[Howard] [Performance+Charisma: because I can.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 7, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Rory] (apparently, no you can’t. *L*)
[Howard] [OH COME ON]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)
[Night’s Reprieve] [no you really can’t]
[Howard] [Suck my dick. Both of you. Right now.]
[Rory] Hee.
[Howard] With the moon glutting itself on light these nights, crawling closer and closer to a culmination that will have even weak-willed human beings crawling up the walls, that will have emergency rooms flooded with the insane and maternity wards ringing with newborn screams, the staff at the Brotherhood have to be thanking what little there is to thank in this world that they are not at full capacity; that their tenants are at a relatively record low, with over half the beds empty and even fewer of them showing up in the dining room after hours looking for something.
Unfortunately, one of their rooms is occupied by a pair of Fianna, one of whom no one is convinced isn’t completely insane.
He isn’t very active during the day. It’s a safe assumption that he spends most of the morning and afternoon hungover beyond reason, what with him trudging in from a night out with sunglasses on and his hair and clothes all a wreck and not emerging again until the sun’s down. When he is around, which is very, very rarely, he’s loud: he slams doors, assaults his roommate and brother, sings in the shower, yells down the hallway… that he spends most of his nights out doing whatever it is he does to provide money for rent here, or carousing, is a blessing. His rampage through the upstairs of the Brotherhood only lasts for a matter of hours before he disappears again.
It’s bright, is part of the deterrent.
It’s bright, and he’s sitting not in his room with the lights off but out in the common room, with his guitar. At first it’s borderline torture, the sounds coming from those strings, but then it morphs into something mind-meltingly beautiful, something that one wouldn’t think someone like Howard is capable of producing. It’s upbeat but not poppy, clearly improvised, and without an audience to appreciate it, it’s really just for his own amusement. He doesn’t sing.
Eventually, it comes to its conclusion. He strums a few more chords, then croons in a purposefully off-beat falsetto, “Get fuuuuucked…”
[Night’s Reprieve] Music comes wafting through the brother hood to where NR is lying back on his bed. He used to share a two person room with his cousin, but that feels like a life time ago now. Still, he can’t help but lift his head from the pillow and stare across the bedroom to where his smart mouthed half moon beta would be. Instead there is just a wall, no second bed. Just empty space.
Empty space being filled by an awkwardly strummed guitar which all of a sudden becomes rather pleasant. It has NR rising to his feet, pulling on a wife beater and strolling out into the common room where he plants himself down on the piano in time to play a few triads to the falsetto crooning of “Get fuckkeeed.”
“Yeah!” NR laughs and swipes his hand from one end of the keyboard to the other. “Yeah yeah, get fucked.” He half sings, though he sounds like a cross between a young bob dylan and an old tom waits. With a bit of Dr John in there for accent.
It’s rather odd behaviour for the old Godi, but he doesn’t have Rainer any more to do NR’s share of not giving a fuck, he has a quota to fill that he has never had to fill before.
“Hows things Howard?” He grunts, turning on the piano stool to face the child of stag.
[Rory] She doesn’t come to the brotherhood often. She rarely has need, as Edwin made sure that when he had to go on his mission, that their safehouse continued being paid for, and that she had a warm place to sleep, if not the warmth of having her pack nearby.
So it’s not the need for a place to sleep that brings her here, but instead, the need for food. As usual, before she’d allow them to press a meal on her, despite the fact they are her very own kin, she insists on paying for it the only way she can – which is why it is not food that she brings with her up to the commons where the music is filling the room, but a toaster. An 8 slice bohemonth of a toaster in fact, restaurant quality, that hasn’t worked right for ages. The kin in the kitchen said it was fine, not to worry about it, just eat something, wasting away to nuthin, aren’t ya now? But Rory is many things – the most of which is stubborn.
It’s the toaster first.
Then food.
She creeps up the stairs near silently, though there’s no denying the rage that fills the stairwell and proceeds her footsteps. She’s far more intent on the inner workings of the toaster that she’s unearthing with deft turns of a tiny screwdriver along the bottom plate, than who’s singing. She barely even peeks up through her curls as she makes her way to the settle on the couch, and unload her little project onto the coffee table, so that she slip from her backpack, and dig through it for her little toolkit.
Only then does she peek up at the men again, and murmur a soft “Hi.” so as not to interrupt.
[Howard] Howard, for as lazy, obnoxious and oblivious as he tends to be, is strangely committed to whatever it is that he chooses to be and do. If he’s going to be careless, stupid and a pain in the ass, he doesn’t flit about the idea as though he’s not sure if he wants to get soaked by jumping in; if he decides to actually give off the impression of caring about something other than himself for a few minutes, at least he has the capacity to seem sincere, to give the other person the entirety of his attention rather than allowing himself to be distracted by a nearby shiny object or interesting noise.
So, when he’s playing his guitar, even though he is clearly fucking around with the improvised lyrics, there is some semblance of dedication to the craft of playing music. It’s not memorization and regurgitation of someone else’s work, or blind flailing as he attempts to recreate something he heard once. His passion, as infrequently seen as it is as it applies to anything other than pointless hyperactivity, comes out when he finds something he can excel at for no other reason than he wants to.
This has nothing to do with duty, or honor, or conditioning himself to be a leader or a wise man. His music is the most Fianna part of him, and he’s so into it that he doesn’t notice the Godi until he’s sat down and started assaulting the piano up against the far wall.
The Fiann is wearing black aviator sunglasses; it’s not quite so brightly lit as a hospital operating room, but there is still a decent amount of light flowing from fluorescent tubes. His hair is a curly mess, and he’s barefoot, wearing ratty jeans that he stole out of Patrick’s dresser and a Guns N Roses t-shirt that’s probably as old as he is; a random assorted of tattoos can be found on both of his arms.
Night’s Reprieve sings along, and as Rory is making her appearance at the head of the stairs the Fiann is throwing back his head to hurl an “AAAAOOO!!” into the air before jamming on the guitar with renewed vigor. It’s short-lived and, yeah, strange, but when the Godi turns around, Howard seems to get the impression that it’s business time.
He glances sidelong when he sees the figure beside him, and in glancing, sees who it is. Neither the Godi nor the Ahroun can see his eyes, they being hidden by his lenses, but they can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He clears his throat.
“Hi, yourself,” he says, and swings the guitar onto the floor before leaning forward, forearms on his thighs. To Night’s Reprieve, he says, “Oh, you know. Takin’ a break from savin’ the world.” He gestures back towards the hallway with a bony finger. “I didn’t know you were stayin’ here. Thought you’d want to stay someplace manly, like… I dunno… a cemetery… or somethin’.”
And then there’s the matter of the toaster. It takes him a moment to notice it, but when he does, he reaches out and picks up an errant piece.
“Fuck’s this?” he asks, curious rather than harsh.
[Rory] She sets her backpack aside with a curious clank that suggests its far heavier than she makes it seem (because, you see, she’s far stronger than she seems) and goes about opening her little tool kit with the practiced moves of a surgeon his chosen scalpel. She blinks as Howard asks what it is, and turns her head to look up at him, curls sliding along her jaw as she does so.
“….a toaster?” Duh.
Then, with a little grin, shy and proud at the same time, she reaches to take it from him. “I thix fings.”
[Night’s Reprieve] The manly Godi is all about the business, or at least that’s the impression he gives off. And it’s true enough, how can he not be about the business? It’s fine and dandy for a homid to act like a fucking child and accomplish nothing because at the end of the day he can still fill a nice kinswoman up and maybe make a child that won’t be such a shit head. The Godi has no such luxury, he works tirelessly and he rarely seems to ever have fun because it’s the only way for him to make his life mean anything.
Still, he’s here by choice, and he played the piano for thirty seconds by choice and to people that know NR better, that would mean something. He hasn’t lectured Howard or hit him with a blunt object, he even attempted to play some music with him. If someone knew NR they might think he was actually trying to make a friend. What a preposterous hypothesis.
“Ah I see.” He nods his head with a grin to the idea of Howard saving the world. “Last night I take it that was also your day off?”
And then, to Rory he says. “You get that from the kitchen?”
[Howard] Howard doesn’t have a smart-assed response for Night’s Reprieve. Well… that’s a lie, but attempting to straighten out a Fenrir seems to be low on his list of priorities. Caring what other people thought about him would save him from a number of woes, but he doesn’t even seem remotely affected by the notion that he accomplishes little with his nights. He makes a scowling face at the Godi, a “Heh heh” leaving his throat, and then onto the toaster.
“Jesus,” he says, touching the metal side of the behemoth as though he can’t believe it’s real, “you slap a couple wheels on it and you can ride that shit into battle. Look at it, it’s fuckin’ huge.”
The look of utter incredulousness is hidden behind his shades, but his eyebrows make an appearance over the top of his frames. He’s fucking around, but these two would not be the first sin-born to not be able to tell whether the Theurge was sincere or not.
“This thing makes toast? That’s it? You’re not serious.”
[Night’s Reprieve] Night’s Reprieve frowns.
“I don’t think it would make a particularly suitable battle mount. It’s structure is most likely rather flimsy and it would be put out of service rather quickly.”
[Rory] NR asks if last night was Howard’s day off, and Rory ducks her head to hide her smile, a little huff of amusement escaping. It clearly wasn’t her day off – she works as tirelessly as he does, for many of the same reasons. She faces ridicule and hatred every moment of her existence before here, and even a heeping helping of it here, in Chicago.
And last night, she ate a guy, whole. Practically. Heh.
She peeks up at Howard, and then to NR, she nods. “Eight pieces at a once. Toesn’t doast even. I can fix it.” She says it with utter seriousness, with a confidence that she has in this, and in fighting, and in very little else.
They discuss riding it to battle and she makes a sound of disapproval, because she is rather fond of her ability to fix things like this, and does not like her hard work ruined by being used for things they aren’t intended for. “Not everything belongs in battle.” A beat, and a sidewise glance and little grin. “Lon’t wast against a shotgun. Or chainsaw.”
[Howard] This is why state troopers wear sunglasses: the look of emotionlessness that a pair of dark shades clapped on a person’s face can add an extra level of intimidation that is simply bolstered by impressive height and build. Howard, while possessing a tall stature, looks as though the only thing he could do any significant damage to would be a plate of food. Between the hair and his gawky build, he just looks ridiculous wearing those things; the stare he gives Night’s Reprieve might have been blank even if he wasn’t wearing them.
Sitting up and back, he slings one ankle over the opposite knee, heedless of the fact that it puts his bent leg right in Rory’s elbow space. He slings an arm over the back of the couch while the other one idly plucks at the neck strings of the guitar at his side.
“You know,” he says, pointing to the toaster, “that’s a fuckin’… metaphor, or some shit. Yeah.” Now he points to himself, raising his eyebrows. “I get that toaster, man.”
[Night’s Reprieve] The look that crosses NR’s face is something of utter confusion. It’s in these moments that his intellect can often let him down. Because whilst Howard -gets- the toaster, Night’s Reprieve most certainly does not -get- Howard.
“That makes no sense. Are you implying the toaster has been created to give description to a point that is beyond it? I think that it was made simply to create.. toast. ”
A pause.
“Could you help me get that toaster too?” And he is serious.
[Rory] She blinks as Howard’s knee invades her space, but true to form she doesn’t complain. Instead, she simply adjusts her stance to include said knee as a vital part of the operation. She works around it, heedlessly tucks her arm around it to get at another screw, a little piece, working tirelessly on turning the toaster into a bunch of pieces and parts. It’s a puzzle that only she knows how to work – an electrician would be white with fear to see how she works. Especially when she grunts at a screw, and tosses it to the discard pile, deeming it unnecessary.
It’s almost like watching an artist at work, only not at all.
They speak of getting the toaster, and she merely glances up at them from time to time. She’s not much for conversation under the best of circumstances. She may have run out of words all together….
[Howard] “Gladly.”
If he sees how his invasion of her space is impeding her progress, how Rory has to adjust how she herself sits so that she can continue operating on this piece of machinery, he doesn’t put his foot back on the carpet and let her work. If he sees how his brand of humor doesn’t exactly translate with individuals who spent half their lives being brought up not amongst humans, who are pieces of shit, but amongst Garou, who are part wolf and thus more inclined to spend their times utterly devoted to their auspice roles than attempting to milk out of life all the experience that can be had before death inevitably arrives, it doesn’t make him decide to word his thoughts in a less absurd fashion.
He does, however, know that he would be construed as rude if he continued this conversation with his shades on his face. He’s homid; he’s clearly homid, can’t be mistaken for anything else, and yet he wears those things as though he has some sort of deformity that requires compensation. They’ve seen him, both of them, functioning outside without them on.
He’s probably high.
“I said we could just throw some wheels on it and drive ‘er off to fight,” he says. He points at Night’s Reprieve. “You said it was too flimsy to do any good and it’d get trounced in like two seconds. Point: Fenrir.” He points to Rory, who is sitting close enough that his finger collides with her upper arm. “She said that some shit doesn’t belong in battle, yeah? Like, that toaster serves some sort of purpose outside’a battle, but you put it in battle and it’s pointless. Point: Fianna.” He points back to himself. “I would have been trounced if I’d thought to myself, ‘Hmm, it’s a lovely day to get decapitated, let me fight this fucker one-on-one.’ So, ergo, therefore, I serve some purpose outside’a battle, me and that toaster got somethin’ in common.”
He pantomimes shooting a hoop in a game of basketball, complete with swooshing sound effect of an invisible net.
[Night’s Reprieve] Night’s Reprieve ponders the logic, it’s easy enough to follow and he doesn’t look like he is thinking terribly hard about it.
“So you are the toaster in battle. Flimsy but you could create a tasty, carbohydrate laden meal which would possibly give others in the battle more energy to perform their tasks.”
He nods his head.
“It’s logical.”
But that begs the question, and Night’s Reprieve can’t help but ask it. Without even a trace of amusement in his voice, he simply wishes to know the answer.
“What is your purpose outside of battle then Howard?” And then, softer, an attempt at a joke. “Because I don’t think I could fit eight slices of bread in you.”
[Rory] Howard pokes her and she goes very very still for a moment, waiting for a blow that almost certainly follows – and it’s only when it doesn’t, and she realizes her mistake that she breathes again and continues to listen.
Rory hides another laugh at NR’s last statement and peeks up at Howard and the Fenrir, before back to her chosen nights task. Howard looks like he could eat a whole ham on his own, possibly on eight slices of bread.
But she gets what he meant. Even if it made her giggle.
[Howard] “Oh, you could fit eight slices of bread in me,” he says, as though it’s a challenge that he’s accepting with as much glee as the task to explain what the hell he had been talking about earlier, “but I’m about ninety-nine percent sure it’s not comin’ back as toast.”
Now he points to the toaster, but not with the same fervor as he’d been pointing around the room at the Garou. It’s softer, as though he’s afraid of hurting the toaster’s feelings, or startling the female beside him. Somewhere in the back of his curly, ridiculous head, he’d realized that his finger poking into the meat of her arm had produced a reaction; she might have been scared, or offended, or nervous. He didn’t stop to investigate at the time, and it’s unlikely he would do such a thing in front of Night’s Reprieve anyway.
He’s not a compassionate, caring young man on an average night. He can be. Somewhere underneath all of the logorrheic bullshit there is a decent creature, human being or Garou or what-have-you, who has a shred of empathy and a capacity to acknowledge a world beyond his own wants and needs.
He’s also hyperactive, easily distracted and far too focused on whatever happens to have his attention at any moment.
“Right now that bad boy isn’t makin’ any toast, either. It’s just sittin’ there waitin’ for someone to fix it, yeah?” He stops pointing. “But when she does fix it–” Not ‘if.’ ‘When.’ “–it’ll rock, man, you know how many people you can feed if you can shoot out eight pieces of toast at once? At least…”
He actually has to stop and think.
“… three people.”
He’s either an idiot or has the world’s worst sense of humor. This is delivered in an absolute deadpan.
“People aren’t toasters, though. Someone didn’t sit down and go ‘What do I want Howard to do? Maybe he should be a doctor, or a chiropractor, or one of those weird guys who stands on the street corner tryin’ to sell bottles of his own urine tellin’ people it’s a magic serum that cures cancer.’ You know?”
[Night’s Reprieve] Three people does not compute. Howard makes NR’s head numb and he scratches the side of it. This Garou is an odd one for sure. He has known plenty of Garou who have been called useless, failed in everything they’ve ever done, and plenty of good Garou who like to pretend they’re useless when they aren’t. Howard is neither and it baffles NR slightly. He’s not entirely sure how to talk to him. He can’t give him advice because he wouldn’t use it even if he wanted it, he can’t tell him what to do because he wouldn’t do it and he can’t understand a single sentence out of his mouth. But he finds himself smiling all the same, maybe Howard is the Chaotic Useless corner of the alignment scale. True uselessness in every sense of the word. There’s some sort of purpose in that.
“I know.” Is his reply and stands up to stretch his legs. He gives Rory a little empathetic smile, he had noticed the reaction just like Howard had, except NR knows what she was waiting for.
“You have to decide for yourself, and sometimes there’s no choice involved at all. You do what you’re good at, you do what needs to be done that nobody else can do. You make toast.”
He grins, nods his head to the both of them and is then heading towards the corridor, and back to bed.
“Make toast Howard.” He calls as he fades from view.
[Rory] [just because]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 2, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)
[Rory] [really? REALLY? SHE CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Rory] [or not. Harumph.]
[Rory] She peeks up at NR as he smiles at her, and offers him one in return, with a blush coloring her cheeks. She knows he saw – she doesn’t realize Howard did. Either way, it’s a reaction she would have rather been able to control.
So instead, she simply works on the toaster. Howard said when she fixes it – and she caught that too. His quiet confidence in her ability gave her a little warmth in the pit of her belly she’s not quite willing to explore – who needs to know the reasons a tribesmans confidence makes her quietly content, anyway?
She has the toaster dismanteled, and goes about cleaning all the pieces, making adjustments here or there, making sure everything is in working order and clean before she starts putting it back together, pieces by painstaking piece.
[Howard] [PIZZAUSE]