like a twisted vision of a Templar knight. that crimson eye looks sinister...ane would almost say evil on the eerie glow of the Umbra...but Billy isn't an evil person. the war club swirls red nd black and seems to be watching everything. almost singing out in it's purpose, because it was created for one thing alone...to destroy life.
Metro Staff
Sat 01:47AM EST
~The Falcon makes its way back, not going over the camp this time, but just a little north of it. Though the center of the blight is not seen, the effects its starting to have on teh area are all too apparent. Gaia is dying here. The Falcon finally makes its way back to a tree near the group, settling and looking to Bloodless~
Metro Staff
Sat 01:47AM EST
~The Falcon makes its way back, not going over the camp this time, but just a little north of it. Though the center of the blight is not seen, the effects its starting to have on teh area are all too apparent. Gaia is dying here. The Falcon finally makes its way back to a tree near the group, settling and looking to Bloodless~
Ana Kozireski
Sat 01:48AM EST
Tension: her jaw clenches. Beneath her cheek, a tendon moves. Santiago sidesteps the lupus Fury, rising. The Silver Fang falls into an easy crouch, watchful now. A moment, before she lifts her voice, quiet on the umbral wind. "...what?"
Santiago
Sat 01:49AM EST
A shake of his head. "I don't know," soft and simple. Dark eyes snap to the falcon as it returns; of the group, he is likely the first to see it. When it has settled, he turns his attention to the Fostern Theurge. "What did you see?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 01:56AM EST
*The link it still too raw, and she does not have the words in her wolf-shape to communicate what she has seen. For those who do not have the intimate connection of spirit-to-soul, they can never understand what it is like to see through the eyes of something else. It is indescribable. She can only do her best to report what she was able to interpret. It is all interpretation, even when it is plain sight. A cracking of bones and joints fills the too-still air, and her body elongates while growing slimmer in places, stretching. The sinews snapping into place as the bones lock, and her head narrows. It is not a form she takes often, but it is necessary, for now. This body wears badly torn military-issue fatigues and a shirt that covers enough not to be obscene. She is not beautiful. She never will be. A slender pouch is around her neck, and she burrows her fingers into it, removing a few fine grains of some kind of sand which she brings to her nose, sniffing it, before casting it to the wind, a small frown on her lips.*
Death. Is camp, like things for boys who are young and learning to become men. World is dying all around, place bad. Things falling apart. Abandoned, but life beneath. Inside. *The understandings of a lupus.*
Santiago
Sat 01:59AM EST
"And could you see inside?" presses the Half-Moon, still crouched, though his hand slips away from the holsters now. "What's in the camp?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:05AM EST
Not big. Small. Like...boy place...*She struggles with the words, the interpretations not flowing well through the viscose fluids of languages that hinder translation.*Like lodge. For boys. Place for boys. *Does that make any sense? She's trying, and the frustration is welling inside of her gut. She clamps down on it for now, although it is...difficult.*
Small. Feeling...not inside but beneath.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:06AM EST
He grunts. "It's beneath an Eagle scout camp?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:09AM EST
*I'm not through, one question at a time! She glances at Billy, waiting for him to finish speaking before proceeding to continue with her description.*And buildings. Many buildings, build around lodge. Stand out plain in umbra.
Santiago
Sat 02:11AM EST
"Buildings shouldn't be able to manifest so solidly in the umbra, should they?" - a quiet inquiry, half to himself. Then the Forseti unfolds to his feet. "Maybe we should go and have a look ourselves. Maybe Peek across the Gauntlet if we can. Do you think it's safe, Rhya?"
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:11AM EST
"That makes sense. So the taint comes from below, but there are facilities all around, clear in the umbra." The young woman glances at the Fostern, pale brows rising as she seeks confirmation. "That's unusual. It usually takes some time..."
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:15AM EST
*She is hardly surprised that it's the only other female in the gathering who can interpret her comments properly. A glance is spared for Ana that seems to say "Yes, good job," without being too glaringly obvious, and she glances back to Santiago.*No, not usual. Buildings take time build presences. Taint, too. Is fast. Falcon saw no life, should be careful. May be traps, not trip by air, by walking.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:19AM EST
Standing slowly, his back gives out a series of staccato pops and cracks, his neck has started bleeding again, he he doesn't seem to notice as he moves towards the others. his rage seems almost like a phusical force...made moreso by the spiritual surroundings they are in Looking at Santiago then at the Lupuis Theurge, he finally says. "Your show...do we go or do we leave?"
Santiago
Sat 02:21AM EST
"But if someone were to purposefully taint and awaken a building, they could both manifest and be tainted in a short period of time, no?" - and then silence again, waiting for the call.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:24AM EST
The young Silver Fang returns the lupus' glance, meeting the Fostern's eyes briefly before dropping her head in respectful submission, as ever. She is largely quiet, though clearly attentive, turning her head from each to each as they speak.
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:25AM EST
Awaken building not simple, not like awaken tree. Spirit unhappy, surely if tainted. Hard work. Much effort, for such small camp. Think should get closer look, but caution. I go first. *She can't stand this human body anymore. It is horrendously inadequate. Forcing herself downwards and out, her body elongates, falling to all fours as the fur covers her form. It is a quick transformation, because it is familiar. Like breathing, or drinking clean water. The spirit follows as she begins to walk in the direction of the camp.*
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:27AM EST
Billy falls into place at the back of the line leaving matthew with the vehicle, his eyes miss very little and his ears miss even less
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:27AM EST
As Bloodless changes and begins padding toward the camp, the young Theurge's eyes lift, following the falcon's progress above the trees. The spirit's reactions and passage will be their surest indication of Bloodless' progress as she disappears into the Umbral forest.
Santiago
Sat 02:32AM EST
And somewhere in the middle, again, is Santiago, mouth set in a determined line in the bracket of his goatee now. As he goes the crunch of last year's leaves beneath his feet - not the physical manifestation but the very concept of it - lightens and softens and finally drops away entirely. Silent as a ghost, he moves forward, guns slapping soundlessly against his ribs.
Metro Staff
Sat 02:34AM EST
~Bloodless trek towards the camp is slow, as she is of course cautious. As she makes her way closer and closer, the taint of decay becomes more apparent. At first its a subtle change, some wilting, teh spirits losing life, and then into the blight, teh spirits are all but gone, save the banes. The place has a small number of banes. Most are actually seen in the camp, moving about, formori? Possibly. There is a fence around the camp, and the falcon can tell you from the air its a octagonal shape to it. There seems to be several large buildings. The center building is the focus of the taint. The humming comes from the building next to it, another source of the taint, though not as strong as the center building. From what you can tell, the building next to the center one is a large scale generator, as teh electricity can even be seen in teh umbra, the bolts dancing around the camp. The fence is not electrified, at least to the point to hurt anyone, its just, has currents running through a line around it, perhaps sensors?~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:37AM EST
*They are not here to cause a fuss right now, this is a scouting mission and nothing more. If they were aiming to attack they would have brought more ahroun, that's for sure. She gets as close as she feels comfortable, knowing that the spirits, the banes, will be more sensitive to her presence than anything else that might inhabit the camp. The ability to speak with them was a double-edged sword. Lowering herself to her belly, she inches forward through the leaves, pausing with nothing more than her nose and eyes visible behind a fallen and decaying branch as she watches the camp, inspecting the placement of buildings. It is strange, to see from two perspectives, but enlightening. Her body is motionless, and her breathing has stopped. She holds that breath in her lungs, filled with the rancid taste of death.*
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:39AM EST
He takes in the scene and nods quietly as he assesses the situation. a return trip would be made eventually and when it was...the generator would be the first thing that needed to go.
Santiago
Sat 02:40AM EST
Somewhere along the way, Santiago has become a wolf as well. He edges up beside the Theurge now, also crawling on his belly. The guns are gone, vanished into dark patterns barely seen in his fur, which is mottled, a mishmash of blacks and browns and reds and tans. Not at all the iron grey of a purebred Fenrir. Rather close, in fact, to the random scatter of furcolors found among the urrah tribes.
Stealth is easier in this form. Communication, too, can come quieter and subtler - a position of body, a height of tail.
"(ws) Too dangerous go in?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:43AM EST
Too dangerous. Banes guard, maybe...fomori. Might be more, can't see all. Our numbers too small, not safe. Electricity. *She grunts, low in her throat, and nudges her nose in the direction of the electrified fence. The smell of it makes her fur bristle, and her ears lay flat against her skull.*Patience. Learn much now. Not seen, come back, numbers more. Take out stinking generator.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:43AM EST
In their wake: another. The Silver Fang has changed as well. Where Santiago is mottled, she is pure as luna's bright light, silver-ruffed, magnificent. Silent behind them, lupine head canted, listening.
Metro Staff
Sat 02:44AM EST
Movement. It seems two of the banes are leaving the encampment. A patrol? What the hell were they up to? It seems they are starting to move around the perimeter of the camp, going the opposite way of Bloodless and Santiago, though, they will be near there position in 10 minutes. The camp is holding something. Its something that is changing the area around it, but, without a closer look, it would be hard to tell~
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:47AM EST
*Their numbers are too small to risk being found out, especially now that it is obvious that the camp is being guarded. They might not see more than a handful of living things (in one fashion or another, alive), but that does not mean that there are not more. It would be best, in her opinion, not to venture any further. They have seen the layout, and have a more clear understanding of the kind of defense that they are up against. That is all that is necessary, for now. When she sees the banes begin to move out of the camp, she slides back slowly away from the fence and slithers to a standing position, moving back towards the vehicle.*Seen shape of fence, seen defenses with eyes, seen buildings, felt death. Is enough, for now. Make plan, come back. End pain of land.
Metro Staff
Sat 02:49AM EST
~Suddenly, there is an echo, a sound too out of place, to eerie. It reeks of the wrym, and it calls out J’ehaoth. It echoes the words over and over again. J'ehaoth. Then is silent~
Santiago
Sat 02:50AM EST
I could pick them off before they ever knew what was upon them...
It's an effort to squirm back on his belly. To stand again, shaking out his coat lightly. His tongue darts out and licks his muzzle, his nose. Another glance at the banes approaching (...I could kill them...), torn away.
"(ws) Yes Rhy--" break off; head snaps around, ears flattened. His dark eyes flash immediately to the banes, trying to discern if they made the call; if they responded to it. "What is that?"
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 02:52AM EST
*Her hackles rise slowly, but nothing more than that. The sound, while unnerving...was not one that she could put a name to. The spirit has already retreated, making its way back in anticipation of her own retreat and she can feel his impatience. (Hurry.) Lowering her head, she sniffs deeply of the umbral ground, her nostrils flaring as she moves away from the camp, her ears against her skull. Troubled.*Unfamiliar.
Ana Kozireski
Sat 02:54AM EST
Ears prick, then flatten at the eerie echo. Still in the umbral underbrush, beneath the low sweep of an ancient cedar tree still clinging to spiritual life, though its mirror in the living world no longer remains, backing up without turning around, until a screen of trees separates her from the camp. Then she dares movement enough to turn around and falls into a tireless wolfen lope: groundeating, at the Fostern's command.
Santiago
Sat 02:56AM EST
Staying just long enough to be sure the banes haven't spotted them, the mottled wolf backs slowly away into the screen of undergrowth. Once he, good as his eyes are, can no longer see the camp (and, it serves to assume, they can no longer see him) he turns on his hindlegs. For lack of a better word, he hauls ass.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 02:59AM EST
He frowns as he hears the word. neck cracking...this wasn't the spirit speech...it was a dead language...the language of the native people.the locals in fact. he stays where he is. crouched down in homid...they weren't ahrouns...he was and if bad comes to worse...he can buy some time He gives them a full 5 Minutes before he himself fades into the underbrush
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:03AM EST
*She returns to where they'd left the vehicle by a slightly roundabout path, her footsteps carrying her across different tracks than she had made coming to the camp. Obscuring. Strange. Above her, the falcon is distressed, and she watches as he flies off deeper into the forest, back towards the deeper recesses. Towards familiar skies. Unsettled by visions, she turns to watch the company lope into sight, her ears flicking this way and that. Listening for the ethereal whispers of spiritual pursuit.*
Santiago
Sat 03:06AM EST
It's the two-legged form that reconvenes at the stop where the vehicle was parked realmside. The holsters are back at his sides, unclasped. One of the guns, the SIG-SAUER, is in his hand but he hasn't seen fit to thumb the safety off yet. He doesn't have to think twice before he puts his back to a treetrunk. Silent, he too waits for signs of pursuit.
Only when none seem to be forthcoming does he speak. "The banes didn't react at all to the call. It was as though they'd become accustomed to it."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:08AM EST
The Silver Fang offers a glance back: their path, pursuit, or perhaps, merely, morbid curiousity. The same impulse that comes to humans when passing a wreck, or tasting a cavity. What is rotten is somehow as compelling as it is repellant.
The wolf is no longer a wolf. The wolf is now a woman. Or rather: a girl, whose body is still thin and nigh-straight, thin torso, narrow hips, straight proud bearing, the heritage of blood stamped across her features and shining in her eyes, crowning this form with that pale golden hair. "Did anyone recognize the call?"
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:10AM EST
It's a full 15 minutes before billy melts out of the tres, Bane Breaker across his shoulders he hadn't heard the speculation or the questions up to this point.
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:11AM EST
Yes. No. *Two answers, two questions. She approaches them as they are offered to her, and her responses are succinct. Precise. She will have to investigate this further, but it will be in the form of questioning spirits, now. She should have done that first, but she was not aware of how deeply the taint had penetrated the land around it. If there were a thousand excuses or only one, the outcome was still the same. They did receive information. She lifts her eyes towards Billy, and her voice is low in her throat.*Strange call. Not hear before. Should return back, have learned much.
Santiago
Sat 03:12AM EST
Santiago shakes his head no. "I could make a Questing Stone after we get back, and see if it led me anywhere," he offers.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:12AM EST
Looking at the trio, he speaks in his choked rasp of a voice. "any of you speak Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape"
Santiago
Sat 03:13AM EST
Another negative. "Let's talk in the car." With that the Half-Moon strains across the barrier between worlds.
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:14AM EST
Never hear of this language. *Speak what? She could almost assume he was speaking another language at them, if it weren't for the nature of the question. She feels more at ease here, and yet she acknowledges that there is less danger for them realmside at the moment. Any signs of their passage will be less easy to follow if they change worlds.*
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:20AM EST
Slipping to the phuysical world, he speaks. "My grandfather used toi know all the native languages in north America...He was a Shaman and a traveller...J'ehoath is Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape A dead language of the people that used to live around here...some of the locals would know what it means"
Santiago
Sat 03:21AM EST
Santiago is unlocking the Tahoe for the lot of them when he turns to Billy. "I could drop you off at the nearest town if you want to ask around."
Bloodless Star Howling
Sat 03:21AM EST
Should ask. *She says, and she's looking directly at Billy, now. Her passage from Umbra to Earth was much too smooth, too practiced. She passed somewhere near the middle and appeared almost first among them. And why Billy? Easy to discern. She nods to Santiago, approving, and pads towards the truck.*
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:22AM EST
Across: the barrier stretches, taffy-like. She pushes through, startled by the sudden absence of breath. On the other side, she slides into the Tahoe and takes her seat. A narrow figure, she takes up very little room.
She glances toward Billy. "I can find out what it means, Billy-rhya." Finally, the brief curve of a smile that dies, stillborn, as she glances across her shoulder in the direction of the camp. "Princeton. They have a Native American studies department, and an oral history group. Doubtless, someone there would know."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:25AM EST
Smiling at Ana, he nods quietly. "You can do that if yoiu wish ana...but I think we would get a more sure answer if I were to come out and find a shaman." He takes his position in shotgun and cracks his neck then he looks at Santiago and nods. "find the local Reserve...drop ,me off there. then get Matthew home safely."
Santiago
Sat 03:27AM EST
Santiago opens the fifth door for Bloodless. The large wolf sinks the truck on its struts a few inches. He slams the tailgate down, locking it, and climbs in. Billy's in shotgun, Matthew and Ana are in the back.
"It's probably less conspicuous if Ana went to look it up, Rhya," Santiago says. "Until we get to the bottom of this, we can't rule anything out. The people in the local reservations could be involved."
There it is, plain and simple.
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:30AM EST
He nods. "they could be...and then again...who are you going to trust a scholar? or someone that has grown up with the language? I'll be fine Santiago...I know the old ways and I know how to survive in the woods."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:36AM EST
"If it's a dead language, Billy-rhya," in the back, the young Silver Fang is quiet. It matters not: her presence radiates from her, the corona around a blazing star. "Then no one speaks it anymore. However, the choice is yours, as ever, Rhya."
Behind then, she rummages through her small pack, tucked between her feet, left in the Tahoe during their trek. Something snaps open: leather. The scratch of a pen upon paper. Beneath her breath, repetition: J'ehoath. Twice, thrice, until it is written down.
She falls quiet, then, though still: the nib of a fine pen upon fine paper, scratching, scratching. Should anyone glance over their shoulder: incomprehensible scrawl. Cyrillic and Polish alphabets, alternatively, flowing in a fine sure hand. But for the scratch of the pen, she's quiet for the rest of the ride.
Santiago
Sat 03:37AM EST
Santiago's lips thin, but he nods in the end. "All right, Rhya. But don't trust too lightly." He takes a right turn on the intersection, heading deeper into the woods instead of out. A mile or ten later, the Tahoe stops at the side of the road for Billy to get out.
"Can you get back yourself? I can pick you up here tomorrow night if you like."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:40AM EST
looking back at Ana he nods. "latin is a dead Language and it is still widely used ana this is kind of the same thing...It is not so dead that I did not recignize it...and many Shaman earn the dead languages for the prayers they hold and the stories that can't be translated properly.":
Looking at Santiago, he chuckles. "I'll make it back on my own...and thank you both for your concern."
Santiago
Sat 03:42AM EST
"See you in the Barrens, then. Good hunting, Billy-rhya."
Billy Bedlam
Sat 03:43AM EST
He nods. "Hoka hey." bleeing from his earlier wounds once more, he doesn't notice as he slips out and closes the door even before they pull away he has disappeared into the woods
Santiago
Sat 03:45AM EST
Santiago watches until Billy can't be seen anymore. Then he turns to cast an unreadable glance at Ana. "I'll take you to Trenton. I'll drop Matthew off on the way there."
Ana Kozireski
Sat 03:50AM EST
The girl didn't seem to notice much, not while she was writing. Not Billy's departure, not the change in atmosphere, and for a moment, perhaps, not the Forseti's comment. It's a moment before she glances up, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror.
"I have a car, Eyes-Like-Flint-yuf. I can find my way on my own, if you have something else that requires your attention." Her smile: sudden, the sun after the rain. "Though if not, I'd be glad of the company."
names.
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 01:41AM EST
Earlier that evening, while the twilight still lingered in the western sky, Santiago is already awake. Breakfast is the usual, black coffee and eggs and toast, eaten on the sofa while he watches the 6 o'clock news. His life is as regular as a metronome, quiet and spartan and uneventful with the exception of the bloodbaths that explode now and again.
Like last night.
Like every night he hunts.
Not now, though. After breakfast, he sits at the dining table and cleans his guns. The two pistols. The Remington rifle. The 12-gauge shotgun. Oilcloth and gunoil, patience and meticulous attention to detail. It's an art and a joy, a matter of bonding with his weapons more than a chore.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 01:45AM EST
Timewarp: Friday - 8 p.m.
Summertime, or something like it these days. Warm days, and thunderstorms that roil through midafternoon, early evening, or sit sullenly on the horizon infecting the spring air with humidity. At this hour, it's still light outside, though in the Barrens the light is failing, and fading fast. The canopy casts deep shadows over the sleeping, snaking roads, and the sun has already sunk beneath the western horizon.
Tires crunch muddy gravel on the drive, and a pollen-covered Passat pulls up before a particularly sparse cabin. Headlights flash weakly off the trumpet vine, invading the eves, then die with the low rumble of the engine.
A moment later, after the driver's eyes have adjusted to the gathering dusk, gravel crunches beneath professional heels. Footfalls on the porch steps. A knock on the door.
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 01:53AM EST
It's a few moments before the door opens, wood grating on wood where humidity or heat has caused it to expand. A pair of black eyes looks at Eva levelly, and then the Half-Moon stands aside, pulling the door open wider for her to enter.
"Evening, kinwoman. Problem?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:03AM EST
"No." Her response is quiet, but firm. She returns his level look, dark eyes through black-framed glasses, heavy oblong ovals that swallow the more delicate lines of her features. She returns the level look, though she never meets his eyes. "No problem. I - "
Still dressed for court. Formally: black suit, pinstriped, with a skirt that skims just above her knee, white blouse gleaming at the neckline. The long sleeves and fitted fabric must be uncomfortable in the lingering humidity of the warm spring-to-summer night.
In her right hand, a black leather folder, with a sheaf of papers sticking out from the top: printouts of some sort. Downloads, something of the like. Dangling from her left, a plastic grocery bag. " - I was in the area." She lifts the black leather notepad. Embossed in the lower corner, gold on black: Lux et Veritas. "I brought you this."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 02:09AM EST
As she steps in, he shuts the door behind her. The inside of the cabin is dark and cool, the television off by now. Stray light washes in from the westward windows beside the door, but shadows are long until he goes to the center of the room and pulls the lamp on.
He looks at the padholder. At her. A frown furrows his brow. He reaches forward, just a hint of hesitance slowing the advance of his hand before his fingers close on the soft, textured leather cover. "All right?" - a questioning acceptance as he flips the notepad open to read the contents.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:21AM EST
She has never been one to demur, particularly. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. It was just a few minutes out of my way. I was in the area. (Technically: she was already in the county, though the county is a large one.) She has never been one for such games: the usual games women play.
Don't worry about it.
It's nothing.
But now, at this particular moment, in the dusky shadows chased away and enchanted by the sudden jolt of light from the center of the room, she understands the urge, suddenly and thoroughly. It's nothing. Really, she must bite her tongue not to say it.
"Martindale Hubble biographies on all members and associates of Havershim, Blakeslee, and Wiltz, Endron's counsel." She lifts her chin and glances across his arm, the corners of her lips quirking downward in a small frown of concentration. "Here." Indicating, her index finger between the printouts. " -- home addresses, telephone numbers, social security numbers. Also, the address of their hotel in Mount Holley."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 02:27AM EST
He says nothing for a moment. He throws a glance toward her over the barrier of his lean, sinewed arm. Electric and black, sharp and jolting. Does she know what he has given him power over?
I know your name now. I can find you wherever you go.
Click-click-BOOM.
He doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to. Not for a long moment while he, head down, brow furrowed, leafs through the pages of the printout. Biographies. Phone numbers. Social security numbers. Addresses. And most precious of all, names.
The padholder slaps lightly closed. "Thank you," he says carefully, enunciating. Then, "What do you expect me to do with this?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:35AM EST
"I don't know." Her eyes linger on the pad, then rise above the heavy frame of her glasses. The faint curve of a smile: precise and distant, distant and precise. How carefully, how surely, how quietly she enunciates every word. "I don't want to know."
His hand. His shoulder. The edge of his profile, swarthy and distinct. Beyond: the table and his weapons, dismantled, cleaning rags. In the air: oil and gunpowder, gunpowder and oil.
Her attention snaps back to him. She lifts her chin to look through rather than over her glasses, and her eyes rest just below his own. "That's all I have for you," she says, turning to go. The plastic bag still dangling from her fingers brushes lightly against her thigh, crackles in the oppressive rural silence. "You can keep the pad."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 02:47AM EST
He studies her edging smile without returning it. Solemn and quiet, he looks back down at the padholder as her attention wanders, drifts, returns to him. She gets ready to leave. He looks up. "Could anyone trace this back to you?" He lifts the padholder a notch.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:57AM EST
"No." She glances back, across her shoulder, and her edged smile curves, bemused. "I'm not that foolish, Eyes-Like-Flint. Anyone who has been to New Haven could buy one, just like it. I cut the headers off the print-outs as well. It's safe. All of it."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 03:02AM EST
"Good." He seems genuinely pleased, or perhaps relieved. A beat passes. His black eyes roam her face. He should offer her a drink; she seems ready to go. In the end he steps around her and opens the door for her. "Thank you," again, "kinwoman. I'll find some way to use these."
Tracking. Hunting. Questioning. Judging.
Pause. "Come by again, someday."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 03:24AM EST
"I thought you would." The confidence in the statement does not impinge on the smug. He opens the door, and she pauses in the threshold, glancing over the strong curve of her shoulder. Beneath the crisp lines of the jacket, the outline of shoulder pads: a professional woman's armor in the business world. No smile, then, just a brief glance. "I'll do that, someday."
It's an empty gesture. It's a polite echo in response. There's no conviction in her voice.
Heels click on the warped floorboards of the sagging old porch as she steps through the door. Impulsively, she pivots, sweeps her arm up, and offers him the bag dangling from her index and middle fingers.
"Take this, too." The brief curve of a smile: half-empty, half-full. She drops the bag onto his fingers, or perhaps onto the floor. Some grazing glance, before her eyes sheer away, dark and calm and unreadable. "Goodnight."
Then she turns and walks: across the porch, down the steps, over the drive to the Passat that will take her out of the Barrens, and back into the carefully protected semblance of real, normal life.
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 03:34AM EST
Santiago only nods to her polite response. The invitation might have been empty as well. Then again, he does not seem that sort of man.
When the bag is offered to him, he looks at it. This time he takes it with less of a pause. Peering in, the straight firm line of his mouth relents a fraction: he smiles, quizzically, amusedly. "Strawberries? Thanks." He'll eat them dipped in sugar. "Goodnight, Ms. Illeshazy."
The steps creak but little beneath her weight, which is slighter than his. Standing in the doorway - standing straight, not leaning on the frame for support - he holds the bag of strawberries in one loose hand, the padholder in the other. A firmer grip, there. The setting sun is in his eyes and he can't see her at all after she disappears into the sleek VW. As the Passat backs out of the gravel excuse for a driveway he raises a hand in goodbye. The sunset paints his skin golden-brown and rings his close-cropped, coarse hair in specks of gold. It glints off his eyes, but does not change their hardness.
After the Volkswagen is gone, he closes the door with its usual groan of wood on wood. Then he heads into the kitchen to wash the strawberries, tossing the padholder on the table on his way there.
Guns, a list of names, and a litany of questions in his mind. It was all somehow appropriate.
Sat 01:41AM EST
Earlier that evening, while the twilight still lingered in the western sky, Santiago is already awake. Breakfast is the usual, black coffee and eggs and toast, eaten on the sofa while he watches the 6 o'clock news. His life is as regular as a metronome, quiet and spartan and uneventful with the exception of the bloodbaths that explode now and again.
Like last night.
Like every night he hunts.
Not now, though. After breakfast, he sits at the dining table and cleans his guns. The two pistols. The Remington rifle. The 12-gauge shotgun. Oilcloth and gunoil, patience and meticulous attention to detail. It's an art and a joy, a matter of bonding with his weapons more than a chore.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 01:45AM EST
Timewarp: Friday - 8 p.m.
Summertime, or something like it these days. Warm days, and thunderstorms that roil through midafternoon, early evening, or sit sullenly on the horizon infecting the spring air with humidity. At this hour, it's still light outside, though in the Barrens the light is failing, and fading fast. The canopy casts deep shadows over the sleeping, snaking roads, and the sun has already sunk beneath the western horizon.
Tires crunch muddy gravel on the drive, and a pollen-covered Passat pulls up before a particularly sparse cabin. Headlights flash weakly off the trumpet vine, invading the eves, then die with the low rumble of the engine.
A moment later, after the driver's eyes have adjusted to the gathering dusk, gravel crunches beneath professional heels. Footfalls on the porch steps. A knock on the door.
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 01:53AM EST
It's a few moments before the door opens, wood grating on wood where humidity or heat has caused it to expand. A pair of black eyes looks at Eva levelly, and then the Half-Moon stands aside, pulling the door open wider for her to enter.
"Evening, kinwoman. Problem?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:03AM EST
"No." Her response is quiet, but firm. She returns his level look, dark eyes through black-framed glasses, heavy oblong ovals that swallow the more delicate lines of her features. She returns the level look, though she never meets his eyes. "No problem. I - "
Still dressed for court. Formally: black suit, pinstriped, with a skirt that skims just above her knee, white blouse gleaming at the neckline. The long sleeves and fitted fabric must be uncomfortable in the lingering humidity of the warm spring-to-summer night.
In her right hand, a black leather folder, with a sheaf of papers sticking out from the top: printouts of some sort. Downloads, something of the like. Dangling from her left, a plastic grocery bag. " - I was in the area." She lifts the black leather notepad. Embossed in the lower corner, gold on black: Lux et Veritas. "I brought you this."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 02:09AM EST
As she steps in, he shuts the door behind her. The inside of the cabin is dark and cool, the television off by now. Stray light washes in from the westward windows beside the door, but shadows are long until he goes to the center of the room and pulls the lamp on.
He looks at the padholder. At her. A frown furrows his brow. He reaches forward, just a hint of hesitance slowing the advance of his hand before his fingers close on the soft, textured leather cover. "All right?" - a questioning acceptance as he flips the notepad open to read the contents.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:21AM EST
She has never been one to demur, particularly. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. It was just a few minutes out of my way. I was in the area. (Technically: she was already in the county, though the county is a large one.) She has never been one for such games: the usual games women play.
Don't worry about it.
It's nothing.
But now, at this particular moment, in the dusky shadows chased away and enchanted by the sudden jolt of light from the center of the room, she understands the urge, suddenly and thoroughly. It's nothing. Really, she must bite her tongue not to say it.
"Martindale Hubble biographies on all members and associates of Havershim, Blakeslee, and Wiltz, Endron's counsel." She lifts her chin and glances across his arm, the corners of her lips quirking downward in a small frown of concentration. "Here." Indicating, her index finger between the printouts. " -- home addresses, telephone numbers, social security numbers. Also, the address of their hotel in Mount Holley."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 02:27AM EST
He says nothing for a moment. He throws a glance toward her over the barrier of his lean, sinewed arm. Electric and black, sharp and jolting. Does she know what he has given him power over?
I know your name now. I can find you wherever you go.
Click-click-BOOM.
He doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to. Not for a long moment while he, head down, brow furrowed, leafs through the pages of the printout. Biographies. Phone numbers. Social security numbers. Addresses. And most precious of all, names.
The padholder slaps lightly closed. "Thank you," he says carefully, enunciating. Then, "What do you expect me to do with this?"
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:35AM EST
"I don't know." Her eyes linger on the pad, then rise above the heavy frame of her glasses. The faint curve of a smile: precise and distant, distant and precise. How carefully, how surely, how quietly she enunciates every word. "I don't want to know."
His hand. His shoulder. The edge of his profile, swarthy and distinct. Beyond: the table and his weapons, dismantled, cleaning rags. In the air: oil and gunpowder, gunpowder and oil.
Her attention snaps back to him. She lifts her chin to look through rather than over her glasses, and her eyes rest just below his own. "That's all I have for you," she says, turning to go. The plastic bag still dangling from her fingers brushes lightly against her thigh, crackles in the oppressive rural silence. "You can keep the pad."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 02:47AM EST
He studies her edging smile without returning it. Solemn and quiet, he looks back down at the padholder as her attention wanders, drifts, returns to him. She gets ready to leave. He looks up. "Could anyone trace this back to you?" He lifts the padholder a notch.
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 02:57AM EST
"No." She glances back, across her shoulder, and her edged smile curves, bemused. "I'm not that foolish, Eyes-Like-Flint. Anyone who has been to New Haven could buy one, just like it. I cut the headers off the print-outs as well. It's safe. All of it."
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 03:02AM EST
"Good." He seems genuinely pleased, or perhaps relieved. A beat passes. His black eyes roam her face. He should offer her a drink; she seems ready to go. In the end he steps around her and opens the door for her. "Thank you," again, "kinwoman. I'll find some way to use these."
Tracking. Hunting. Questioning. Judging.
Pause. "Come by again, someday."
Éva Jozsefa Illésházy
Sat 03:24AM EST
"I thought you would." The confidence in the statement does not impinge on the smug. He opens the door, and she pauses in the threshold, glancing over the strong curve of her shoulder. Beneath the crisp lines of the jacket, the outline of shoulder pads: a professional woman's armor in the business world. No smile, then, just a brief glance. "I'll do that, someday."
It's an empty gesture. It's a polite echo in response. There's no conviction in her voice.
Heels click on the warped floorboards of the sagging old porch as she steps through the door. Impulsively, she pivots, sweeps her arm up, and offers him the bag dangling from her index and middle fingers.
"Take this, too." The brief curve of a smile: half-empty, half-full. She drops the bag onto his fingers, or perhaps onto the floor. Some grazing glance, before her eyes sheer away, dark and calm and unreadable. "Goodnight."
Then she turns and walks: across the porch, down the steps, over the drive to the Passat that will take her out of the Barrens, and back into the carefully protected semblance of real, normal life.
Eyes Like Flint
Sat 03:34AM EST
Santiago only nods to her polite response. The invitation might have been empty as well. Then again, he does not seem that sort of man.
When the bag is offered to him, he looks at it. This time he takes it with less of a pause. Peering in, the straight firm line of his mouth relents a fraction: he smiles, quizzically, amusedly. "Strawberries? Thanks." He'll eat them dipped in sugar. "Goodnight, Ms. Illeshazy."
The steps creak but little beneath her weight, which is slighter than his. Standing in the doorway - standing straight, not leaning on the frame for support - he holds the bag of strawberries in one loose hand, the padholder in the other. A firmer grip, there. The setting sun is in his eyes and he can't see her at all after she disappears into the sleek VW. As the Passat backs out of the gravel excuse for a driveway he raises a hand in goodbye. The sunset paints his skin golden-brown and rings his close-cropped, coarse hair in specks of gold. It glints off his eyes, but does not change their hardness.
After the Volkswagen is gone, he closes the door with its usual groan of wood on wood. Then he heads into the kitchen to wash the strawberries, tossing the padholder on the table on his way there.
Guns, a list of names, and a litany of questions in his mind. It was all somehow appropriate.
the wolves, reprised.
Santiago
Fri 03:32AM EST
pop.
Twig breaking. The usual greeting, a few seconds before Santiago himself shows up at the edge of the camp.
"Billy-rhya." Nod. Then to Corrina, faint grin. "You're up late. And out far, too."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:35AM EST
He chuckles. "Your Bdy comes equipped with an alarm...and Coffee has been around for many years...and it tastes better when you grind the beans yourself." Santiago appears in his camp and he nods quietly even as he thinks of new plans for the tRap layouts...too many people were getting through them too easily without his knowledge.
Corrina
Fri 03:37AM EST
She nods at Santiago.
"Hi. I wandered out because I couldn't sleep and stayed out because Billy was up too."
She turns back to Billy, smiling.
"And I grind my beans fresh every morning, thank you very much. The motor makes a lovely noise."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:39AM EST
He nods and reaches into a wooden box. coming out with a bowl and grinding pedestal "This works too."
Santiago
Fri 03:41AM EST
"Miles from the cabins? What a remarkable sense of direction." Chuckling, he sits on a log and turns his attention to the Wendigo. "Your tribesman Matthew's taken an interest in my kinfolk Kennedy, Rhya. Whether she wants him or not is her business, but if he wants her he'll have to challenge for her. I'm the only Get in these parts and probably the only Half-Moon too, so it'll be me he needs to come see. I'd tell him myself but I haven't seen him for a while."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:45AM EST
He nods quietly. "It would appear that she is interested in him...as she made the first move on him and she came on Rather Strong. as far as challenging for her...I was of the opinion that was only if another was interested in her also."
Corrina
Fri 03:46AM EST
"Billy showed me the way. And yeah, I do have an okay sense of direction. My . . . Jon's moving out here, so I need to know the way to visit."
She quiets, letting the two garou discuss business without her interruption. Poor Kennedy; she's never met the girl, but she'd hate to be talked about the way her kinsman is talking about her. Gah. Challenges and what not. Why not just let the two decide if they wanted each other?
Santiago
Fri 03:50AM EST
"Jon's moving out here?" - quirk of eyebrow, turn back to Corrina briefly. Then the butchershop meat-hawking is on again with a shake of Santiago's head, "The Get of Fenris as a whole have a vested interest in her. And we won't give up a kin to our blood to anyone who does not earn her rightfully."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:53AM EST
Looking at santiago, he shakes his head. "when it comes to them santiago...I hate to say...but you do not get to decide. if he wants to challenge I will not stop him...should they decide to do whatever they're going to do Without his challenging...then I will not stop them from doing that either...but know...should harm befallHim...then I will take it as an attack on myself and the rest of wendigo's people."
Santiago
Fri 03:55AM EST
Santiago only nods - calm. The black depths of his eyes are, as ever, unreadable. "The ways of the Wendigo here are yours to decide. But should he claim her without challenge, I'll take that as an insult to my tribe and myself." A shrug of lean shoulders. "I respect you, Rhya, but our tribes don't always play by the same rules.
Corrina
Fri 03:56AM EST
Her eyes go back and forth between the two of them, debating whether it's best to sneak into Jon's lodge and hide until they're done discussing and arguing or to just sit here quietly and listen. Sitting quietly and listening wins out, at least for now.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:56AM EST
He grins. "Of course...but now on the other hand..what if it is she that has claimed him? as it would seem she has?"
Santiago
Fri 03:59AM EST
A quiet. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and rubs the clean line of his jaw from his ear down to where the goatee edges over his chin, and back up again. A shadow of a frown flickers, is gone. "I'll talk to her," simply enough.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:02AM EST
He shrugs and waves dismissively. "forget it...they're still kids...let them play.,..if it becomes seriuous THEN we can work out a Dowry or something." he smiles and looks a little surprised at himself...he really WAS starting to feel old...and he had just turned 18 less than 2 months ago....the other Wendigo in the area were begginning to feel like his kids.
Santiago
Fri 04:04AM EST
Santiago chuckles, and then looks at Corrina. It seems the discussion was over - for now. "You're lucky," he remarks, "that Jon's the same tribe as you. Save you a lot of trouble."
Corrina
Fri 04:04AM EST
Sheesh, if Billy's old she's ancient . . . The 23 year old pushes her blonde curls out of her face as she listens.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:05AM EST
He grunts. 'Aurora was coggie."
Corrina
Fri 04:08AM EST
"I suppose. I hadn't thought of it that way."
She really hadn't. She thought of him as a friend, a . . . what? Worrying about tribes and that had never been a thing in her family.
Santiago
Fri 04:09AM EST
"Yeah, well," he tosses a twig into the fire, where it pops with the heat and releases a small upspiral of sparks, "the Coggies are easygoing about everything." The answer seems to work for both of them. A pause. Then, "Except Corran-rhya. I've never seen a Coggie lash out like that before."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:10AM EST
He grunts. "He walks the black pat...he would have made a good ahroun."
Corrina
Fri 04:12AM EST
Black paths again . . . she's in over her head, as usual. She listens still, her attention half diverted by thinking of ways to help Jon and Corran get along better when Jon gets home.
Santiago
Fri 04:12AM EST
"Too sweet for an Ahroun." Grinning, then, "Too bitter for a Theurge. Black path?"
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:15AM EST
He nods ashe removes 2 necklaces from his person...one a polised red stone, the other a Polished Black stone. "My people believe in 2 paths...the Red Path...that runs north and south and will lead a Wendigo into the heart of wendigo's home is the road of understanding...of Honoir...it is a hard road to walk because sometimes the path is so red it is almost black istelf...and then there ois the black path, a wide road paved in black stones...it is the path of Evil, of dishonor and leads to the ways of Harano and of the spirals....Misunderstanding is bred on the black path."
Santiago
Fri 04:20AM EST
Eyebrows rise. "Pretty harsh criticism of Corran-rhya."
Corrina
Fri 04:21AM EST
It makes sense, she guesses, in a strange way. Foreign to her very modern ideology. Harsh criticism, yes, but it seems to fit.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:23AM EST
He shakes his head. "I'll put it in context for you...the road to hell is paved with good intentions...no on intentionally walks toe black road...well...almost no one...but we all find ourselves on it at some point or another
Santiago
Fri 04:28AM EST
A upturn of his mouth, ever so slight. "Did I say I disagreed, Billy-rhya?" Another twig tossed into the fire. "But he might have had his reasons. Someday I'll talk to them both about it. When this threat is over," a nod at the general surroundings, evidently meant to indicate the oil-drilling, the wyrm wolves, everything.
And he must know that the threat - some threat, any threat - will never, ever in his lifetime be over.
Corrina
Fri 04:29AM EST
She stands, stretching and yawning.
"I guess maybe I'll be able to sleep after all . . . Are you sure it's okay if I crash out here Billy?"
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:31AM EST
Billy smiles at the pair and nods to Corrina. "Of course...there is wood inside for a heating fore...there are blankets in my lodge...help yourself to a couple if you want"
Looking at santiago, he nods ad says. "Just wait until you see his fanatical side Santiago."
Corrina
Fri 04:33AM EST
Chuckling, she moves to get the offered blankets.
"I think if I tried to start a fire the whole lodge would go up and all your hard work would have been for nothing. Thanks though."
Santiago
Fri 04:35AM EST
"Don't think I want to," replies the Forseti, who then nods to the kinfolk. "Goodnight, kinwoman."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:35AM EST
he grins at corrina. "they're made to have fires in the Corrina...trust me...you ain't gonna burn it down if you keep it in the fire pit."
Corrina
Fri 04:36AM EST
"But I wouldn't know how to start it. Goodnight to you both. Sweet dreams."
She smiles and heads for Jon's lodge and makes a bed for herself, where she promptly falls asleep.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:37AM EST
billy makes a note to go in and start one before morning
Looking at Santiago, he nods. "You are right...you really don't want to...that is where I lost any respect for him as a leader i may ever have had.
Santiago
Fri 04:39AM EST
Corrina disappears into the lodge, and Santiago gets to his feet. "I should probably head home myself. Thanks for the hos--"
--break off. His eyes are on the path. The wind blows from his back tonight. The figures on the path (two...no, three...no four) are downwind from them, the scent lost to the night.
Wolves. Grey, eyes glinting in the dim and distant firelight. Big creatures, a pack, unafraid, head and tails head high, ears forward.
Santiago's eyes narrow. He gets slowly to his feet and breathes in deeply. "They smell like wild wolves to me..." a pause, "...but there are no wild wolves in this area."
Flashback. Last time there were 'wolves' here--
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:42AM EST
Now that corrina has gone to bed, Billy stands and picks up the War Club. "I've been hearing them since they came into my territory santiago. "
Santiago
Fri 04:48AM EST
As the two werewolves stand, two of the wolves break off from the pack, slip into the night. There's a snap! of a trap closing. A yelp. But from behind them, a growl...
(How many? Three left? four? more?)
"They're trying to surround us." Santiago's fingers fly over the buttons of his shirt, undoing them as he steps backwards to put his back to the lodge. Jon's lodge. There was a kinfolk in there. He strips the fabric from his shoulders and suddenly the black patterns wreathing over his skin bulge outwards, become three-dimensional and solid.
Shoulder holsters.
Guns. SIG-SAUER P229 on the left; Glock-22 on the right. Locked and loaded.
He pulls them now, and the lead wolf throws his head back and howls. It's a chilling, discordant sound. It's not quite wolflike.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:54AM EST
They're on an Island in the middle of the swamps about a half mile by a half mile in dimensons...only one way onto the island. tufts of earth...most of them have stone spikes in them. the rest of the island has spikes driven into the ground so anyone trying to swim to the island gets skewered...and there are Kanji pits on the island.
billy turns to face the back of the island...wondering how they got back there, softly he mutters. "I know you can use a rifle Santiago...how are you with a blade?"
Santiago
Fri 05:01AM EST
The howl stretches on and on. Soon the beta-wolf joins; and then the one(s) in the forest. It's hard to tell how many there are. The howls echo and reverberate; the noise bores into the skull and hammers at the ears. Gradually they can begin to understand some parts of it--
...hungryhungrygoodfoodsmellfoodsoclosefoodacrossWATERANGRYeateatkillrendeathungryHUNGRY...
Two more slip out of the shadows. Then a third. Five in all now (god knows how many there were before the traps--!), they stalk the shores of the natural moat, glaring at their intended prey.
"I don't use blades," comes the calm reply as Santiago snaps out the clips on both guns and checks them. The SIG was fully loaded - 12 rounds. The Glock was six bullets down - 9 left. Twenty-one total. He shouldn't need more than that. But then again, there were a lot of them.
Raise the gun. He doesn't even seem to aim. BLAM. The betawolf yelps, four legs down to three. The rest of them suddenly roar into their Crinos forms, snarling, dripping foam and saliva to the sandy shore.
"I use guns and claws."
And all of a sudden the war wolves are charging, flowing down the narrow ridge of land, the only path to Billy's island. They're not smart, but they're damned fast, and agile enough to avoid the spikes.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 05:05AM EST
His form changes slowly...but quickly enough that by the time they reach the island he's in cinos...the Crimson eye settles on his first target and he raises the War club as he lets out a sharp battle cry of "HOKa HEY"
Santiago
Fri 05:12AM EST
The guns bark twice more each, the trigger pulled so fast the sounds overlap into one almost-continuous roar before the first war wolf's paws hit the island. Four bullets strike true and three bullets do nothing. The fourth barely slows the leader before he's upon Billy.
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be this fast (just as fast as they are).
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be this strong (stronger than they are).
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be this tough (tougher than they are).
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be at all.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 05:16AM EST
Racor sharp inner edge of the crinos sized club comes around at the wolf's neck, the backstroke comes around, the spike ramming into it's side. he snarls as his rage is barely contained.
Santiago
Fri 05:35AM EST
Santiago snarls into Crinos form behind Billy, an eyeblink before the action begins. The Wendigo's first hit glances off the emaciated, wild-eyed wolf's pelt. The wolf retaliates: a crushing bite to the neck that Billy turns aside at the last second with a twist of his body. He's not a Fostern for nothing.
The second crushes the wolf's ribs, sending it toppling sideways - but not before its vile claws flash out and tear away a chunk of Billy's stomach.
Gunfire: point blank range. Both guns at once. The first pair of shots slam into the alpha wolf, but it's not necessary. He's already dead. Still, these are no normal wolves, to retreat when the alpha falls. The beta lunges - teeth clack together, bone grinds to powder, and the Cliath is on three legs himself with a snarl of pain and rage, blood flowing in torrents. But he's not a Get for nothing. Pain is a distant thing - the blessing of tribe and moon both - the guns roar again, bullets slamming into the beta wolf twice, felling him.
The third wolf is still crossing the bridge. Two more bullets. The third wolf staggers, bullets tearing through tough hide. It whines, turns tail and runs. The stink of rage hangs over the air - Eyes-Like-Flint can't possibly have too much more to spend. He's a Half-Moon, not a full.
Two more wolves. And they aren't running.
Round two.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 05:46AM EST
It was the Last straw,
War club in one hand, tomahawk in the other, he lunges at the nearest one with a belowing howl full of Rage, pain, and sorrow for a fallen mate...a mate fallen to the wyrm. the Club comes around and the spike drives into the creature ((Wp point for insta success))(1) the Tomahawk comes down between it's eyes.(2) Leaving it embedded there he drives his claws into it's back and closes his fist (3) but the Rage won';t be quelled as the wolf is lifted into the air and slammed bodily into a kanji pit close by(4)
Santiago
Fri 05:57AM EST
The wolf was dead by the first blow. The tomahawk caved in its skull and buried deep into the foul recesses of its diseased mind. In its tortured, starved, mad eyes, Billy might've glimpsed - just glimpsed - a hint of ... gratitude?
(Not everyone chooses to be of the Wyrm. Most don't. And these?
Maybe they didn't even have a choice.)
The instant's over. The fourth war wolf lies dead in the pit, its body impaled on the spikes. The first two are sprawled on the beach in various states of dismemberment. The third is long gone, trailing blood. The fifth -
- still coming on.
BLAM. BLAM.
An eye missing. Half a face missing. Its neck tendons raw and exposed.
Still. Coming. On.
Claws rip into the Cliath - he turns to take the blow on his better side - it rips a hole into his lungs and rends down his ribs, snapping them like matchsticks, ripping through the right-hand holster, shredding the dedicated leather. The Cliath drops dead. Rages back from the edge - barely. Some of the terrible wounds heal, but the claw marks will stay with him forever, ridged scars beneath the holsters he wears - or the tattoos they sometimes manifest as. He lies still, barely breathing, as the wolf wheels on Billy and lashes out with terrible teeth -
- but the Fostern dodges the worst of it.
Round three.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:04AM EST
War club dropped(you've done enough in this fight bane Breaker) his claws come up driving through the soft spot of the throat and up through the top of it's head. he holds it there, staring into it's eyes breathing ragged, bubbles of blood frothing from his nostrils the claws of his free hand raised ready to rend it's head from it' body if need be.
Santiago
Fri 06:12AM EST
The wyrmwolf claws at Billy's forearm ineffectually as the Wendigo's own claws drive up through the base of its skull and gradually, its struggles...just...cease.
Neurons fire dully.
The maniac light in its eyes dims. It stares glassily, still breathing - shallow, uneven, a small whine escaping at the edges.
...hungryhungry(givemepeace)hungryhungry...
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:14AM EST
He nods quietly and whispers. "find your peace and hunt well." that done, he drives his other claws in and twists sharply killing it instantly and tearing it's head from it';s body
Santiago
Fri 06:19AM EST
One split-second before impact, the light in the wolf's eyes blaze--
--and then it winks out.
And that's the last of them. There's one more in the woods somewhere, but the trail of blood won't be hard to track - and likely it'll die of exposure by the next night, even unattended. Wyrmridden and diseased, these wolves barely had the mental capability to do what they did best - hunt - much less anything else.
Silence, except for the lapping of water at the edges of the island. The ground is soaked with blood, littered with bodies - four dead, one barely this side of death. Eleven empty shell casings wink softly from the sand, bloodsplattered. Two Garou against five war wolves of the wyrm, and still they've won. Not bad. Not bad at all.
This battle's over.
Of course, the war's barely even begun.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:21AM EST
moving over to the cliath, he sets the thing's head on his uninjured side as he whispers. "a trophy for you and a reminder for those dark nights....you going to live?" his voice hard to follow as he shifts down from crinos...first in the high tongue, then a mixture and finally in english
Santiago
Fri 06:24AM EST
An exertion of rage to awaken; another - his last - to shift into Glabro. Immediately, his body begins to heal itself, slowly but surely pulling muscle and bone back together. The suddenly rougher-featured Half-Moon looks at the head and smiles a faint, bloody smile. "I'll live, Rhya."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:26AM EST
he nods quietly. "You sure?"
Santiago
Fri 06:29AM EST
Collapsed lungs. Eviscerated bowels. Shattered leg. It's difficult to speak, the words slow and quiet, but the meaning comes through all the same. "Great Fenris... won't let me... die so easily," whispers the Cliath.
He closes his eyes and sleeps. Heals. Rebuilds.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:31AM EST
He grunts as he removes one of the Talens that Matthew gave him....he didn't want to use too many...but one wouldn't go amiss. He activates it, directing it onto Santiago. then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps face down on the ground unconscious.
Fri 03:32AM EST
pop.
Twig breaking. The usual greeting, a few seconds before Santiago himself shows up at the edge of the camp.
"Billy-rhya." Nod. Then to Corrina, faint grin. "You're up late. And out far, too."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:35AM EST
He chuckles. "Your Bdy comes equipped with an alarm...and Coffee has been around for many years...and it tastes better when you grind the beans yourself." Santiago appears in his camp and he nods quietly even as he thinks of new plans for the tRap layouts...too many people were getting through them too easily without his knowledge.
Corrina
Fri 03:37AM EST
She nods at Santiago.
"Hi. I wandered out because I couldn't sleep and stayed out because Billy was up too."
She turns back to Billy, smiling.
"And I grind my beans fresh every morning, thank you very much. The motor makes a lovely noise."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:39AM EST
He nods and reaches into a wooden box. coming out with a bowl and grinding pedestal "This works too."
Santiago
Fri 03:41AM EST
"Miles from the cabins? What a remarkable sense of direction." Chuckling, he sits on a log and turns his attention to the Wendigo. "Your tribesman Matthew's taken an interest in my kinfolk Kennedy, Rhya. Whether she wants him or not is her business, but if he wants her he'll have to challenge for her. I'm the only Get in these parts and probably the only Half-Moon too, so it'll be me he needs to come see. I'd tell him myself but I haven't seen him for a while."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:45AM EST
He nods quietly. "It would appear that she is interested in him...as she made the first move on him and she came on Rather Strong. as far as challenging for her...I was of the opinion that was only if another was interested in her also."
Corrina
Fri 03:46AM EST
"Billy showed me the way. And yeah, I do have an okay sense of direction. My . . . Jon's moving out here, so I need to know the way to visit."
She quiets, letting the two garou discuss business without her interruption. Poor Kennedy; she's never met the girl, but she'd hate to be talked about the way her kinsman is talking about her. Gah. Challenges and what not. Why not just let the two decide if they wanted each other?
Santiago
Fri 03:50AM EST
"Jon's moving out here?" - quirk of eyebrow, turn back to Corrina briefly. Then the butchershop meat-hawking is on again with a shake of Santiago's head, "The Get of Fenris as a whole have a vested interest in her. And we won't give up a kin to our blood to anyone who does not earn her rightfully."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:53AM EST
Looking at santiago, he shakes his head. "when it comes to them santiago...I hate to say...but you do not get to decide. if he wants to challenge I will not stop him...should they decide to do whatever they're going to do Without his challenging...then I will not stop them from doing that either...but know...should harm befallHim...then I will take it as an attack on myself and the rest of wendigo's people."
Santiago
Fri 03:55AM EST
Santiago only nods - calm. The black depths of his eyes are, as ever, unreadable. "The ways of the Wendigo here are yours to decide. But should he claim her without challenge, I'll take that as an insult to my tribe and myself." A shrug of lean shoulders. "I respect you, Rhya, but our tribes don't always play by the same rules.
Corrina
Fri 03:56AM EST
Her eyes go back and forth between the two of them, debating whether it's best to sneak into Jon's lodge and hide until they're done discussing and arguing or to just sit here quietly and listen. Sitting quietly and listening wins out, at least for now.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 03:56AM EST
He grins. "Of course...but now on the other hand..what if it is she that has claimed him? as it would seem she has?"
Santiago
Fri 03:59AM EST
A quiet. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and rubs the clean line of his jaw from his ear down to where the goatee edges over his chin, and back up again. A shadow of a frown flickers, is gone. "I'll talk to her," simply enough.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:02AM EST
He shrugs and waves dismissively. "forget it...they're still kids...let them play.,..if it becomes seriuous THEN we can work out a Dowry or something." he smiles and looks a little surprised at himself...he really WAS starting to feel old...and he had just turned 18 less than 2 months ago....the other Wendigo in the area were begginning to feel like his kids.
Santiago
Fri 04:04AM EST
Santiago chuckles, and then looks at Corrina. It seems the discussion was over - for now. "You're lucky," he remarks, "that Jon's the same tribe as you. Save you a lot of trouble."
Corrina
Fri 04:04AM EST
Sheesh, if Billy's old she's ancient . . . The 23 year old pushes her blonde curls out of her face as she listens.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:05AM EST
He grunts. 'Aurora was coggie."
Corrina
Fri 04:08AM EST
"I suppose. I hadn't thought of it that way."
She really hadn't. She thought of him as a friend, a . . . what? Worrying about tribes and that had never been a thing in her family.
Santiago
Fri 04:09AM EST
"Yeah, well," he tosses a twig into the fire, where it pops with the heat and releases a small upspiral of sparks, "the Coggies are easygoing about everything." The answer seems to work for both of them. A pause. Then, "Except Corran-rhya. I've never seen a Coggie lash out like that before."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:10AM EST
He grunts. "He walks the black pat...he would have made a good ahroun."
Corrina
Fri 04:12AM EST
Black paths again . . . she's in over her head, as usual. She listens still, her attention half diverted by thinking of ways to help Jon and Corran get along better when Jon gets home.
Santiago
Fri 04:12AM EST
"Too sweet for an Ahroun." Grinning, then, "Too bitter for a Theurge. Black path?"
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:15AM EST
He nods ashe removes 2 necklaces from his person...one a polised red stone, the other a Polished Black stone. "My people believe in 2 paths...the Red Path...that runs north and south and will lead a Wendigo into the heart of wendigo's home is the road of understanding...of Honoir...it is a hard road to walk because sometimes the path is so red it is almost black istelf...and then there ois the black path, a wide road paved in black stones...it is the path of Evil, of dishonor and leads to the ways of Harano and of the spirals....Misunderstanding is bred on the black path."
Santiago
Fri 04:20AM EST
Eyebrows rise. "Pretty harsh criticism of Corran-rhya."
Corrina
Fri 04:21AM EST
It makes sense, she guesses, in a strange way. Foreign to her very modern ideology. Harsh criticism, yes, but it seems to fit.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:23AM EST
He shakes his head. "I'll put it in context for you...the road to hell is paved with good intentions...no on intentionally walks toe black road...well...almost no one...but we all find ourselves on it at some point or another
Santiago
Fri 04:28AM EST
A upturn of his mouth, ever so slight. "Did I say I disagreed, Billy-rhya?" Another twig tossed into the fire. "But he might have had his reasons. Someday I'll talk to them both about it. When this threat is over," a nod at the general surroundings, evidently meant to indicate the oil-drilling, the wyrm wolves, everything.
And he must know that the threat - some threat, any threat - will never, ever in his lifetime be over.
Corrina
Fri 04:29AM EST
She stands, stretching and yawning.
"I guess maybe I'll be able to sleep after all . . . Are you sure it's okay if I crash out here Billy?"
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:31AM EST
Billy smiles at the pair and nods to Corrina. "Of course...there is wood inside for a heating fore...there are blankets in my lodge...help yourself to a couple if you want"
Looking at santiago, he nods ad says. "Just wait until you see his fanatical side Santiago."
Corrina
Fri 04:33AM EST
Chuckling, she moves to get the offered blankets.
"I think if I tried to start a fire the whole lodge would go up and all your hard work would have been for nothing. Thanks though."
Santiago
Fri 04:35AM EST
"Don't think I want to," replies the Forseti, who then nods to the kinfolk. "Goodnight, kinwoman."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:35AM EST
he grins at corrina. "they're made to have fires in the Corrina...trust me...you ain't gonna burn it down if you keep it in the fire pit."
Corrina
Fri 04:36AM EST
"But I wouldn't know how to start it. Goodnight to you both. Sweet dreams."
She smiles and heads for Jon's lodge and makes a bed for herself, where she promptly falls asleep.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:37AM EST
billy makes a note to go in and start one before morning
Looking at Santiago, he nods. "You are right...you really don't want to...that is where I lost any respect for him as a leader i may ever have had.
Santiago
Fri 04:39AM EST
Corrina disappears into the lodge, and Santiago gets to his feet. "I should probably head home myself. Thanks for the hos--"
--break off. His eyes are on the path. The wind blows from his back tonight. The figures on the path (two...no, three...no four) are downwind from them, the scent lost to the night.
Wolves. Grey, eyes glinting in the dim and distant firelight. Big creatures, a pack, unafraid, head and tails head high, ears forward.
Santiago's eyes narrow. He gets slowly to his feet and breathes in deeply. "They smell like wild wolves to me..." a pause, "...but there are no wild wolves in this area."
Flashback. Last time there were 'wolves' here--
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:42AM EST
Now that corrina has gone to bed, Billy stands and picks up the War Club. "I've been hearing them since they came into my territory santiago. "
Santiago
Fri 04:48AM EST
As the two werewolves stand, two of the wolves break off from the pack, slip into the night. There's a snap! of a trap closing. A yelp. But from behind them, a growl...
(How many? Three left? four? more?)
"They're trying to surround us." Santiago's fingers fly over the buttons of his shirt, undoing them as he steps backwards to put his back to the lodge. Jon's lodge. There was a kinfolk in there. He strips the fabric from his shoulders and suddenly the black patterns wreathing over his skin bulge outwards, become three-dimensional and solid.
Shoulder holsters.
Guns. SIG-SAUER P229 on the left; Glock-22 on the right. Locked and loaded.
He pulls them now, and the lead wolf throws his head back and howls. It's a chilling, discordant sound. It's not quite wolflike.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 04:54AM EST
They're on an Island in the middle of the swamps about a half mile by a half mile in dimensons...only one way onto the island. tufts of earth...most of them have stone spikes in them. the rest of the island has spikes driven into the ground so anyone trying to swim to the island gets skewered...and there are Kanji pits on the island.
billy turns to face the back of the island...wondering how they got back there, softly he mutters. "I know you can use a rifle Santiago...how are you with a blade?"
Santiago
Fri 05:01AM EST
The howl stretches on and on. Soon the beta-wolf joins; and then the one(s) in the forest. It's hard to tell how many there are. The howls echo and reverberate; the noise bores into the skull and hammers at the ears. Gradually they can begin to understand some parts of it--
...hungryhungrygoodfoodsmellfoodsoclosefoodacrossWATERANGRYeateatkillrendeathungryHUNGRY...
Two more slip out of the shadows. Then a third. Five in all now (god knows how many there were before the traps--!), they stalk the shores of the natural moat, glaring at their intended prey.
"I don't use blades," comes the calm reply as Santiago snaps out the clips on both guns and checks them. The SIG was fully loaded - 12 rounds. The Glock was six bullets down - 9 left. Twenty-one total. He shouldn't need more than that. But then again, there were a lot of them.
Raise the gun. He doesn't even seem to aim. BLAM. The betawolf yelps, four legs down to three. The rest of them suddenly roar into their Crinos forms, snarling, dripping foam and saliva to the sandy shore.
"I use guns and claws."
And all of a sudden the war wolves are charging, flowing down the narrow ridge of land, the only path to Billy's island. They're not smart, but they're damned fast, and agile enough to avoid the spikes.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 05:05AM EST
His form changes slowly...but quickly enough that by the time they reach the island he's in cinos...the Crimson eye settles on his first target and he raises the War club as he lets out a sharp battle cry of "HOKa HEY"
Santiago
Fri 05:12AM EST
The guns bark twice more each, the trigger pulled so fast the sounds overlap into one almost-continuous roar before the first war wolf's paws hit the island. Four bullets strike true and three bullets do nothing. The fourth barely slows the leader before he's upon Billy.
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be this fast (just as fast as they are).
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be this strong (stronger than they are).
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be this tough (tougher than they are).
The wolves of the Wyrm shouldn't be at all.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 05:16AM EST
Racor sharp inner edge of the crinos sized club comes around at the wolf's neck, the backstroke comes around, the spike ramming into it's side. he snarls as his rage is barely contained.
Santiago
Fri 05:35AM EST
Santiago snarls into Crinos form behind Billy, an eyeblink before the action begins. The Wendigo's first hit glances off the emaciated, wild-eyed wolf's pelt. The wolf retaliates: a crushing bite to the neck that Billy turns aside at the last second with a twist of his body. He's not a Fostern for nothing.
The second crushes the wolf's ribs, sending it toppling sideways - but not before its vile claws flash out and tear away a chunk of Billy's stomach.
Gunfire: point blank range. Both guns at once. The first pair of shots slam into the alpha wolf, but it's not necessary. He's already dead. Still, these are no normal wolves, to retreat when the alpha falls. The beta lunges - teeth clack together, bone grinds to powder, and the Cliath is on three legs himself with a snarl of pain and rage, blood flowing in torrents. But he's not a Get for nothing. Pain is a distant thing - the blessing of tribe and moon both - the guns roar again, bullets slamming into the beta wolf twice, felling him.
The third wolf is still crossing the bridge. Two more bullets. The third wolf staggers, bullets tearing through tough hide. It whines, turns tail and runs. The stink of rage hangs over the air - Eyes-Like-Flint can't possibly have too much more to spend. He's a Half-Moon, not a full.
Two more wolves. And they aren't running.
Round two.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 05:46AM EST
It was the Last straw,
War club in one hand, tomahawk in the other, he lunges at the nearest one with a belowing howl full of Rage, pain, and sorrow for a fallen mate...a mate fallen to the wyrm. the Club comes around and the spike drives into the creature ((Wp point for insta success))(1) the Tomahawk comes down between it's eyes.(2) Leaving it embedded there he drives his claws into it's back and closes his fist (3) but the Rage won';t be quelled as the wolf is lifted into the air and slammed bodily into a kanji pit close by(4)
Santiago
Fri 05:57AM EST
The wolf was dead by the first blow. The tomahawk caved in its skull and buried deep into the foul recesses of its diseased mind. In its tortured, starved, mad eyes, Billy might've glimpsed - just glimpsed - a hint of ... gratitude?
(Not everyone chooses to be of the Wyrm. Most don't. And these?
Maybe they didn't even have a choice.)
The instant's over. The fourth war wolf lies dead in the pit, its body impaled on the spikes. The first two are sprawled on the beach in various states of dismemberment. The third is long gone, trailing blood. The fifth -
- still coming on.
BLAM. BLAM.
An eye missing. Half a face missing. Its neck tendons raw and exposed.
Still. Coming. On.
Claws rip into the Cliath - he turns to take the blow on his better side - it rips a hole into his lungs and rends down his ribs, snapping them like matchsticks, ripping through the right-hand holster, shredding the dedicated leather. The Cliath drops dead. Rages back from the edge - barely. Some of the terrible wounds heal, but the claw marks will stay with him forever, ridged scars beneath the holsters he wears - or the tattoos they sometimes manifest as. He lies still, barely breathing, as the wolf wheels on Billy and lashes out with terrible teeth -
- but the Fostern dodges the worst of it.
Round three.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:04AM EST
War club dropped(you've done enough in this fight bane Breaker) his claws come up driving through the soft spot of the throat and up through the top of it's head. he holds it there, staring into it's eyes breathing ragged, bubbles of blood frothing from his nostrils the claws of his free hand raised ready to rend it's head from it' body if need be.
Santiago
Fri 06:12AM EST
The wyrmwolf claws at Billy's forearm ineffectually as the Wendigo's own claws drive up through the base of its skull and gradually, its struggles...just...cease.
Neurons fire dully.
The maniac light in its eyes dims. It stares glassily, still breathing - shallow, uneven, a small whine escaping at the edges.
...hungryhungry(givemepeace)hungryhungry...
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:14AM EST
He nods quietly and whispers. "find your peace and hunt well." that done, he drives his other claws in and twists sharply killing it instantly and tearing it's head from it';s body
Santiago
Fri 06:19AM EST
One split-second before impact, the light in the wolf's eyes blaze--
--and then it winks out.
And that's the last of them. There's one more in the woods somewhere, but the trail of blood won't be hard to track - and likely it'll die of exposure by the next night, even unattended. Wyrmridden and diseased, these wolves barely had the mental capability to do what they did best - hunt - much less anything else.
Silence, except for the lapping of water at the edges of the island. The ground is soaked with blood, littered with bodies - four dead, one barely this side of death. Eleven empty shell casings wink softly from the sand, bloodsplattered. Two Garou against five war wolves of the wyrm, and still they've won. Not bad. Not bad at all.
This battle's over.
Of course, the war's barely even begun.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:21AM EST
moving over to the cliath, he sets the thing's head on his uninjured side as he whispers. "a trophy for you and a reminder for those dark nights....you going to live?" his voice hard to follow as he shifts down from crinos...first in the high tongue, then a mixture and finally in english
Santiago
Fri 06:24AM EST
An exertion of rage to awaken; another - his last - to shift into Glabro. Immediately, his body begins to heal itself, slowly but surely pulling muscle and bone back together. The suddenly rougher-featured Half-Moon looks at the head and smiles a faint, bloody smile. "I'll live, Rhya."
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:26AM EST
he nods quietly. "You sure?"
Santiago
Fri 06:29AM EST
Collapsed lungs. Eviscerated bowels. Shattered leg. It's difficult to speak, the words slow and quiet, but the meaning comes through all the same. "Great Fenris... won't let me... die so easily," whispers the Cliath.
He closes his eyes and sleeps. Heals. Rebuilds.
Billy Bedlam
Fri 06:31AM EST
He grunts as he removes one of the Talens that Matthew gave him....he didn't want to use too many...but one wouldn't go amiss. He activates it, directing it onto Santiago. then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps face down on the ground unconscious.
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