[Roman Turner] Bang, bang, bang, bang. Nearly a constant noise in the air, mixed with the tinny blare of a radio spewing out country music. In with the music and hammering was mixed another noise. To some it was just noise, to others maybe the tortured howls of a cat stuck in a tree. To yet a few others, it might even be considered some form of singing.
“With nothing on but the radio and the lights turned down soft and low. Two shadows dancing on the wall.”
Way up the sound came from. This was the Kin House, once the territory of the Old Eagle Pack. Now this place had been taken over by Last Watch and there was Roman, patching up the roof.
[Rory] She wanders. It’s said that all who wander are not really lost, and that would be true of Rory, as she knows where she is – just not necessarily why she’s chosen this direction to wander into today – it’s just the direction her feet took her in. Being a lone wolf is hard on the soul, and perhaps some part of her searches for the familiar – Roman, Patrick. Something that tugs at her, someone she knows is accepting, if not all together friendly to Mowsnans made during a blizzard.
White ninjas indeed.
She’s drawn by the music, though brow furrows at the singing. Her presence is undeniable, for all her quiet demeanor. She is a fount of rage, of anger, all under a deceptively soft, sweet, innocently freckled face. She stops, and looks upwards, her head tipped slightly, searching for the source of the pounding and singing. When she finds roman, she waits till he looks her way, then waves, shyly.
[Roman Turner] There was a ladder propped up against the backside of the building. Next to the ladder rest a pile of salvaged plywood, bucket of tar, tar paper and shingles. Nothing matched entirely, but that was ok. He had on old carpenter jeans and a tee in a faded gray complete with tar stains. At the moment Rory looked up, his hips were moving in what could only be called the Cha-Cha. It was..One…two..cha cha cha. In perfect time with the beat of the song. It looked pretty good till his arms pinwheeled and second before he caught his balance again with a startled.
“DANG! That was close!”
It was when he looked down to see how far he would of fallen that he noticed Rory.
“Well hey there. Whatcha doing wandering around? Come to work?”
Already he was starting down the ladder like a monkey, hoping Rory had looked up after he’d gotten his balance.
[Rory] He’s… dancing. And Rory? Rory hides her giggle under her hand, slender fingers cupped around the grin that she can’t quite hold back at his dancing, even though eyes widen in alarm as he almost falls. By the time he notices her, she’s back to giggling, though, even if she hides it behind the duck of her head, curls sliding to cover her face.
A mountain of rage under that pale skin – and she’s as shy as the day is long…
He asks if she’s coming to work, and she peeks up at him, and the roof, then him again. A shrug of her shoulders – she hadn’t known he was working – but then a nod of her head. She’s a pretty good worker, though smaller things are her specialty.
“Sure.” Single words are easier.
[Roman Turner] “Good deal!”
He slapped her one on the back and pointed the way up the ladder while bending to pick up another nail apron, brush and hammer.
“Here ya go, load yourself up and get on up there. I’ll hand some of these here boards up to ya and follow ya up yonder.”
[Rory] He slaps her on the back and she falls very. very. very. still.
It’s only a moment, but long enough to be noticed. Her entire frame is in flight or fight mode, instantly – there is no spike of rage, just the unnatural stillness that speaks of confusion, and certainty all at once. However, it passes quickly enough – Roman is someone she knows, and the slap was in good nature. She is simply unnused to any touch that does not result in pain. Old habits die hard… very very hard.
But then he’s handing her things, and she takes the apron and hammer and brush and shifts her backpack off her shoulders, letting it fall to a safe spot tucked in the shadows of the wall with a metalic clanking that suggests it’s heavier than she makes it look. Then she’s scurrying up the ladder quickly, and getting settled, so that she can take the boards he hands up to her.
[Roman Turner] He waited till she was settled and called up.
“Ya ready? Here comes the first one.”
In one move he bent and lifted a section of plywood, lifting it up as far as he could for her to grasp.
“Let me know when ya got a good hold on it.”
[Rory] She sets her feet, getting a good placement. She is a mule – and it means many things. Here, it refers to her ability to work, to take direction, to settle in and work hard. She nods, that she’s ready, curls bouncing about her chin, before she reaches down to grasp the plywood. Her hands look deceptively fragile, with little to no nails, fingers slender, almost thin.
But she is strong. Very strong. She sets her grip and nods. “Got it.”
[Roman Turner] He let go when she said she got it. Shading his eyes he watched to make sure it wasn’t going to come back down on his head. Then got another board while waiting for her to lay that one down.
“Two more and I’ll toss a roll of this tar paper up to ya.”
[Rory] He lets go and she manhandles the board up to the roof next to her, and settles it down. Then, she turns for the next one. “Ok.”
She takes his direction easily, naturally, and well. She is used to the necessity of following orders, of doing things correctly the first time. The second board follows, than the third, and she readies her self to catch the roll of tar paper too…
[Roman Turner] “Here it comes! Just make sure it don’t roll back down and hit me in the head. I’m brain damaged enough already!”
He bent for the tar paper when she said she was ready and tossed it upwards towards the roof.
“Stop it!”
[Rory] She is giggling again when he tosses the roll up, so much so she actually baubles the catch, though she manages to stop the roll before it even has a chance to roll back down and off the roof. She blushes, pink staining her skin as she peeks over the edge to wave at him that she’s got it, and all is well, before she retreats back to the roof and survey’s his work so far.
She’s not much of a big construction type, but even so she can see where he’s going with the project. She tips her head, slightly, and nods. Then she’s tying on the nail apron, waiting for him to join.
[Roman Turner] The ladder rattled and a few seconds later he was cresting the roof to set a bucket of tar on the edge and following it bodily. In his apron were the usual nails, but also two cans of pop.
“Here, brought ya a pop. First thing we gotta do is nail this wood down where I took out the rotted stuff. Then the tar paper goes down. After that we paint the nails with tar and then put the shingles down. I like to tar the nails on the shingles too for added insurance. With two of us, shouldn’t take no time.”
[Rory] She watches as he appears, her head ducked slightly, hiding her grin, her blush, as he hands her a soda. She takes it, and nods. “Thanks.”
Then she looks over his work, and listens to his explanation. She rubs the side of her nose with a free hand, and then offers him the shyest of grins. “Ok.”
Then, as she is known for, she simply gets to work. A job needs done, and she does it.
[Roman Turner] He fell in to work with her. Helping to place boards and then hammer them down. Now and then their hammer blows fell in time with each other. Between hammering he talked over the sound of the radio.
“Ya knew John when he was alive?”
[Rory] She proves herself adept with tools, handling them like she has all her life – which she has, though on a smaller scale, perhaps, than this. Such things translate easily enough, though, as she works with a quiet sort of confidence of one who is comfortable here, with hard work done by hands everyone told her were useless…
He asks about John, and she tips her head, slightly. A moment, and a face comes to her mind to match the name. She shakes her head, slightly. “Rot neally. Knew of him.” He wasn’t around long, after all. She’d met him in passing, perhaps, or had him pointed out. But she didn’t really know him. She rarely gets the chance to know anyone…
[Roman Turner] “I think ya would of liked him. He was a good man with a lot of honor to him. No matter what some what don’t know better might say about folks they don’t really know. Ya know?”
He hammered a little bit and the song changed on the radio. This one was called Water. Then he spoke up again.
“We’re fixin this place up so the Kin of the Pack what don’t have their own places or just want to live with others, can have a place to stay without crowding in with a bunch of unruly Garou.”
[Rory] She offers him a little smile, and reaches for another nail. “I know.” And she does. People have all sorts of things to say about her, after all, and few of them are nice. Until Chicago, where they let her glory suggest her honor, her wisdom dictate her presence. Of course, that leads to the question of why she has yet to challenge for the rank the Spirits say she deserves, don’t it?
Then, she nods, with another little grin. “Good idea.” She’s living off charity herself, really, so she knows well the pain of not having anywhere to live. As well as the pain of crossing unruly Garou. “Is a pice nlace.” a beat. “Better without leaks.”
[Roman Turner] “Yeah, we got plenty of leaks in the church what need fixin, but I think taking care of this first is more important. Besides we got them birds and what not that have to have an opening. It’s sometimes like a busy station in there.”
He hammered a bit more, then leaned back and positioned the tar paper.
“Ok, we’ll tack this down then get to them shingles. Where ya live Rory?”
Just thrown in there out of the blue.
[Rory] She nods, slightly. “Kin are important.” They saved her, once. More than once, really, back home, though it’s a story no one really knows. She peeks through her curls at Roman when he asks the question out of the blue, reaching to help position the tar paper and get it tacked down.
“Chinatown.” She leans up and scratches idly at her shoulder, before reaching for another nail. “Squatted, first. Now pin kays for it. I don’t let pim hay for anything else though.” After all, he’s not her kin.
[Roman Turner] “Your Kin pay for a place for ya?”
He nodded slightly at that as he moved down the roll of paper, tacking it down. Then the cutting off the excess at the end and letting the roll fall off the roof.
“Ya got some ya run with, like Pack?”
[Rory] She pauses, and wrinkles her nose. Then shakes her head, slightly. Honest to a fault, Rory. “Not mine. A friend.” A beat. “Fust a jriend.”
She moves easily with him, opposite him, making sure the paper is tacked down perfectly. Then she shakes her head, slightly. “Not anymore. Bas Wogeyman.”
[Roman Turner] “I could be nosy and ask who the Kin is. I could just leave it to spy on ya and find out if I was that interested. Since ya comfortable with a place ta stay, I reckon wouldn’t make a lot of sense for me ta say, if ya find yourself in need, we always got room in the church. But lookie there, I done said it.”
He pulled over the stack of shingles and starting from the bottom up, began to lay them out, nailing down a row at a time and overlapping the next row.
[Rory] She chews her lower lip, and studies him as he admits his curiosity, as well as doesn’t push at all to find out. He could spy, if he wanted too, but she negates the need to do so, by admitting softly. “Ray.” That’s who insisted he pay for her place to live, who made sure she was warm this winter. She couldn’t stop him, even if she tried -shy of unnecessary violence. And he could afford it. And part of her still loves him.
She takes a breath, and then, softly. “I can’t kave hin. I know that. He’s mot nine. And when Lukas said I couldn’t hee sim – I didn’t, for a long time. He’s lot Nukas’ anymore. I still don’t hee sim. He insisted to pay. I don’t like charity, but it hade mim feel better.”
She looks up at Roman then, and then back to his hands, watching as he lines up and nails in the shingles. She learns, in that short moment, and then quickly starts to work again, mimicking his movements perfectly, and nailing in shingles in time with him.
There’s always room at the church, if she has need. “Lonely, sometimes.” All the time. But she’s not the time to intrude, anywhere.
[Roman Turner] “We aren’t meant to live alone. It’s not good for the mind, body nor soul. We are Pack animals.”
He scooted up a little further, one knee planted against the sun heated roof. It was hot and humid, a storm was coming in. Sweat dripped down his face, falling off his nose, soaking in to the tee. The middle of his back was wet all the way down the spine. Heat had the mottled fingers of scar tissue turning a deep purple where they rose up from the neck of the tee.
“Who’s Ray and what’s he got to do with Lukas?”
[Rory] She pauses to slip from her light jacket, the work getting to her, making her sweat as it does him. She has a simple t-shirt underneath, and it is damp already with exertions sheen. Her skin is flushed, her freckles – and she has a whole bunch of them, presumably all over – standing out. It won’t take long at all for her pale skin to burn in the heat, but it will heal almost as fast as it happens, so she pays it no mind at all.
She gets back to work, nodding that she understands it’s not good to be alone. She has been alone for months, now, and she aches with the emptiness it leaves within her.
She blushes at the questions about Ray. Her first love, perhaps her only, and of course: completely forbidden. “Ostermann. Gnawer, now. Was Ladow shord.” And thus, Lukas’.
[Roman Turner] “He Kinfolk or True?”
A frown furrowed his brow when he asked. Already moving up another row of shingles.
“Two more and we get to do the stinky part.”
[Rory] “Kin. Mate to Narni, mow.”
She nods at his direction, and moves up with him, her body comfortable with this work, her muscles delighting in the exertion, as the pounding of her hammer matches his, her work matches his. She is good, and her work is quality. It always has had to be.
The stinky part – she wrinkles her nose, and then grins a little bit, hiding it behind her curls. At least she – despite her sweat and hard work doesn’t stink. There are advantages to having no scent, after all.
[Roman Turner] The kin was mated to Marni now. Ouch, that had to hurt. He grunted, focusing on the stinky part.
“Oh yeah, just take a sniff of jiff here.”
The lid to the can of tar was pried open, revealing the thick sticky, stinky petro based substance.
“Just smear a glob on each of the few exposed nails and I’ll smear a line under this top edge and we got er done.”
[Rory] She leans forward to take a sniff, and rears back, making a face. She is grateful that he moved on from Ray, from her relationship with him – one that was forbidden to begin with. She is quite content to reach for her brush and the stinky goop, and do as directed, getting the nails covered.
“Gross.”
Understatement of the year, there.
[Roman Turner] “It is pretty nasty. Don’t get it on your skin or it will never come off. Nothing like wearing a little Ode to Tar.”
He made short work of the task with her, then started gathering things together for the climb back down.
“I appreciate your help Rory. Couldn’t of turned up at a better time.”
[Rory] She is careful not to get any one her – pale skin is sensitive to sun, to just about everything, and the thought of having to scrub that stuff off has her extra careful. She helps him finish up, then clean up afterwards. He thanks her and she shrugs a shoulder with a little grin.
“Glad ho telp.” a beat, and a nod. “Anytime.”
It soothes the loneliness to spend even a little bit of time around others.
[Roman Turner] “Ya welcome to help any time ya get the hankering. Come on by and have supper some nights. We don’t bite much, but I gotta say, sometimes things get a bit cranky around there. But for the most part, it’s just folks spending time with other folks.”
He gathered up the remains of the task and started hauling things inside the building. It had been swept in there and some of the walls had fresh paint. Buckets of paint, brushes, rollers and piles of plastic were stacked along the walls with a step ladder.
[Rory] She peeks up at him, and then nods. She scratches the side of her nose, then follows him down the ladder, and helps him carry the supplies inside. “Patrick is with you row, night?”
Patrick she knows. Kora too, and she has fought alongside most of them at one point or another. “Ne’s hice. I..” a beat, a sift sigh. “knew Howard.”
[Roman Turner] “Yeah, Patrick came to us after losing Howard. He came up to Kora and point blank said he wanted to join the pack and wanted her to consider him for it.”
He shrugged a shoulder, not looking at her when he added.
“Straight and to the point works most often with Fenrir.”
[Rory] She actually watches him as he says that, not catching herself as quickly as she so often does, listening to something as though it’s what she had waited for – even if she didn’t know at all that it’s what she’s been hoping to hear all along. Her brow furrows, slightly, and then…
“..still have openings?” Softly, timidly, and yes – a little hopeful too. She’s missed having a pack more than she ever imagined possible. She aches for the comfort it brings, and yes – the aggravation too.
[Roman Turner] “I can’t speak for the others, but I am a Child of Gaia, and ya know how we are. Heck, we welcome all with open arms. Fer as I’m concerned, there’s always room for Jello, ain’t that the saying?”
He turned to look at her, smiling.
“What I mean is, there’s strength in numbers and unless someone proves themself to be less than their worth, I think it don’t hurt to bond together. In the end, it’s a Pack wide call, but it begins with Kora. Talk to her if ya interested. Show back bone Rory. Don’t let life and the past kick ya in the stomach and make ya bend. Stand tall.”
[Rory] He tells her to show backbone, and she drops her gaze, automatically. He can’t possibly know how hard it is for her, despite how much she’s learned during her stay here in Chicago. She shows backbone in battle – but every day situations are so much harder for her.
But he smiles at her, and she nods, slightly, before tucking her hair behind her ears, only to have it bounce free again. Her curls cannot be contained.
[She also won’t admit that Kora scares the bejeebers out of her, most days.]
In the end, though, she nods again. “Ok.”
[Roman Turner] His came soft and sure.
“I’m serious as a heart attack when I say this. If ya want to impress a Fenrir, ya stand up and fight for what ya want. Ya want to become part of this Stone Soup of a Pack, ya need ta follow Patrick’s example and tell Kora your desires. If ya can’t do that much…..”
He shook his head.
“It’s one of those times ya have to reach out of your comfort zone and be what ya can be, not what ya were told ya are.”
[Rory] It makes her nervous, to even think of – that much is easy to tell. But his tone is soft, his voice encouraging, his bearing one of welcome rather than disdain. She has seen much of the latter, and not so much the Former. Edwin saw something in her, as did Fox. She blossomed under his leadership, and his loss has been mourned long and hard by the shy mule. She chews on her lower lip, and then dares…
she dares… “She’s meen se at my best-in battle.” A beat, a nod. “You need a mew neat shield.”
It is not comfortable to offer, but she knows that she is one of the best at what she does. Outside, here, in the streets, doing little things, she is uncomfortable, she is shy and quiet and easy to overlook, easy to beat down. In battle though, where it matters for Fenrir? There are few better, and none more determined to succeed.
[Roman Turner] “First? I don’t think of folk as meat shields. I think of them as living, breathing folk that can die just like I can. Not expendable because each is precious to me. Now I know ya just tried to break the ice with that, but figured ya should know I would never think of ya like that, in or out of the Pack. Second, if she done knows how ya handled yourself, what does it hurt to ask, if that’s what your goal is? Ya never ask, ya never know.”
He patted her shoulder with another smile.
“Buck up there partner.”
[Rory] He doesn’t think of her like that… and wouldn’t. Confusion dances across her features, briefly, but she takes a breath, and lets it go again. She nods, slightly, chewing on her lower lip absently. When he touches her, this time, she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t fall still, she just looks up and lets her green eyes touch on his – very briefly, before dropping them respectfully again.
“Ok.”
A simple word, that means a lot. To accept that goes against everything she’s ever known.
[Roman Turner] “Aw come on Rory, give me a smile, will ya? Killin me here!”
[Rory] Ah, and that does it.
She blushes, brightly. The color dances under her skin, across her cheeks, down along her neck and shoulders and presumably all over after that. She peeks up at him, and then shakes her head….
But smiles. Shyly – but a smile none the less.
[Roman Turner] Her little shy smile had a wide one breaking out across his face.
“There ya go. It didn’t hurt so much, did it?”
“Now, let’s see if we can’t go rustle up something to eat at the church. I’m starvin Marvin.”
With that he lead her out the door, doing a little two step on the front walk, singing.
“Might as well laugh, might as well smile. Life goes on for a little bitty while.”
[Rory] She wrinkles her nose at him, and then nods as he invites her to rustle up something or another. She pauses to grab her pack, and sling it over ehr shoulders again. it settles with clanking and clattering, heavily against her slender frame. It’s far heavier than she makes it seem, there is a strength hidden in her deceptively slender frame.
She hides a giggle at his two-step and singing behind her hands, but she follows willingly enough. Her stomach complains against it’s empty state to convince her to do so…
But she doesn’t dance.
And thank all things holy -she doesn’t sing either.
But she does smile… even if she hides it behind that hand, under her curls. He’s funny – and he doesn’t hate her. Two marks in his favor in her book….