Joss | Godi at play! [Imogen/Decker/Wendy]

Most folks LIKE it when Godi’s stay out of their way.

She doesn’t have much in the way of belongings, having only the one well packed large backpack when she arrived. As such, it doesn’t take her long to unpack, and put away her clothing, setting a little “bathroom basket” atop her dresser with necessities in it for easier carrying to the bathroom downstairs as needed.

(…check another box on the ‘batshit crazy’ side…)

She carefully arranges everything in some order that only makes sense in her mind – to anyone else it looks to be a completely haphazard collection of junk. To her? It’s a Godi playland.

She then moves to the dresser, and carefully unpacks something purchased the day before, but not set up until she had claimed a spot as her own. She had a dept to pay, after all, and intends to make good on it. She reads the directions, then goes about setting up the little rock and glass waterfall. Once it’s put together, and working correctly, she fills it up with purified water, the best of the best in payment to the gafflings that are bound in service to the two healing talens she made the other day. The sound of trickling water is soothing (as long as she doesn’t have to pee) and she’s pleased with the end result.

There. Her room is complete. She feels at home, at peace, which can only mean one thing.

It’s time to get to work.

It’s hot up here, and a thin sheen of sweat covers her skin, trickles down the middle of her back along her spine, mingles with dust and dirt and makes her appear even more disheveled than ever. In the winter, she will need something to keep the chill out, but for now, it is perfect, even with the wave of heat trapped under the awnings, in the nooks and crannies of the attic. She clears off a space in the center of the balcony, and kneels, her bare feet tucked under her ass, her dreads hanging heavily down the center of her back.

She closes her eyes, and begins to meditate. Deep breathes. Centering herself, her hands resting lightly on her thighs, palms upwards. She clears her mind of everything but Gaia, of everything she has ahead of her, of all she left behind. There is nothing but her. Nothing but Gaia. Nothing but breath.

She studies the shelves for a few moments, and then gathers several of the glass figurines and a prism, and sets them carefully on the bare wooden floor. She kneels down before them, and takes her a centering breath. Once she feels confident and in control, she pulls her skirt upwards to bare her thighs, and begins to tap out a steady calming beat across the beaded, knotted scars found there. The scars themselves thrum with power, with the spirits bound to service within her very skin as she finds a rhythm and seeks to perform to the best of her ability, her body moving with the beat, her voice a low humming counterpart as she focuses and plays.

(Spirit Drum: Dex+performance, Diff 5)

(hey what? I got all day – Come on Kahseeno!)

She lifts her voice in spirit speech, her body swaying to the music of her drum, her voice strong and sure for all it’s quiet power as she lets loose her call upon the umbral winds…

(Summoning: seeking gafflings at target 4 – 1 hour makes target 3. Wits+rituals=6)

They gather around her, close enough to nip and scrape against her skin, all jostling for a position to speak to the new Godi. She answers them, her voice soft, in their own words.

“Beautiful spirits of Glass, thank you for responding to my call. I am Gossamer Wing, Godi, new to this land and hoping to soon fly under the wing of Mighty Eagle. I seek aid in my quest to secure not only my place, but the safety of my prospective pack. Will you aid me in my quest? Will you help secure my future here so that I could honor you and those like you through my service?”

The spirits are willing and eager to help, so much so that her arms are soon bleeding for a myriad of small cuts and scratches as they jostle her for position. They ask a question, and she smiles in response. “I have gathered beautiful figurines made of the finest glass, and a prism through which the sun and moon can shine through your likeness to allow others to behold your beauty. I will place them around the packhouse, I will place the prism in my very own window, a window above my bed, a window I will keep clean to perfection so that all can marvel at your beauty. All that I ask in return is that you alert me should others who do not belong here peer through your windows into our packhouse, and should any uninvited seek to break you and enter, that you will shatter in the face of our enemy and throw yourself at them to stop their entry. I will not hold you forever, I will rotate each of you so that you all have a turn to aid those who follow the Mighty Eagle’s flight…”

They jostle her again, to seek out the little figurines, to see the beauty of the items left realmside that she will give over to them in the name of their service.

An agreement is made, and she smiles her thanks, sliding her fingers over the first brave one who will be bound to this all important service. She focuses her will then, in sealing the deal with the spilling of her own essence to bind them.

(Spend: 1 gnosis, reduses diff to 6. Rolling WP. HAIL KAHSEENO!)

(Please pretty glass spirit, help her make a good impression?)

The prism is soon tacked above her window so that rainbows of light dance about the attic, and the little figurines – 6 of them – she carries carefully downstairs. Two are situated on the second floor, near the biggest windows where they can be admired, and see any one sneaking about. The other four are placed strategically through the ground floor – one on each wall, so that the spirits can keep watch according to the deal struck.

Once she returns to her room, the hand is healed, as are all the other little nicks and cuts from dealing with the glass gafflings.

She settles back to the center of the floor, kneeling again, and the process starts anew.

(spirit drumming, baby!)

(summoning – please don’t electrocute me! +1 spirit drum, wits + rituals = 7, diff 4)

“Honored spirits, hear my plea. I have come to aid the Eagles, to help protect their kin, many of whom reside here in this packhouse at times. I, Gossamer Wing, need your aid to ensure the safety of those inside, so that the Eagles can do as their Might demands, continue to cleanse the scab of violence and hatred, to fight to bring victory to Gaia herself. I ask only simple service of you, I ask that you serve as a shining beacon of light, to alert us when someone not of the Eagles has breached the walls of our home. I ask that you accept this offering, and lend yourself to these lights, and that of this car, so that you can give warning to the pack, so that they may rest easy under your vigilance.”

They are not immediately receptive, and she offers more of herself to them in exchange, the tingling delight of gnosis in trade for their service for a time. They begrudgingly nod, and she takes a breath in order to bind their agreement.

(Binding – lets do this! Spend 2 gnosis, lowers diff to 3, roll wp HAIL KAHSEENO!)

She is casual here, albeit out of place. It is hard to decide if she had attempted to find someone inside the packhouse, or if she had simply sat down here, lit and cigarette to watch the twilight grow.

She picks up the little remote control police car, and the strand of christmas lights, and makes her way downstairs again.

Her tanktop clings to her skin, translucent in places, and the light material of her skirt clings to her thighs as she moves. She is barefoot, and her dreads are gathered at her neck with a tie, hanging heavily down her back. She moves with an unearthly grace, the animal so closely under her skin, and her eyes shine with the fever of one doing exactly what it is she is meant to do. Commune with the spirits, protect her pack, be ready for whatever may come her way.

That she is not full pack yet is completely immaterial.
This is what she was raised to do, trained to become.

She pauses to grab the hooks for her lights, and when she heads to the door she pauses to see Imogen sitting outside on the stoop. She looks at herself a moment – she’s hopelessly dirty and disheveled and mussed from her days work, and Imogen looks – as always – perfectly put together. However, the chance to speak to her again (donotgofangirlydonotdonotsqueal!) is enough that she ignores her own dirty appearance, and continues out side – pausing only to set the little cop car on the inside window sill.

Her smile is genuine – it reaches her eyes and lingers there in sparkling blue as she closes the door behind her. “Evening, Imogen!”

“Hello. I wasn’t aware there was anyone inside,” she observes as she lifts her cigarette back to her mouth again, fitting it between her lips. The ember flares as she draws smoke into her lungs, filling them and then turning away to exhale her breath.

“What’s with the lights?” enquired as she moves over slightly on the step to let Joss by her if need be, glancing over her shoulder once again.

[She was loved.]

“I wasn’t exactly… inside. You know, inside here here, but inside over there, here.” Making perfect sense, isn’t she? “Was spirit talking on the other side.” Better. “And I made myself a little room in the attic, so you may not have noticed anyway.”

There’s that grin again, as she looks to the lights in her hand, and moves past Imogen. She looks around and drags over a crate to stand on, climbs up – uncaring of the splinter she may get in her bare feet doing so – and starts to ring the back window with them. “Made a deal with some electric spirits – someone comes a spying or tries to enter, they’re gonna set off these pretty things – half of them will shatter as the spirit inside comes to find me, or one of the Eagles. All of which will send the little car – see it?” She taps the window where the remote control cop car is. “into a spasm of sirens and send it careening to the floor to search and tell anyone inside that there’s someone who shouldn’t be here outside.”

Makes perfect sense.
To the Godi.

The Godi explains what she’s doing – Imogen’s gaze moves to the car as her attention is directed to it. Her mouth twists barely, a minor symptom of humour. “Part of the pack now, then, are you?” she lifts the cigarette to her mouth again.

“Prospective, officially. Still haven’t met Silence yet, but Evan moved me in here and put me to work. So more of a pack tagalong for a while.” Like the overly eager and annoying little sister that never shuts up.

She makes short work of hanging the lights on the little hooks – hooked instead of nailed so that they can be replaced easily – and steps back to the ground with a satisfied nod. “Would you like a beer?”

She pushes hair back from her eyes as the girl gets down and the doctor straightens, glancing over her shoulder toward the door of the kinhouse. “Alright,” she says, tapping ash from her cigarette and then balancing the fag on the edge of the stoop, slipping out of her coat and letting it drop beside her. One presumes the Garou goes to get the Kin her beer, and whatever Joss wants for herself. When the younger girl exits the house again, she’ll see that the one-Fianna kin is armed, a gun holster at the small of her back.

The sky is clearing up, though the sun has set – stars peek through the cover and the moon is slowly lowering in the east.

Inside, there’s a running dialog about sharing a beer with someone she’s heard about all her life, and one wonders if she’ll ever get over that sense of awe, of wonder being here in Chicago. Evan thinks she soon will realize that legend is far from reality. Joss is firmly rooted in both, and knows she will not be disappointed.

She makes note of the gun, idly, as she makes note of just about everything, and only pops the tops off the beer once she’s joined Imogen on the stoop again. She offers one to the once-Fianna kin with a grin. “Here ya go.”

She picks up her cigarette as she lowers the bottle, stubbing it out against the concrete of the step. The butt she leaves where it is, to be picked up again before she leaves. The kinwoman leans forward, curving her spine, resting her forearms on her knees. She lifts the beer bottle again and takes another swallow.

There is silence – filled with car noise in the distance, the shout of people out on the streets. It’s a Saturday night and the poor quality bars nearby are starting up their business.

“What have you heard about me?” the question is abrupt – unheralded.

She takes a long swallow of her beer – her throat parched from the work she’s spent the day doing, the calling and talking and summoning and humming and plea bargaining. It can take a toll on the voice. While she is swallowing, Imogen asks her question, and Joss blinks. And coughs, once before it falls into a soft chuckle.

“Though ya didn’t care…” There’s a tease there (somewhere in her head she’s yelling at herself for it) but it’s clear she’ll answer the question, and honestly at that. It’s likely that Joss couldn’t lie if her life depended on it. “There are stories sung of you. It’s rare that there are songs sung of kin, rarer still that the Fenrir sing the tales of those that have Fianna blood. They sing of your bravery, they tell the tale of your killing the Wrym, and of course, they speak of yo being the worthy mate of a Fenrir Modi of Silence’s renown.”

Honesty, in that. She’s unsure how much detail Imogen wants, but also adds “There are also some Skalds that sing of your beauty. Your hair and eyes in particular,” because she can’t help it, tha’ts why.

Then, the Godi does, and Imogen’s eyes remain where they are while she speaks. When she’s done, the doctor’s breath exhales, a sound a bit like a scoff, looking away as she sets her beer bottle down, reaching for her purse. She sets it on her lap, undoing the clasp to retrieve a bronze plated cigarette case, a zippo. She opens the former, plucking a cigarette out.

She lights up in silence, her hands deft, delicate.

“None of the stories mention I smoke, I bet.” There is a dry irony to her voice as she exhales cigarette smoke into the wind, letting it scatter.

“It’s disconcerting, to be honest. Not your smoking I mean, but to come here and seek to be part of a group you’ve only seen from afar, and heard of in way of song and tale – but that doesn’t mean I don’t look forward to learning of those who inspire the songs – including the little things like the fact you smoke.” She grins at Imogen, and a bare shoulder lifts in a shrug. “My friends bet me that I’d ask for your autograph or pass out or something equally stupid. I’m reserving that reaction for meeting Silence.”

Definitely a joke. Though she WILL try not to piss herself in excitement. Fortunately for the woman she shares the stoop with.

She balances her cigarette and picks up her beer bottle, tipping it back to take a swig. Strands of hair swing forward from behind her ears to slide across her cheek. She tucks them back with one hand, resting the bottle on her bent knee as she watches a car pass by in front of the building.

“You do that,” this is humour, albeit a sharper one than Joss’s own. “I’ll watch.”

With how fast they are forced to grow, to mature, to make life and death decisions on a daily basis, it’s surprisingly simple to forget that girls like Joss are also something simple, unadorned; she is still a teenage girl, though one surprisingly comfortable in her own skin, her own path. “So how did you meet Silence, anyway?”

It is a request, and honest, for Joss is a forever curious creature. To be Godi is to have a natural born curiosity for how things work, how things are put together, what makes people tick… or simply trying to find a word to describe the reality of a person of legend. She does have the grace to wrinkle her nose and shake her head at herself. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want. I tend to ask too many questions.”

Just a few blocks away are the shining towers of the riverfront and the Loop. Then she goes one block too far, and suddenly the houses are run-down, the streets are full of potholes, and disreputable-looking youths are bumming around on top of shitty old american cars.

She should probably turn around. But then there’s a Baskin Robbins just a block or two down. And in this northern state, in these young spring days, there’s still light in the sky.

There’s a woman walking down the street; Imogen’s attention flicks to her, resting there as she picks up her cigarette and fits it in her mouth. Some ways before the Baskin Robbins is a building with two females sitting on the stoop, one young, dressed in a tank top and disreputable by her dirty appearance, dried blood on her hands and marking her clothing like accessories. The other, older though not old, her posture straight, as if she were not loitering on a building’s step in the wrong area of town.

She does not seem the type to loiter, her clothing a bit too expensive for the neighbourhood. Still, here she was. Imogen’s interest in watching Wendy is distracted, remote. Little more than acknowledgement that the young woman was in an area where young women do not often walk alone.

barely.

She lifts her beer to take a drink, and as she’s lowering the bottle again, her gaze stays lifted, watching the woman walk down the street. She doesn’t seem to be overly concerned about her own appearance, and what the girl might think, of herself or of Imogen. And to be honest, she’s completely forgotten about the blood – as the cuts and nicks that spilled it have already healed.

She and Imogen could not be more different though, not only in appearance either. Joss slouches, comfortably, while Imogen’s posture is straight. Her feet are bare, her clothing stained, while Imogen stands out as well-groomed. Of course, Imogen would stand out anywhere, but that’s neither here nor there.

She reaches back to lift her dreads off the back of her neck for a moment, a bit of breeze welcome to cool her skin, before she lets them fall again, her tongue playing absently with one of the piercings on her lip. Joss is unique, you see. Just like everyone else.

The modi has a doublescoop of Jamoca in a waffle cone in hand. He bites at it instead of licking. It leaves an ice cream moustache on his lip, and he’s not looking where he’s going because he’s digging in his pockets looking for something to wipe it on, because he’s in short sleeves, and ice cream dried sticky as hell. He’s just found a crumpled up napkin with some questionable stains — ketchup? blood? — is yanking it out of his pocket when he quite literally slams into the bookwormus maximus loitering in front of his packhouse.

The impact is something like hitting a brick wall. Wherever Wendy ends up, the top scoop on Decker’s cone ends up on the sidewalk with a splat. He looks down at it for a second, and then back at the book-waif.

“What the fuck.”

He looks furious. He’s a tower of living Rage. And this is Wendy’s, and Joss’s, first impression of Decker Rohl.

Decker’s approach pulls her attention away from the skinny waif, and a half breath before he crashes into the girl, she opens her mouth like she might call out to warn one or the other. However, the word never has the opportunity to reach her throat, as Decker crashes into her and a top scoop of ice cream dies a dirty death on the sidewalk. Her mouth shuts, lips sealing and tightening as she flicks a gaze toward the spindly woman and her status.

She draws a breath in slowly, then gets to her feet, picking up her beer and draining it as she does. She sets it aside and walks down the sidewalk toward the road.

Imogen moves first, drawing a breath and standing to go toward the road. Joss sits like an idiot for all of 4 seconds longer which may lead Imogen to think she just might do that fainting that she mentioned earlier. Instead, she leans over, grabs the edge of her skirt and wipes her face free of dust and dirt, as well as she can anyway, before she smooths back her dreads, and stands to follow the redhead down the walk.

No, she doesn’t bother to go get her shoes.

“What the fuck,” he spits again. Imogen’s coming down the walk. The modi’s fierce grey eyes turn her way for a moment, click down her body, back up. Then he turns to the sprawled girl.

“What is you, blind?” At least he still has one scoop left on his cone. Kicking the other scoop vengefully into the gutter, he brushes his free hand off on the seat of his pants, then looks down at the explosion of papers and books all over the sidewalk.

She joins them wordlessly, sinking to a crouch to pick up one of the pieces of Wendy’s glasses, then leaning forward to pick up the other.

“Here.” One might consider her an angel swooping in, but there is little kindness in her voice as she offers the pieces of Wendy’s eyewear to her. It is perfunctory, mild, a sharp contrast to her understandably frantic apologies.

She snaps her jaw shut, and manages not to trip over her own feet. She doesn’t quite miss stepping in a bit of unexplained yuck, though. She doesn’t seem bothered. She does, however, manage to hold back the joke that yes Wendy is blind NOW… that her glasses is broke.

“Evening, Decker.” is what she finally says. As if she’s not dying to tack on a ‘ryha to the end of it and hell, curtsy or something. Instead, she bends to help pick up some of the flying papers.

He watches her futilely pat her immediate vicinity for a while, looking for the glasses Imogen had already picked up. Then she gets them back — in two pieces — and starts to sway to her feet.

Decker’s head turns when he’s addressed by the other stranger on his stoop. She calls him by name. He looks at her for a moment without recognition, though surely they’d seen each other at some point up at Storm Hammer. His eyes are the same, a storm, unflinchingly grey.

“You tha one I smell all over tha house?”

Still, as Decker speaks to Joss, it is Wendy Imogen watches.

Her shoulders straighten, her spin straight, and the posture that Imogen has is now mirrored in her own as he stands, some of the papers held in hand now offered to Wendy before she faces Decker again.

“Joss Lehrer.” She’d give more, but she does not know Wendy. “Evan told me t’make myself at home, see to things about the house.”

“Ev told me. Tryin’ out fer tha team ‘r somethin’, huh?” The twist of his mouth is probably not a smile. Then, rather without warning, he reaches out and grabs the glasses back out of Wendy’s hands before she can slip them into her pocket.

“Fuck’s sake.” He’s impatient. He fiddles with the glasses for a while himself, trying to jam the lens back in where it’d popped out, succeeding only in leaving thumbprints all over the polyurethane. “I kin pro’lly fix this,” he tells the quivering wreck of a kinwoman. Not that he knows she’s kin.

Without waiting for an answer, he puts her glasses in his own pocket, takes a big bite out of what remains of his ice cream cone, and heads back toward the house. Catches Joss’s eye, jerks his head toward the door — an invitation, or a request, or an order, for her to tag along.

Once Wendy takes the papers she’s holding out, she turns and follows Decker. Request, order, invitation – it matters not, it was given by Decker and she complies. That’s not to say if he tells her to jump into the mouth of some wyrmspawn bigger then the whole of Chicago she’d jump without hesitation (…but she might…) – but following him now is easy enough.

A glance toward Decker and Joss as they head for the house and she does not follow.

She watches Wendy gather her things for several seconds before sinking back into a crouch and helping the stick-thin woman gather her books and papers. She does not shove them into the satchel but passes them over.

When he stands up he’s got pliers in hand, plus a short strip of copper wire. “Same rules fer everyone,” he says. “Run with us fer a while, see how ya fit in. Go on hunts, with us ‘n alone. Show me whatcha kin do.” He’s twisting the copper wire around and around the snapped bridge of Wendy’s glasses, careless, surprisingly deft. “We ain’t had a Godi fer a while, so lotta tha spirit wards ‘n shit ’round tha turf is worn down. Ya might wanna put ’em back up.”

The bridge of the glasses roughly twisted back together with copper wire, he gets to work on the bent frame. Pries it back into place with one or two careful twists of the wrist, the cords in his forearms standing out, his strength controlled.

“Be nice ta have fuckin’ hot water at tha dockhouse ‘gain too,” he adds. “Been takin’ cold showers all fuckin’ winter.”

And he pops the lens back into place, done. He drops the pliers back into the drawer, kicks it shut, heads back out. Wendy’s glasses look hideous, but they’re functional again. He heads out to the sidewalk, interrupting the women’s efforts to collect Wendy’s scattered belongings to hand the glasses back to their owner.

Decker heads out of the house again, his footfall heavy on the ground, perhaps a door slamming open or shut as he does. Imogen turns to glance at him, before tilting her head that way for Wendy’s benefit.

The bookworm grabs her glasses as they’re handed to her.

“Good night,” says the redhaired doctor a little dryly just as the other starts to slink off.

“Yessir. Already started – with the wards, that is – starting here first. If you see that police car go nuts suddenly, don’t be surprised just go kick the intruders ass.” She says it with a grin as she nods to the little remote control car in the window, a window that has… christmas lights around it. Whatever. “Will make the rounds building them up through the next week.” She isn’t stupid – she won’t overtax herself, but they will get done faster than one might think. She’s a surprisingly adept Godi, for all her youth.

He makes a request for hot water, and she wonders why he doesn’t shower here, but that’s not for her to decide. “Hot water. Yessir.”

She makes a mental note to ask Evan where the dock house is exactly, while already thinking over the problem at hand, so that she can solve it. He walks past her and out, and she doesn’t follow right away, as she contemplates how exactly she’ll go about getting hot water – without burning the Modi. Because that would be bad.

There’s nothing to say about the whole ice cream/glasses incident. Fucking bizarre, beginning to end. So he just stares at the redhead a moment, and then jerks his head back toward the house.

“Ya wanna come inside?”

He speaks. She answers, “Yeah, alright,” tilting her head for him to lead the way. On the way up the steps again she picks up her empty beer bottle, her fingers loose around the neck, then her corduroy coat, carrying both inside.

Within, she puts her coat on the back of the couch in the living area and carries her beer bottle into the kitchen. Water drums in the sink then silences as she fills her bottle, rinsing it out.

She smiles at Imogen – though it’s a bit absent due to the problem she’s working over in her head. [fire spirits, but tempered or two hot – electric ones, maybe….] She scoots out of the way so that she can rinse out her bottle. She’ll go retrieve her own momentarily.

Nudging the fridge door shut with his elbow, he nods at Joss’s bloody hands. “Fuck was you doin’?”

And not mentally, either. She shrugs and checks her palms were the worst of the damage was, and picks at the dried blood there – the damage itself long since gone. “It happens when they feel neglected.” It won’t happen again, the unspoken promise.

The effect of it is in her spine, the set of her shoulders. She rinses out her bottle and puts it aside, setting it on the counter. Regardless of the weight of rage, when her attention lowers to the sandwich he carries, the corner of her mouth twists faintly, a suggestion of humour before it settles.

Her gaze moves to Joss as she explains what happened to her hands, her attention absent. She moves to the fridge herself, pulling it open. It’s an older model, and the sound of the refrigeration kicking in is clearly audible as the interior temperature dips enough to start it up.

She retrieves her own sandwich, beginning to unwrap it as the Garou talk.

“Huh.” It’s that faint expression again, which Imogen would read as a smirk, and Joss would read as a … something. “Prickly l’il bastards.”

Oh, how punny.

Experience talking.

She reads his expression as (OhEMGEEI’mTalkinToDECKERfreakingROHL) nothing more than what it is… something. She hasn’t known him long enough to form an opinion of the reality of the Man who walks on water in the stories. She manages to stop prattling on, and still hasn’t fainted. So far, so good!

Hero worship.

He hasn’t said anything about it. Maybe he hasn’t had the chance. There’s a silence after she tells about metal elementals, though, where the Modi simply lets his weight settle back against the fridge. He watches the Godi for a moment, his grey eyes narrow and startlingly keen, studying her.

“Tell me somethin’, Goss’mer Wing,” he says then. “Why’dja come all this way ta try’n join tha Eagles? Storm Hammer’s full’a good packs.”

She does not speak, but that is not to say that she does not pay attention. She simply allows the conversation to move around her, her gaze moving from Decker as he asks the question to Joss as she speaks her answer.

“I always knew what I’d become. I was prepared and taught from the time I could walk and talk, until my first, my rite of passage, my Fostern challenge. I always knew where I was headed, what I would do, what path I would take. And I always knew that someday I would get the chance to pack under Eagle, under you as Alpha. I may fail – I’m not so naive to think I’m the best and will fit in with the Eagles perfectly, but I intend to give it everything I have and then some first.”

A pause, and she meets his gaze again, unflinching. “At Storm Hammer I am one of many who can do what I do. Here, I am needed.”

“‘m axin’ you why us. Not why we oughta pick you. Why you picked us.“

A pause, and a shake of her head, honest still. “Wouldn’t you want to pack with the best of the best? It is not that I think you infallible. It is that I know of any Fenrir on this earth, you can push me to be my best, simply by expecting it.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Imogen interrupts, without really raising her voice, “you want to join because of the stories you’ve heard.”

Any Fenrir, apparently, except this one. The expression on Decker’s face is something like a wince, deepening to a grimace as she goes on. He folds his arms across his chest, his shirt stretching into lateral stress-lines across his chest.

Silence for a while. The modi, frowning, bows his head for a moment, keeping his own counsel.

“Joss,” he says then, low, “I ain’t tha hammer’a the ‘pocalypse. I ain’t nobody’s role model. I ain’t some sorta rebel hero. ‘m jus’ doin’ what I kin. Sometimes I git it right ‘n sometimes I git it wrong. Same as yerself.

“Ya should’n wanna walk in my shadow. Wantin’ ta walk in my shadow ain’t a reason ta join a pack. Tha pack ain’t the Alpha. Tha strength’a tha pack is tha pack. It ain’t about…”

A break — he visibly strains for words for a moment, head bowed, brow knit hard. Then he goes on.

“It ain’t ’bout all’a you followin’ me blindly to whatever great fuckin’ heroic destiny y’all might think I got. A pack’s gotta work together, rely on each other, make up fer one ‘nother’s weaknesses. A pack helps each other git it right.

“Bottom line is, only when ya really git that, ‘n only if ya decide this pack is really fer you, that’s when yer gon’ git in. Understand?”

She is still now, her elbows resting back on the countertop, a half eaten sandwich held in one hand. She says nothing.

“One correction. I don’t aim to walk in your shadow, Decker, but at your side.”

She might smile easily – but she is Fenrir to the core. A simple nod, then. “Understood.”

“We’ll see,” he says, and walks out of the kitchen.

He’s in the living room for a while then, sorting through the mail that sits atop the coffee table. Mostly junk. All junk, actually, except the utilities bill. He takes that out of the pile and puts it out for James to see. And pay. Fucker was a rock star, let him deal with it.

When he’s done with that, Decker’s done with his sandwich too. He balls up the saran wrap, leaves it atop the coffee table. “‘m gittin’ tha fuck outta here,” he says. “You wanna ride to tha dockhouse, Joss?”

And to Imogen, the timbre of his voice somehow and subtly different, lower, “’bout you, need a ride?”

“Yeah,” she answers him as she straightens from the counter top, “Looks like I do.”

She steps away from the kitchen and into the living room, absently offering Decker the remains of her sandwich as she picks up her coat with the other hand. If he doesn’t take it, she returns to the kitchen to chuck it out. If he does, she merely slides on her coat, once more putting her gun out of view.

He asks if she wants a ride, and she smiles. “Yeah, thanks. Haven’t been there yet. I’ll grab my stuff.” and she’s up the stairs wit the energy and enthusiasm only the young and excitable exhibit. When she returns downstairs, she has shoes on, a clean tank top has replaced the blood splattered one, with a sweater overtop of it – and slung over her shoulder is a messenger bag, that clinks and jingles and really, sometimes? It’s best not to ask.

She does take out two small glass vials though, filled with clear liquid that she sits on a shelf in the living room. “Healing talens. In case one of the kin or someone needs them, and Evan or I can’t get here fast enough.”

Evan didn’t think she’d offer them. Lost that bet, didn’t he…

Joss bounds up the stairs. Decker watches her go. By the time she’s back down he’s done eating, done chewing, standing sideways at the now-opened front door looking out. The curve of his skull is outlined by the streetlights outside: hard facial bones tapering into the smooth sleek curve of the cranium.

He turns to look at the talens as she offers them. After a beat he shakes his head.

“Give ’em ta James. I got my own toys fer that.” He steps out, then, waiting for the women — or rather, the woman and the female — to follow before he locks up.

The two porch steps to the street he takes in looselimbed bounds. Joss is right about one thing: Decker is intense. His intensity surrounds him like a lightning storm, etches each and every one of his movements into a sort of blistering clarity. He looks up the street, then down, and then he’s at the Barracuda unlocking the doors and flipping the seat forward so Joss can crawl into the back.

He gets in the driver’s side, waits for the other two to get in. The engine turns over noisily before catching. He gives it a little gas to help it hold — the noise is terrific, ringing thunderously in the cabin, and especially in the back. Imogen shuts her door and he puts it into gear, heading northeast toward the dockhouse.

She slides her purse up her arm as she crosses to the Barracuda, waiting at the open passenger’s side door for Joss to enter. Afterwards, she pushes the seat back into place and gets inside, pulling the door shut sharply. While Decker pushes into first gear, Imogen reaches beneath the seat and finds the lever to draw the seat forward, then turns, reaching for her seatbelt. She draws it over her body and snaps it into place.

The engine noise is loud and Imogen does not bother to try and speak over it. She watches through the windshield as Decker heads toward the dockhouse, the car accelerating noisily, the frame rattling beneath her feet.

She leaves the bottles there for now, she’ll give them to Sandman later, and she follows to the car. Decker bounds loose-limbed, Imogen is contained, and Joss practically skips down the stairs with youthful exuberance. She gathers her skirts around her thighs and clambers into the back seat, sprawling comfortably, settling in for the ride. The noise is thunderously, and she closes her eyes briefly to feel the power thrum under her.

There is no conversation from her – they wouldn’t hear her anyway. Instead, she watches out the window to keep track of the directions they’re traveling so that she can retrace them later.

We’s followin’ tha borders more ‘r less.
or
Ya keep goin’ down Chicago, ya’ll end up tha Mile.
or
You go north ‘nother mile ‘r so ‘n yer in tha Bawn.

Eventually — in a quiet, dark stretch of Lakeshore Drive littered with abandoned dockyards — Decker slows the Barracuda and pulls over onto the gravel shoulder. Imogen might be small enough that Joss can squeeze out of the backseat without needing to displace her entirely. Decker points down at a dark hulk of a building beyond a chainlink fence, not far from the lake.

“That’s tha dockhouse. ‘f it’s locked jus’ go in by Umbra.”

Hot water is on the menu, and she’s been thinking how to do since he mentioned it. She thinks she has it – but will have to look around a bit first.

Imogen gets out, and Joss climbs out of the back seat, and if Imogen or Decker are watching, they may get a glimpse of the matched set of scars on her thighs, matched perfectly, and intentionally made. Either way, the are hidden again as she stands and her skirt falls into place.

“Yessir. Thanks for the ride.” A beat, and a smile for Imogen too. “G’night.”

Old habits die hard – but she’ll do her best.

When Joss has answered and once more turned to leave, the redhaired woman returns the farewell, “Ha’ a good night,” she says, pushing back the passenger’s seat and getting back inside.

From the dockhouse, he simply continues north, skirting the boundaries of the caern on the way to Lake View. There’s no conversation between him and Imogen now, either — though after a while, parked at a stoplight waiting for the light to turn, he glances her way and, almost imperceptibly, half-smiles.

The light turns, he looks away, she looks away. A few more blocks pass in silence.

Then, “Decker ‘Fucking’ Rohl,” she says, quietly, her mouth twisting in something like humour. “That’s what they’re calling you now, is it?”

“Yeah. They changed it after word’a me lovin’ ‘n havin’ tha love’a you. Like it?”

He’s gotten progressively more used to the Barracuda’s unforgiving clutch ratios and its brutal horsepower over time. He doesn’t lurch and stagger from one gear to the next nearly so much anymore.

When he speaks again he’s serious: “Sometimes I git so fuckin’ sick’a bein’ looked at like some sorta hero. ‘n every time I say that they jus’ think ‘m bein’ … modest ‘r somethin’.”

When he speaks again, seriously, she turns her attention away from the road and toward him, her eyes coming to rest on the sharply carven lines of his face. Silence lingers after he’s spoken.

She looks away and back out the passenger’s side window. “Seems to me tha’ folks call others heroes fer their own good. Give themselves somethin’ t’look up to, strive fer or worship. Like it makes this whole thing a lot more bearable by making it noble.”

And that just sounds so … weak.

They’re passing the caern now, heading northward. The heart of the city drops away behind them; the inner city slums too; the warehouses and the docks. Soon enough the streets grow narrower and quieter, treelined.

“‘m glad you don’t think that,” he says, eventually. “’bout me, I mean.”

(dex+Per diff Five, slap those thighs, Joss baby, build a beat!)

The rest of the drive is silent. It’s not much farther, at any rate. Decker slows as he nears her building, its brick and ivy the same color in the light of a half-moon. Doubleparked next to quiescent cars at the curb, he pulls the handbrake up and looks at Imogen.

There are a number of things he could say now. They all amount to the same thing. In the end he opts for one of the simplest:

“You gon’ ‘vite me up?”

(Come onnnnnn baby – ya know I think your HOT!)

They aren’t much for unnecessary words – they aren’t much for affection or contact.

She merely tilts her head toward the building. “Go find a parking spot,” she says. “I’ll meet you upstairs.” She undoes her seatbelt and reaches for the door, pushing it outward.

Oh the ties that bind, come little fire sprites, you know you wanna play!)

Which leaves her standing in front of the MacGuyver’d shower. “You gotta be kidding me…” The hose connected to the sink, the other end bolted to the wall and connected to a showerhead, the shower curtain haphazardly hanging from the ceiling, the drain in the middle of the floor since it’s an industrial bathroom…. “You gotta be kidding me.” It’s worth saying twice.

So. First question. Is there hot water at ALL? She checks everywhere, and discovers that no – there is not. First things first then, is to fix that. THAT she can fix. She searches until she finds the hot water heater. It’s clearly broken, and she lacks any kind of crafts knowledge that would fix it the conventional way. That leaves the Godi way.

She starts gathering wood, and wood shavings – of which there doesn’t seem to be any shortage of. Someone whittles. She doesn’t hazard a guess on who it might be, as it doesn’t matter – what does matter is that it means there is a great deal of shavings and sawdust to choose from. She has quite a pile when she’s done. She chooses an empty barrel next and drags it to the center of the floor, where it won’t hurt anyone if anything goes wrong. She peels out of her sweater, and tosses it on the couch while she digs through her bag. There’s a lot of stuff in there, and it takes a while to find what she wants.

A lighter. Simple, right? Ha!

She goes about building a mini bonfire in the barrel, despite the heat of the day that still lingers in the boat house. Soon she is covered with a thin sheen of sweat once more, her body glistening as she builds up the flames until they burn bright and hot, with plenty more wood near by to use as needed. Then she kneels in front of the barrel, pulling her skirt up to bare the matched set of scars that line her thighs – perfectly matched, intentionally set within her skin, the mark of four claws on each thigh – the skin twisted and thick. She wastes no time, beginning to tap out a beat, her body swaying with the effort as she focuses in matching the beat of the drum to the cracking of the flames.

She settles into the grove, and then slides across the gauntlet to focus her will and summon the fire elementals her fire is beckoning too. They come.

They come in droves. The flickering of the flame is impossible to resist, and a new Godi to twist and slide about makes them all but giddy as the flicker and pop and twist around her form. She smiles, and lets them play, lets them tug at her dreads, lets them pluck at her clothing as well. Then she makes her request.

It’s relatively simple, this request. Keep the waterheater hot. Allow Decker to take hot showers for a change to cleans himself of the blood and gore he destroys in the fight to cleanse Gaia. Fire is the ultimate cleanser, and the elementals understand as she chats with them in their own speech, and brokers a deal.

A deal they are EAGER to keep. VERY eager.

And the godi, with all she has done today, is very tired. She thanks the elementals, and returns to the floor next to the brightly burning bonfire in a barrel. She stands, and digs around until she locates a trashcan lid, and long stick. She sets the end of the stick on fire, and carries it and the trashcan lid carefully to the water heater. She slides the lid underneath it, and the stick on top of it, so that it can burn down and away, showing the bound spirit what he is to keep hot for the next 6 weeks.

The water inside starts to heat immediately, and by the time Decker returns to the packhouse the next morning, he’ll find two things – hot water aplenty, and an exhausted Godi sleeping on the ratty old couch.

(et Voila.)