[Curata] It will seem like forever until Imogen gets to the scene of the crime. No one has appeared as of yet, no witnesses were around during the incident. The Fianna couldn’t really call it a battle. It was more of a mercy killing and then a confrontation. Either way, he remains out of sight, the blood splatter and gore of body parts covers one half of the alley, bits and pieces of bone jutting out of brick and concrete against one wall. Flecks of skin melted to the pavement.
He kneels beside the body of the dead man in the nice suit, the metal spear still jutting out of his stomach, the expression of surprise written into his death face. Curata kept to his glabro form. It opened up his senses to make them more acute. The rancid stench of rotting flesh and burnt hair was overwhelming. It caused him to keep his head tucked down, shaggy mane falling across his features, hiding a lot of the damage that had been done to his face.
Wherever the blood had splattered from the first man, it left a mark. As if someone had sprayed the alley down with battery-acid as it ate through everything, including the Fianna; where the blood had splashed against his skin, it ate away the several top layers of hair and flesh, down to the muscle until the white shine of bone was nearly exposed. It covers the back of his hands, the left side of his throat, running all the way up to his cheekbone. He looked rather gruesome.
[Imogen] An old Volvo chugs to a stop at the mouth of the alleyway, the slight figure within clearly outlined in the ambient lighting. She cuts the engine and gets out. From her angle, she can just see the outline of Curata within the alleyway. Curata and the bodies that surround them. More potently, she can smell the blood, the singed flesh and hair, the rancid undercoating of taint.
She only pauses for a second, eyes on the alleyway before she continues walking, moving ’round the car and toward the trunk. She unlocks it, popping the lid and reaches inside. There is a small, working interior light which lights her from beneath. It casts strange shadows over her face, highlights the pallor of her skin, the flame of her hair.
She starts with body bags, the plastic rustling in her hands as she takes them out, folded.
Straight to business this – she heads into the alleyway, and it is now that she cast a glance at the hideous visage of the mangled Fianna.
“You’re looking well,” she remarks, meaning precisely the opposite. She sets down several of the body bags on their own, mostly clean patch of pavement, and starts to shake out the other with a whoosh of the fabric as it catches on the air.
[Curata] The well-dressed man with the spear sticking out of his chest was the only real body she could feed into a bag. The other one was such a mess there wasn’t really anything to collect, except what might fit into a plastic zip lock. The stench came from the plastered remains.
Little white pills decorate the ground along with metal bullet casings fired at the Garou point-blank and had repelled off him.
He lifts his head up, grunting at her. “Pleasant night isn’t it, Dr. Slaughter.” A grotesque smile flashes at her, she can see where the acidic blood had eaten away part of his left cheek down to the jaw bone, bits of melted flesh and tendon stretch with the working of his jaw as he speaks. The muscles of his throat were exposed much in the same way.
He begins to stand, grunting again at the pain that was starting to seep through. A hand going for the spear in the man’s stomach and yanking it out, it begins to disappear.
[Imogen] “Hm.” Her stomach is not quite turned by the sight of the grotesquery which is Curata’s face, but it is not quite settled either. Her eyes move over it, the shape of the burns, the distinct rawness of his remaining flesh, the smell of charring. “It feels rather Hallowe’en-esque, all told.” She pulls a zip-lock baggie from her pocket, freeing a pair of latex gloves from within, slipping them on with the ease of habit.
“Help me lift him in, will you.” It’s not really a question as she crouches down to grab the dead body by his calves. She more than holds up her part of the weight, muscles familiar with the transfer of bodies.
“Acid, was it?” a lift of her chin toward the ravages of his face. “Where’s th’source?”
[Curata] “Blood actually.”
He moves to help her, his strength greater than hers, he could have lifted the body for her if she’d requested with little effort. He jerks his tattered face at the well-dressed man, nostrils flaring out as he snorts.
“This wanker ‘ere some kind o’ drunk dealer, sold shite tae that poor bastard o’er there.” He indicates the spot where the other body once stood.
“Jittery fuck, tried tae hit me up for cash. Something wasn’t right about him when I noticed barbs on his hands when I nearly cut mine after tossing it off me when he grabbed me.” He lifts and moves the body with Imogen, continuing to explain.
“Saw these two lovelies making some kind o’deal and as the suit started tae walk m’way, the flesh o’ the junkie flecked off. Suit made a comment about how I should step aside, and then the fucker exploded.”
[Imogen] Blood, actually. Her eyebrow lifts upward slightly, glancing down at the smear of it on her glove already, the blood surrounding them. “Inert now, I suppose.”
Her attention is only half on Curata as he tells the tale of his night, as she zips up the body bag, and looks around at the remaining half-parts, the barely-there pieces. “I’ll wash th’rest t’the gutter,” she decides, lifting her chin to indicate deeper in the alleyway before her eyes sweep away to find a rusted water tap nestled beneath a fire-escape.
Then, back to the body. Curata lifts half, Imogen the other. The Fianna could doubtlessly have done this himself, but Imogen simply assumes her half of the burden, carrying it back toward the car, its open trunk.
When half the body is slid in, she leans forward, reaching deeper into the trunk and retrieving a bucket. As she straightens, as Curata manoeuvres the body the rest of the way in, she catches sight of the gore on his face, highlit by the lighting on the street.
“I’ll gi’ yeh a drive wherever yeh need t’go before I go t’dispose o’ this,” she says. “Save yeh from figurin’ out how t’get home without being seen.”
[Curata] “Drop me off at the caern so I can rustle up a bloody healer, pain’s starting tae kick in. I’m sure I can find one there less ye know someone…”
He helps her finish whatever was needed, glancing back at the alley with a shake of his head. “Wasn’t like most wyrm… rather strange how it went down. The wanker in the suit that is…”
[Imogen] She slams the trunk lid, and heads back toward the alleyway, bucket in hand. Her gaze moves around the street, sliding over the emptiness, and counting themselves lucky at their isolation.
“Charlie’s a healer,” she says, “I believe he has a room at th’Brotherhood. I’ve not seen Joss heal, but she’s o’ the right moon t’do so,” a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Yeh might find her on Eagles’ land.”
She opens the tap with a sharp twist, and water drums into the bucket while she raises her voice to be heard over it.
As the bucket fills, she glances up, lifting a copper eyebrow. Her Fianna blood is written in her bones, the fine arches of her cheekbones, the line of her jaw. Her pale skin and red hair comes from ancestors who have done great things for the Nation. Ancestors whose names are recalled and written in history.
Perhaps it’s part of where she gets her drive. Perhaps all that she does for the Nation comes down to family history. Written in her genes.
She would resent that idea.
“Strange how?” The bucket is nearly full. She twists off the tap and studies the landscape of the alleyway before choosing the first place to pour water, washing gore, bone-bits and blood toward the nearby gutter.
[Curata] Curata stands back, hanging in the shadows. It was going to be a tight fit to get into her car if he stayed in glabro. He might consider shifting down into another form if it didn’t hurt so damn much. He can feel the air passing through the open cavity in his left cheek, the soft sickly crunch of tendon and bone as it grinds together.
“Charlie’s busy at the moment.” He says with a shrug of his shoulders, “And I don’t feel like waiting around tae heal this shite, I’ll take m’ chances at the caern.”
His nostrils flare out, twitch at the stench. His eyes follow her movements, drinking in the contours of the good doctor’s small frame as she performs her task.
“Strange in a way that didn’t seem… like a Fomori. Most that we come across are nothing but slobbering bags o’ puss wanting tae tear our hides. This man… was intelligent. He did something tae the junkie tae make him explode. I couldn’t figure anything out about him except I had the innate desire tae kill him when he pulled the gun on me. He was going tae leave the junkie tae die, so I killed him with a mercy blow whilst he started to fall tae pieces then exploded.”
He shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders, “Just all strange.”
Curata stands back, hanging in the shadows. It was going to be a tight fit to get into her car if he stayed in glabro. He might consider shifting down into another form if it didn’t hurt so damn much. He can feel the air passing through the open cavity in his left cheek, the soft sickly crunch of tendon and bone as it grinds together.
“Charlie’s busy at the moment.” He says with a shrug of his shoulders, “And I don’t feel like waiting around tae heal this shite, I’ll take m’ chances at the caern.”
His nostrils flare out, twitch at the stench. His eyes follow her movements, drinking in the contours of the good doctor’s small frame as she performs her task.
“Strange in a way that didn’t seem… like a Fomori. Most that we come across are nothing but slobbering bags o’ puss wanting tae tear our hides. This man… was intelligent. He did something tae the junkie tae make him explode. I couldn’t figure anything out about him except I had the innate desire tae kill him when he pulled the gun on me. He was going tae leave the junkie tae die, so I killed him with a mercy blow whilst he started to fall tae pieces then exploded.”
He shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders, “Just all strange.”
[Imogen] She carries the bucket back to the spout, and begins to fill it with water again. For a bit of time, she is silent.
“I don’t believe a criteria fer bein’ o’ the Wyrm is a lack of intelligence,” she says, seconds before she shuts the water off, hefting it again to continue to douse the alleyway. “They must be like Garou or humans or Kin. Some stupid, some not.”
A shrug, “S’just th’stupid are foot soldiers, so yeh might see ’em more often.”
The water splashes over the concrete, over her shoes and the cuffs of her jeans as she dumps it over the alleyway, washing gore away.
“D’yeh want me t’try Joss?”
[Imogen] “Fer healin’,” she adds after a beat, a necessary addendum.
[Curata] “I’d greatly appreciate it, Imogen.”
He considers what she says, reaching up to scratch at his left cheek but stops himself when he looks at the back of his hand, flexing it. His brows draw together in a deep furrow.
“I guess I’m used tae seeing the foot soldiers. Wha’ever that bastard was, t’weren’t human.” He says with a sigh, “Can ye call Joss? Ask her tae meet me at the caern?”
[Imogen] Imogen pauses, mid motion. The stillness that takes over her is an inward turning, much like daydreaming, except Imogen is a far too serious, grounded person for such a thing. Regardless: a stillness. A pause.
“She says she’ll meet yeh there,” she says, coming back to earth and filling the bucket again.
[Curata] Curata nods his thanks to the kinfolk, he moves away towards her Volvo, glancing at it. He drops his hands to his sides, flexing and straightening the fingers. The incident seems to have left him a bit bewildered. He doesn’t say anything more to Imogen, just waits for her to finish the clean up unless she has anything else for him to do.
He is distant, his thoughts drawn elsewhere until the redhead snags his attention again.
[Imogen] She has nothing else for him to do. Silence passes while she fills the bucket, empties it again. Repeat, ad nauseaum. By the time she is done, her arms and back ache and her feet are uncomfortably damp. Water has splattered on her jeans, and in the right light, one would find the marks rusty with blood.
She returns to Curata and the car, stepping out to the rear driver’s side door, pulling it open to drop the bucket inside.
“Let’s get out o’ here,” she says, tilting her head toward the car. Her eyes move over the half-man/half-beast.
[Curata] By now, the last of his resistance to the pain is wearing off. He hisses and grunts, clenching his teeth together, which only make it worse as exposed tendon and bone grind together. Curata’s form shrinks down into his human skin once more. His chest lifts and falls more as his breathing pattern changes.
A look to Imogen, “Aye, we should go.” He pulls open the passenger door, climbing in as she does so and slams it shut. He keeps his head tilted down.
[Imogen] She gets into the car and starts the engine after two turns of the key in the ignition. The smell of blood and singed flesh soon fills the cab.
She makes little effort for conversation, now. He’s told her what happened, she’s done her duty. Curata is likely in pain and feeling air whistle through a hole in his cheek and not inclined for conversation. Imogen is rarely inclined for conversation, anyway.
The drive to the caern passes in silence.
The old Volvo pulls to a stop at the edge of the chain link fence that surrounds the docks. It has been some time since she’s been here, but she knows it well.
[Joss Lehrer] By the time they have made it to the chain link fence that marks the edges of the Caern on the real side, Joss is making her way there around the corner and closing the last of the distance. She had responded to Imogen’s call – and to be honest, it’s still a giddy little thrill everytime Imogen talks in her head – quickly and without hesitation. Imogen does not use the totemphone often, so it’s obviously important.
She’s not running, but she is moving at a very quick walk, skirts swishing about her legs as she moves and hastens farther still as the Volvo pulls to a stop.
[Imogen] Imogen gets out of the car as Joss hurries toward them. “Bit o’ a walkin’ Veil breech, isn’t he just?” she tilts her head sharply toward Curata, who presumably, is on his way out as well.
The kinwoman smells faintly of blood, but it is a smell transferred to her. Faint, it lingers due only to proximity. It is Curata who is the injured one – him and the body in the trunk of her old, last-legs vehicle.
[Joss Lehrer] She tips her head, looking over at Curata and chuckles. “He is that. I hate to ask what the other guy looks like…” Though, having watched Imogen at work on clean up before, she can likely guess not only how he look, but a rough gestimate of how many pieces he’s in, and where the hefty garbage bags are located. Hefty never thought they’d be used like this, most likely.
“Can ya make it inside outa sight?”
[Curata] The car ride was uneventful, which is a blessing to the ahroun. Once he sees the familiar area, the chain link fence sliding into his view he sets a hand on the door handle, waiting for the car to come to a stop.
When it has, it swings open carefully; the Ahroun tries not taking it off its hinges as he ducks his head down and slid out. Joss is giddy as she saunters up to the fence to greet the pair. Curata doesn’t know her well enough, hasn’t ever spoken to Joss except for seeing her at the moots and the bonfire. He knows there is no love between her and his alpha.
The right corner of his mouth twitches upward slightly, lifting an eyebrow at Imogen. Curata lifts his head up to look at Joss, curling the bottom half of his lip down at her pitifully. The left side of his cheek and neck is nothing more than an exposed cavity of tendon, muscle, and bone. The flesh melted away by an acidic burn. The same ones cover the backs of his hand where melted fur mixes with flesh and bone.
“Can do wha’ I can.” He grunts out in pain, wincing as air passes through his cheek. He ducks his head down, making his way quickly across to the fence to duck through it.
[Imogen] “Leave you to it, then, shall I?” The question is rhetorical, she is already turning away, headed back toward her car.
[Joss Lehrer] “Thanks Imogen. Let me know if you need help with disposal.”
She still stutters slightly, having to stop herself from saying Ms. Slaughter, from saying Dr. Slaughter, from writing in her diary with pink sparkly exclamation marks that OMG ITS REALLY HER – but she keeps it under wraps, mostly.
There is no love lost between Curata’s alpha and Joss, though that would have nothing to do with how she treats Curata. If there’s one thing about Joss, she treats everyone fairly, especially when it comes to her duty. Sometimes, she seems so much older than her 18 years.
She turns to follow Curata, and holds the fence open so that he can go through without worrying about catching himself. “If ya need t’lean, I’m stronger than I look. We won’t go in far, just enough t’be out of site so that I kin take care ya without worryin bout breakin the Veil. Watch that board…”
She doesn’t coddle, just points out where he might trip. She’s Fenrir, after all, and he’s still breathing. It’s a scratch. A rather large and gruesome one, but a scratch none the less.
[Curata] It’s just a scratch…
They always say that. He grunts at Joss, not responding at first. His eyes have fallen back to the redhead as she makes her exit. He nods to her, “Thanks, Imogen.” and leaves it at that. The Fianna turns to follow after the Fenrir. She doesn’t coddle him, just points out where to watch his steps.
“I’ll be foine,” he breathes out, the air whistling through his cheek as he speaks.
[Imogen] (thanks for the scene!)
[Joss Lehrer] “Of course you will. You’re still breathin, aren’t ya?” She scoffs at the very idea that he won’t be, especially with her right there and all, now.
Once they get to a spot where they are unseen, she looks him over more closely, and then gives him a lopsided grin. “Let’s see if we can’t patch ya up then, shall we?”
She rubs her hands together to warm them, and then lays them along his wounds, cupping a non-existant cheek, and closing her eyes to center herself. Moments later, the burn of healing rips through the area…
(mother’s touch – diff current rage which is 2. Wp spent.)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 2) [WP]
[Curata] He stands there holding his breath as she grins at him, rubbing her hands together. He can feel the wounds begin to restitch themselves. He shakes himself out, tilting his head from side to side, popping the vertebrae as he works the healed muscles in his jaw.
A glance down to the back of his hands and he looks up to Joss again, “Thanks very much. I owe ye one.”
[Joss Lehrer] She studies him carefully after she’s done, and than nods, apparently satisfied with her work. He says he owes her one, and she laughs softly, easily. Mirth dances in her gaze, as usual, the depths of blue sparkling with humor. Hard to imagine she has a problem with anyone at all, isn’t it?
“So ya do. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
[Curata] “Nah, that’s it.” He says, rubbing his hands together, feeling the smooth skin on the backs of them. He nods his head to her. “Ye do a pretty good job for a kid.”
[Joss Lehrer] That makes her laugh again. “I do my best – it’s the only thing we can do, the only thing I expect of others, and of myself. I may be just a kid, but I’ve been ranked equal to you for over a year. They don’t give Fenrir Godi’s fostern if they can’t do their Duty.”
She’s chiding him, but it’s with good humor, and more in fun than anything else – because she’s still smiling, as she tucks her hands into her pockets. “Sides, you should see me Summon – I rock that HARD core.”
[Curata] A black eyebrow lifts up as he tilts his head, glancing down at Joss with amusement. Both corners of his mouth have drawn upward now, flashing her a roguish grin. He clears his throat, lifting a hand up to touch the left side of his neck and cheek, feeling the skin.
“Aye, I’m sure ye do a mean summons, Joss.” he gives her a curt nod, “And thanks again for the heal.”
[Joss Lehrer] He flashes her that roguish grin she’s heard about, and she laughs and winks. “If you’re lucky, someday I’ll show you my spirit drum.”
And with that, she turns to head back to the street, and back the way she had come.
[Curata] He wonders about the spirit drum comment, almost takes it down a different path as he starts to laugh, watching her saunter off. He gives Joss a low whistle, turning the other way to head back to the brotherhood to get cleaned off and change of clothing.