[Joe Holst] The street is mostly boarded up. The remains of an economy nearly a hundred years old. Once stately, this part of Bronzeville is dilapidated and forgotten. The realm of squatters and those who have trickled in from parts of the neighborhood still vital and thus, not a place for them. Joe’s broad, imposing form squats near a street corner, his back to a lamp post and feet flat on the ground. Its part of the covoluted dance of territorial control- you press your more aggressive neighbor’s territory to maintain your own.
[Joe Holst] Occasionally Joe lifts a thick fist to tilt back a flask. Momentarily comical, it looks a lot like a bull tipping its chin up to taste a salt lick.
Boots shift. Stark scraping against concrete as the young Fenrir glowers at the small knot of people across the street. In its own way, the exchange is respectful. An acknowledgement from both sides. An understanding from Joe that he can’t rush the businessmen across the way. An understanding of them that the last time they tried, they said goodbye to friends.
[Drew Roscoe] No one, really, should be alone in this part of the city. Man, woman, adult, child, anyone. The only reason Joe got away with it without being pestered, circled for a good mugging or beatdown for being a Whitey In A Rough Neighborhood is because he’s… well, Joe.
Drew, however, doesn’t have that excuse.
She has no Rage to act as a buffer against the masses. She can’t shift to protect herself. She’s not large, not strong, not vicious. What’s worse? She’s white, she’s appealing to look at, and she’s a girl. And here she is, alone, rounding a corner and walking up the sidewalk across the slim, desolate street from the skinheaded Fenrir. She’s dressed against the chill that was sure to settle in simply by the saving grace of long sleeves. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved shirt designed after those used for softball, where the core is white and the sleeves are a different color– in this case red. Her hair’s left down and there’s a gray knit hat on her head. There’s iPod earbuds in her ears and her attention primarily is settled on the screen of the tiny lime green device in her hands.
Keep your head down, mind your own business, make no eye contact and act like you know what you’re doing and have every right to be here. Those were the best things you could do to keep from being bothered.
[Delmar Meister] This area, despite its brand new housing areas and constantly shifting chain stores, was one of the oldest parts of Chicago. The people that lived here, including the street thugs and junkies, were most often the descendants of people, street thugs and junkies from nearly a century ago. They know one another, and they know the ones like Joe who have only recently arrived, but successfully staked a claim. The others, the newcomers, stick out like sore thumbs.
Right now, Delmar Meister is that sore thumb. He doesn’t look like he belongs in this neighborhood, but then again he doesn’t even look like he belongs in his own car. The classic Galaxy 500 looks to big with the skinny, pasty faced guy in the driver’s seat. But there he is. And there he stops, pulling over on Joe’s side, but attracting attention from the ‘businessmen’ across the way.
[Joe Holst] Chilling blue eyes curve between The fine- ass white girl cruising… Bronzeville and the fine- ass car chirping to a stop directly up the block. Joe’s eyes narrow in concentration as he works through the logistics of this. Giving his presence to the block is one thing… congregating is entirely another, and sets off faint alarm bells in the Modi’s head. The Disciples aren’t average bangers. They follow hard and lean lines of discipline and focus, and brook very little in the way of uppity newcomers trying to establish themselves.
The canvas of the bulky skinhead’s jacket squeals against the light post as he pushes to his feet- his breeding and poise obvious. A thing of war and northern warriors given a modern day form and a punkish cast.. and the often blinding aggression plenty apparent as well. For a moment that nice car is put aside as Joe’s attention focuses on his kinswoman with the fierce exactitude of a laser.
“Drew? Yew fekkin’ lost? Get ovah heah…”
He spares a glance at the small knot of Disciples, and leans over a little to get the attention of the driver of the….
…Holy shit. Family.
Joe’s eyes go wide as he raises a hand and gestures his newfound kinsman around the corner with a flick of two fingers. Follow me. It isn’t quite the ‘come with me if you want to live’ of Terminator fame, but its clear he’s pretty serious. He waits for Drew to get closer- the earbuds rather indicate she may not hear his growl- and as soon as he’s able his hand closes around her wrist and ushers her around the corner and down the next block as well.
“Th’ fuck ah yew thinkin’ girlie?” Interestingly enough, worry, rather than a scolding, is most prominent in his voice.
[Drew Roscoe] She didn’t have any music going just yet, was skimming through her directory searching for the next song that she wanted to listen to, so when Joe called her name across the street she heard him just fine, blinked in surprise, and looked up and across to him. The expression was priceless, some mix of a deer being caught in the headlights and a girl being caught by her father with a boy stashed in her closet. A Why are you here? mixed with an Oh shit I’m in trouble.
Bright chocolate colored eyes skimmed from the hulking man-boy to the small knot of men up the sidewalk from her. Hell, if Joe hadn’t been here…
Best not to finish that thought.
Instead, with a surprising amount of obedience that came from functioning without thinking too hard about what you were doing, Drew turned wordlessly and moved across the street, tugging the earbuds out of her ears, wrapping them up, and sticking them along with the iPod back in her pants pocket. When she got nearer, close to the curb, she offered him a grin of greeting, nothing about it false or forced. While surprised and taken aback, she wasn’t displeased to see him, and that development in attitude was curious and worrying when she would reflect upon it later. She was finding a new Normal.
She opened her mouth to say something, no doubt a ‘hey’ or ‘how are ya’, but stopped when she figured out Joe’s Rage-contorted expression and heard the low bass of a growl somewhere between his throat and his shoulders. She slowed down two steps onto the curb, hesitant, unsure of her approach anymore, but he’d already grabbed her wrist and dragged her off, around the corner, away from the car and the group of men, up onto a less-populated street. There, hand still wrapped around her wrist, he scolded/worried/fathered her. This had her blinking in surprise against the heat of full moon Rage, licking her lips uncertainly, and replying slowly. Calculating each verbal step before it was taken.
“Rochelle lives, like, four blocks from here. She’s Abe’s sister. I was going to his mom’s house to get Rochelle’s little girl and bring her back. Rochelle has to work…”
[Delmar Meister] Faint eyebrows pop up on the the face of the ‘Family’ in the car and for a short while there’s a quiet hesitation. Then he looks around himself. At the faces around him. At the body language of the men on the other corner, the ones watching curiously to see what the next step would be, and then at the walking mountain that was beckoning him around a corner.
Joe might have been the closest thing to a familiar face he’d see for miles around here.
And so he followed, getting out of the car and locking the doors behind him. He doesn’t give another glance across the street. He simply stuffs his pockets into the jacket of his hoodie and follows behind.
[Joe Holst] “Den Rochelle’s kinna an’ asshole, toots.” One glance back. There’s no chin gesture, no sign of familiarity at all. Just a smooth glance across Delmar toward the knot of businessmen pausing as they begin to spread subtly across the sidewalk… then recollect again toward one of their number perched on the stoop of an old, solid apartment building that was once quite stately in its heyday. Good. Dodged.. well.. more than one bullet just then.
Joe mentally marks up how long he’ll need to wait before pulling that little stunt again. A delicate balance, these streets… and Joe’s not the only big dog on the block.
He begins to slow past May’s Diner, and moves into an alley that winds its way behind a few still active businesses- a couple of which are quite the place to be for certain bargains- and eventually dumps out at the side gate of a certain junkyard that is the nucleus of Joe’s territory here. He releases Drew’s wrist only after holding it up a little and eyeing her body- a familiar look to the young kinswoman, by now. Easily interpreted by how often True Born carry around wounds that could crumple a mortal.. satisfied by whatever he sees- and remarkably free of too much oogling in the exasperation that paints his face, Joe nods once and his eyes rise to Drew’s doe brown ones.
“Gaht no bidness heah widdout one uh us wit yew. S’just simple rules uh da street, lady. Awright?”
Joe’s bullish neck swings to the side as he waits for the strange, skinny newcomer to join them in the alley.
[Delmar Meister] Delmar kept pace with them, though if you were to ask him why he’d probably struggle for an answer.
Throughout Joe’s lecture he’d been quiet. Respectful. The musclebound skinhead whos rage wafted out through the air seemed to have a fairly good grasp on where they were going. It stood to reason that this was his territory. But when Delmar caught a glimpse of Joe catching even more than a glimpse, his impulse control began to slip. He laughed. Not loud and braying, but there was a stifled chortle that escaped his nose, and an obvious grin on his face, which he tried to hide by hanging his head and wiping his nose.
[Drew Roscoe] “She’s not,” Drew insisted softly with a faint sketch of a frown on her face. “She just needs a lot of help is all.” Typically the Garou caught her in moods that were rough or strained, or put her in situations that made them that way. Because of this she was known as and came across as jittery, high strung, with a poor attitude and a short temper. Oh, and a keen shot with a gun, Ms. Long Shot Roscoe. But today she seemed mellowed out, more comfortable, more relaxed. Even with the Modi’s Rage beating down upon her like the harsh rays of the sun out in the Mojave Desert, she seemed to be holding up okay.
Familiarity, it seemed to numb the sensation that someone was going to tear your arms from their sockets.
Her arm was lifted some so a glance up and down her body could be made, not for the sake of taking in curves and lines and swells, but for an inventory of health. Nothing out of place, no blood stains, no obvious bruising or limping or favoring. All he saw when he lifted her arm was that her shirt raised some, and a flash of ink-decoration flashed between the waistband of her right hip and under her shirt. He let go, and she folded her arms over her stomach in a way that suggested being casual, keeping warm, and just trying to find a place for idle hands to be. This wasn’t the same thing as folding them when bothered.
“Yeah, alright. But if it makes you feel better, I’ve got mace in my back pocket.”
Not that mace could do much against someone with a gun, or fangs, or claws… just give her a chance to run like hell.
[Maija] Bronzeville isn’t a place for a pretty girl – or any girl really – but Maija isn’t necessarily that pretty, though she ain’t ugly either. Either way, with the drop in temperature, the oversized hoodie has reappeared and swallows her form. She has the hood pulled low, and her hand shoved into the ‘roo pocket of the fleece that swallows her too-thin form. She walks like someone who has someplace to get too, and not exactly slowly either. Her gait is long, her form slight, and she moves with the grace of someone quite used to blending in, not attracting attention, keeping her head down and her feet moving.
Just keep moving.
Since the attack and consequent explosion of the corner store where she used to buy her groceries, she now travels on foot out of her way to procure the things she needs, and those she doesn’t or shouldn’t, like cigarettes. She wasn’t carded today – Score! – so she has a pack in her pocket, next to the book she’s currently reading. Next to her blade. Girl ain’t stupid, after all.
In the other hand, the one not in the pocket, obviously – she holds a canvas bag, containing what little groceries she picked up today. And while she tends to be streetsmart on most days – today she decides on a shortcut, and thus, she turns the corner and starts down the walk that will bring her straight past a certain junkyard, and the little group conversing there.
[Joe Holst] At first Joe scowls at Delmar’s laugh- he tries too, anyway. After a second or two, something oddly like mirth starts to tug this way and that at his openly hostile demeanor. A pull at his mouth here, a tilted eyebrow there.. eventually he’s trying to fight off a smile with his face pointed at the ground. He’d been caught and he knew it.
“Quiddit, asshole…” Its an aside to Delmar, and rather comradely at that. “Woulda got away widdit tew…” he squints a bit and looks at Drew with one narrowed eye. She may not have seen, after all.
As Drew offers explanation, Joe turns serious again. He squints into her face and chews on something that doesn’t agree with him. “Whul.. yew needa drive heah. Get me? At least. I’ll push a little dat direction an’ see wha’ th’ bangers’ll gimme. Deah not real fehgivin, so, yoah not gonna pick heh up feh about four oah five days. Got it?” He nods in conclusion, and turns to Delmar, interest gleaming in his face.
“Hey deah.. m’name’s Joe…” He looks around briefly, and lowers his voice as he offers a hand. “Joe Holst. Folk call me War- Handed, yeah? Cliath. Son uh Fenris. Sword uh Heimdall.”
[Drew Roscoe] And Drew had been so worried about keeping an eye on Joe that Delmar completely slipped under her radar. She heard a strange half-snerking noise behind her, saw Joe react, and twisted to look over her shoulder at the hoodie-clad man with the pale features, one hand pressed over his mouth by the back of the wrist, coming their way. She eyeballed him cautiously, frowned and glanced back to Joe when he said he would’ve gotten away with something, and thought for a second before flexing her hands against her sides, where she’d tucked them a few inches below her armpits.
It’s unwise to hit the Modi, even if it is in something of a good nature.
Instead, she hummed a non-committed answer to Joe’s telling her that she wasn’t coming out here for another four or five days, and turned to quietly appraise the guy that was coming to join them. Joe used The Words, so he was probably a Werewolf too.
[Delmar Meister] “Uhhhhhhh…” Is what comes out as soon as he’s opened his mouth, and his gaze goes from Joe to Drew, and back around them. He takes Joe’s meaty hand in his own, shaking firmly.
“Delmar Meister. They call me Low Key though. Fenris like you, but uhhhhh….”
He removes his hands and takes a step back.
“The swords? Shiiiiit.”
And as Maija approaches, Dalmar seems to sink back down into his hoody, hands disappearing into pockets again.
[Maija] She’s not completely oblivious of the group ahead of her. Not that she’d show her interest other than and look from under the hood, and a judge of the open path around them that will take her to the next alley in her backstreets shortcut tour of Bronzeville.
In her pocket, her fingers tighten around the blade, at her side the tension shows in the squeeze of fingers around canvas straps. It’s only when she gets closer that the force or Rage is added to that – and she swallows hard.
One food in front of the other. That’s all ya need to do. Put one foot in front of the other.
[Joe Holst] Consternation, simple, and direct, spreads across Joe’s face as Delmar takes his hand- and then a step back. Joe’s meaty paw turns palm up, a subtle question. Perhaps showing his lack of apparent cooties. He tilts an eyebrow and leaves the hand there… but with the other, he reaches out slowly to Drew. The bullish kid doesn’t seem to care where it lands. Stomach, her chest, her shoulder- such things are less important than making sure she’s out of the way should this new kinsman feel the need to take Joe’s measure. His fingertips brush Drew, and press until she takes a step or two away from the two Fenrir.
He turns to square up with Delmar- just a little, just subtly- and he murmurs quietly, but with feeling.
“I’m da enemy of owah enemies, Kin. I aint got a problem wit nobady heah. Awright?”
[Drew Roscoe] Some kind of tension that Drew didn’t completely understand, mainly because she didn’t understand what ‘Swords’ meant, sparked up between the two men. She looked between them, uncertain, and chose to settle her gaze on the new guy. Joe was unpredictable, but she trusted him to an extent. It was strangers that you had to be wary of. They could look like harmless, sad, overweight saps in coffee shops, then the next thing you know they’re crunching on your lover’s skull like it’s a sucked-down gobstopper.
Joe reached out for her, absent, not bothering to look to see where his hand landed, and his fingers brushed on her face, from her cheekbone to her forehead, his index finger precariously balanced between brow ridge and poking her in the eye. She flinched back a little, shut her eyes and shook her head some, but that hand pressed to urge her backward.
“Christ, Joe,” she uttered to him with a low note of aggravation in her voice, and reached up to grab his hand, pull it down somewhere around her collarbone. She was urged back a few steps, pressed until she relented, and she was left standing on the curb with her heels hanging over the gutter, frowning faintly and rubbing her hands nervously together in front of her. Her gaze cut back to the girl in the oversized hoodie passing them on the broad sidewalk that was out in front of the junkyard.
“Take it easy,” she warned, eyes trailing after Maija.
[Delmar Meister] Delmar wasn’t very large or intimidating. In fact, from the look of the sunken flesh around his cheeks and eyes it was a little hard to imagine a rock hard six pack under that black hoodie. He wasn’t a musclebound specimen of a Fenrir. But for a moment, when Joe squared up to him, he met that small, subtle challenge with hard eyes and a tense, if brief stare.
And then he backs down.
Delmar steps back even further, nodding slowly.
“Hey uhhhhhhhhhh, take it easy. Whatever you uhhhhhhhh. Whatever you say, alright?”
[Maija] There seems to be some altercation brewing. What a shocker, in Bronzeville and all! She glances up, and briefly her dark eyes meet Drew’s, than slide away again. A glance at the boys, and she angles her pass to make sure there’s enough room between her and them that she can get out of the way if a punch is thrown.
In her experience, a punch is almost always thrown. Better safe than sorry.
The tension ratchets higher in her spine, sets in her shoulders, and settles in the breath she holds while taking those steps around them. A steady mantra goes through her mind as she does so – don’tgetinvolveddon’tdrawattentionkeepmoving – too bad that almost NEVER works.
[Joe Holst] “Ah shit.. I’m gettin’ dis wrong…” He looks back up to Delmar, distantly exasperated as the fuel for their people’s wrath distracts and overwhelms the boy for a moment. The last thing one would expect from such a creature as Joe is a hand asking for poise and patience, nevertheless, that’s what the new Fenrir gets. The brutish skinhead holds up a hand, forestalling further action as he sorts through the wiles of the moon and his own body chemistry.
“Look uh.. yeh welcome heah. Dis is Fenrir turf. Ah claimed it myself. Yah welcome heah. Yeah? Sahrry. S’just.. mah folk gotten pretty usedta a bad reception, huh?” He gestures Delmar to come closer. Join the group.
Joe’s face swings toward Drew as she warns him. Chill eyes skate across Maija- and there’s a flicker of recognition. That kin.. that used to work at the Brotherhood.. for the brief time Joe went there to do his laundry. He could be mistaken but.. He offers Drew a brief chuff of noise from his nostrils. The garou version of ‘got it’ and swings his attention back to Delmar. Trying suddenly to look smaller.
Right. Smaller. He punches his fists into his jacket pockets and tilts his chin a little. The language of wolves that offers welcome without violence.
[Delmar Meister] And with the larger man’s hands occupied, Delmar did indeed come closer. But he positioned himself closer to Drew, figuring things were less likely to get violent over on that side.
“Uhhhhh.”
He says tentatively and pulls the hood back from off his head. His grey eyes might have already given some indication of his breeding. The straw blonde hair that he’s got twisted into several tiny plots in every direction are another, even if he’d treated it irreverently.
“I’m new here. Obviously. Didn’t mean to disrespect you or uhhhhhh. Or your turf.”
[Drew Roscoe] He was right.
Kinfolk are meant to be watchdogs.
How ironic is that?
Drew did her job just fine, though, and rocked back and forth from toe to heel on her shoe, watching Maija curiously despite the fact that the girl had tucked her gaze away from her so quickly. She’d never seen her before, she had no idea who the woman was, and judging by the groceries stuffed in the oversized bag, the ratted-up hoodie, and the way she kept her head and eyes down and avoided them, she assumed she was just some low-income resident of Bronze that passed under the radar by the blessings of an adaptable mind and a plain appearance.
Drew returned her attention to the men boys beasts on unsteady ground, observed as that ground seemed to stop trembling long enough for Joe to make some kind of apology and peace offering to go along with it. Again the little Kin licked at her lips. Delmar stepped closer, choosing to stand nearer to her than to Joe, which was an understandable choice. His reasoning was sound. Where the Kinfolk was, there should be a little bubble of peace and protection. She was Base. But she still eyed him warily.
She hadn’t been introduced yet, had picked up on this, but chosen not to comment. She was curious in that irritated woman way to see how long she’d go unidentified and overlooked.
[Joe Holst] “Nah nah ya dint. It stahts ovah deah-” THe brutish skinhead points toward the street. “Wheah I metcha was pretty much Disciples turf. I just go ovah dat way ta make shuwah dey remembah me from time ta time, huh? Sorta tricky really.. Ahmean..” Joe shrugs, his gaze passing across Drew inclusively, and briefly before settling on Maija. He’s sure he’s seen her before.
“Mah crew’s sorta small. Jus’ me, an’ a badass of a Skald, an’..” Something occurs to him. “Hey- Da Wyrmfoe. He’s owah.. uh.. boss, huh? Oah gunna be yeah?” Joe smiles the happy grimace of a kid at the idea. The giddiness of a first pack.
“Anyhow. I took dis feh owah folk. Feh Fenris. Yah welcome heah.” One broad hand swipes a line toward the ground. Including Delmar on the part that Joe seems to believe is very much his own.
He holds the other Fenrir’s eyes long enough to look sincere, then glances at Drew. “‘Ey Drew- dis is Delmar. (He says ‘Delmah’) He’s one uh us, yeah? Big kind. Like me.” His eyes skate to Maija again. Something needs to be done here… he either knows her from before, or he’s seen her around. Either way- there are questions that need answering.
“Hey!” The shout is toward Maija. Its likely a lot more brutish than he means it to be.
[Maija] Delmar mentions turf, and inwardly she groans. That means that this area was claimed and she knows all to well what happens then. It makes her pause, though. To know, is to be prepared.
She seems to debate something. Probably the idiocy of asking the question vs. reveling in the unknown, and while she does so she looks over Joe again – and recognition flickers in dark eyes. That’s about when he shouts. She visibly flinches, even buried in the over-sized fleece, it’s obvious.
She stops. She ain’t stupid. “Yeah?”
[Joe Holst] Bright blues continue to skate across Maija. The opener is as good as any that can be expected.
“Dint I see yew at da Bruddahhood uh T’ieves?”
One murderous hand describes a slow, lazy, come here gesture.
[Delmar Meister] Delmar nods to Joe, and his lips quirk slightly when he says he’s welcome. Drew gets a lift of his chin for a greeting, as well as a smile.
Maybe it was a smile. His lips pulled back and his cheeks did something funny, but his eyes stayed the same, giving him an almost eerie, dead look. It left a lot to be desired, this possibly-a-smile.
“You can uhhhhhhhhhh call me Low Key if uhhhhhhhhhhhhh you want. And I aint uhhhhhhh. I aint that big. Really.”
And that was the other thing. The low timbre of his voice and the occasional droning as he seemed to search for words reminded one of the captain’s announcement on an airplane. Any moment now he was sure to announce ‘And if you look over our left wing you’ll see Joe Holst, Chicago’s largest man.’
Thankfully he didn’t.
[Thomas] The flush of the Gibbous moon always brought a rise.
The Full Moon was about fury. The Gibbous came close but was more for Passion. Expression. The Dump of raw emotion into an otherwise wild design. Veins sang. Blood pumped. Hearts thrummed. Dread collapsed and all the little things in life that made you second guess could go hang. You wandered and walked like Gods could care and made enemies, not acquaintances. Brothers, not friends. Lovers, not fuck buddies.
The World was a brisk and crisp and razor’s edge sort of view under the Gibbous light that filtered through a thin layer of cloudbank.
Joe’s Junkyard Hangout was a popular place tonight. Sort of a rarity by the Skald’s attentiveness, but then this place was not really pack turf yet. It was more Joe’s then anything thus far, but he felt…at home, nonetheless.
Perhaps that’s why as the group begin’s to form up and together, the tinkling of metal, scrap of rubber on painted hoods and inevitable dull thud of hard heels on compact dirt and concrete arrives without pause or flash of uncertainty at the unexpected presence of others.
He ’rounds the edge of the Trailer Joe called home/hovel, dressed in his favoured dark hoodie and track pants. The garrison boots are looking a little worn through by now, scuff and scratch marks a plenty on the toes. His face is shadowed slightly inside the voluminous hood over his scalp, coiled fists tucked into the front pocket of the sweater.
[Maija] She looks like she’s in fight or flight mode when that hand does a slow lazy gesture. Mentioning the brotherhood makes it only slightly better, though there’s the sure knowledge that those hands and the rage behind it could break her – and as one who’s been beyond broken before, the tension twisting along her spine is understandable.
She takes a breath, and then a step closer. Two. Moving until she’s near enough to talk, though not exactly joining either. “Yeah. I stayed there for a while. Did dishes n’shit.” a beat. “Name’s Maija.” Mi-yah. And it’s really and truly her name now.
[Drew Roscoe] Joe looks down at her once again, introduces her to this new guy, this Delmar (yeah, thanks, I caught that when he said his name and I was standing right there), and explains to her in terms that felt better suited for a five year old that he was a Monster. Like himself. The Modi’s attention shifted over to Maija, Drew glanced briefly to the girl, then turned her attention back to the new guy.
He doesn’t hold a hand out, so she doesn’t either. Just leaves her hands tucked under her arms, against her sides, and nods.
“Whatever you wanna be called, I guess. And no, in comparison you aren’t.” She studied him for a moment, his posture, and, more importantly, the smile that refused to come near his eyes, to even flex muscles around them let alone shine any sort of emotion in the irises. She found herself just as wary of him as she was of Decker, but in a very, very different way. Decker was predictable, she knew that already. He gets his way, always, until he bores of you. He responds violently, always, like a stick of dynamite. Delmar felt…. masked. She didn’t like it.
There’s movement past the gate into the junkyard, and it has Drew turning her attention inward, away from the street, swiftly. Her eyes flickered, shivered for a second while hunting for focus in the dusk of the coming night, then steadied on Thomas’s form. It would take a few seconds for his height, the shape of his shoulders, his gait, and the shadowed lines of his face to be placed in her mind, but when they were she relaxed.
A little.
[Delmar Meister] “Whats uhhhhhh. What’s the Brotherhood of Thieves?”
He’d just barely finished wresting the words from his own throat when Thomas’s footfalls announced themselves, and the newcomer came from inside the Junkyard. Well, there didn’t seem to be any better sign than that. This one belonged here too.
[Joe Holst] Joe’s nostrils flare a touch as, between the wafting scent of grime, of decay, the scent of one who carries destiny in his head reaches the Modi’s nose. He grins a savage, gap- toothed smile directed nowhere specifically, and turns slightly to welcome the Skald himself. The glaze of joy passes from his eyes and his attention narrows down to the here and now. Glories for the future left there for the time being.
“m’name’s Joe. I’m one uh da True.” Easy enough to hide terrible realities in the slang of the street. Joe’s eyes rest in Maija’s a beat longer than necessary, so that the real truth behind the term would be driven home, then he nods slightly, and tilts his face a bit to answer Delmar. “Bruddahhood’s wheah a lot uh da uddah tribes can get wit like minds. No action deah. Sah.. we don’ dew sah good deah, yeah?”
Somewhere, distantly, the young skinhead noticed how Drew relaxed with the arrival of the beloved Skald, and his body and posture reflect it. Only slightly and in increments, his kinsman can see how Joe was keeping her for him.
“Awright, Maija.. yew live aroun’ heah?”
[Thomas] The Skald’s face flexes around a brief frown, hand rising to pull the hoodie back, revealing a freshly shaved scalp (stubble barely visible) and the sort of rings you get under your eyes when the world you make up in your head won’t let you sleep longer then is bodily necessary. Fists emerge from inside the Hoodie to glance briefly at Joe, a nod and equally ferocious grin passed toward the Modi…
…Then he is scrutinizing in turn. Rapid fire honesty in those coal black eyes:
Delmar: Biggest threat. Most obvious True presence. The blood of Legends sings off him. Not as strongly as others, but there is the hard line of his nose, the vague hollow in his cheeks that speaks of harsh winters and cold winds, bitter in the heart and ears. Fenris in the man’s face.
Delmar gets a nod with a glance, like he were already recognized.
Drew: Receives a glance from beneath the hoodie. It is in passing, head turning toward Joe and the young girl he is speaking with. The Get Kin has little time to take anything of the Skald’s features in, before they’re turned elsewhere but there is something…disapproving? Resentful? Nothing that menial. It is more a patience. A waiting without the coach or coddle. Waiting for something from her…
…and on to Maija: He peers around the bulky Modi to regard the young girl he is speaking to. Slim and off. Hissing rats and hardship. His frown grows a fraction deeper though he doesn’t say anything.
…He just turns his way back toward Delmar.
“…Name and rank for my Memory…”
The voice is ugly. Twisted into a whine and crackle that breaks in the air. Quiet but unavoidably wince worthy. The features do not change to reflect the words.
[Maija] He’s one of the True. He told her, because the amount of rage is pressing along her skin, crawling up her spine, raising the small hairs at the base of her skull wasn’t enough to clue her in. Then again, some kin haven’t had the kind of up close and uncomfortable education she’s had about them, so she just nods. It’s a slight movement, just enough to be noticed by those watching for it.
And there’s another one coming. Under the force of his gaze, her fingers tighten where they’re hidden in her pocket, gripping metal there so hard her fingers will ache when she lets go. And she suddenly needs a smoke. Like way bad. Nevertheless, she stands her ground.
“Yeah. On S. Racine.” Which is the same street that saw their corner store blown up last month. Explains the longer trek for the groceries in hand, then.
[Drew Roscoe] Drew, for the most part, was left to her own devices for a moment. Joe was busy with this Maija girl, Thomas approached, skimmed the group (god, they were forming a group weren’t they?) and chose to address the newcomer. Understandable, it was what a wolf would do. Those familiar were checked and let be, those new were targets of focus. Drew shifted her weight more, seeming anxious.
Then Thomas spoke, and the voice that came from his mouth wasn’t his. Her reaction was partially a flinch, and partially a start of surprise. Her eyes widened some, a hand leapt up to press into her mouth, pinning lips to teeth. She didn’t say anything, but stared at his face for a long second, as though hunting for something. Her eyes dropped to his throat, then, trying to find some wound at his throat that might’ve changed his voice around.
She found nothing but was left with confusion and a nagging twinge of concern that she couldn’t shake. So, after a few stunned seconds, she shook her head, as though shaking herself out of a daze, dropped her eyes, and fished around in her pants pockets.
[Joe Holst] Joe’s attention swivels to the side slightly. Regarding Delmar in the wake of Thomas’ display of a known and not well regarded punishment to their kind. A warning waits in the gaze, but offers a chance.
((Guys I got a call. Going to need write Joe out. Thanks for the scene!))
It seems seamless. Thomas arrives, and Joe moves toward the mouth of the alley to make sure none of the bangers up the street followed. He moves with the intimate knowledge of a local. They’ll respect his territory for now.. but it won’t do to act like he isn’t guarding it.
[Delmar Meister] He regarded Thomas with an equal look of seriousness. Joe’d seen that look already when he squared up to him. An even, tense stare. When he turned, Dalmar even took the opportunity to size him up quickly.
And then, he speaks. There’s an unexpected wince that comes with the unexpected voice and Delmar’s eyebrows quirk oddly. He takes time again to eye the man, this time quite visibly so, before opening his mouth to speak.
“Uhhhh…what’d you say?”
[Thomas] The brow furrows slightly and then flattens out as the Skald turns more fully to regard Delmar, head tilting off to one side and hands emerging from the pocket to settle, half-curled as if the fists they’d once been in were trying to be memorable.
“…I said name and rank.”
The voice is the same. Painfully broken at the wrong moments. Difficult to work with and he seemed…uninterested in attempting to coach it so that it would, other then a vague sort of low to the octave.
[Delmar Meister] His lips pursed together and…and he caught that look from Joe before the he left. His eyes go back to the man who’d come out of the junk yard. The one out of the two of them that actually belonged here. And he remembered himself.
“Delmar Meister. Called Low Key. Cliath Rotagar.”
[Maija] And the questions cease, for now. No asking specifically where, no territorial marking stance, just him walking away. Maija finally releases the breath she’d been holding, in a slow exhale, even as she chances a long look at Thomas after he talks.
Weird.
She sets her grocery bag down between her feet, and digs into her pocket for a beat up bic lighter, while forcing her fingers to let go of the blade in her ‘roo pocket and appear with the pack of cigarettes instead. She taps the pack against her palm a few times, then opens it, tucking the cellophane into her pocket. A moment later, and she’s placing a cigarette between her lips, the pack in her pocket, and cupping the flame so that she can take that first drag.
[Drew Roscoe] Thomas spoke again, Drew flinched again, but kept her eyes down. A small purple cellphone was dragged out of her pocket, and she turned away from the two men, giving Maija an odd glance, something that was half questioning, half empathetic. She understood the boat, a kinfolk confronted by strange Garou who spoke to you only because they recognized what you were, then left you in the dust of conversation unsure of whether you should walk away or if doing so would get you in trouble.
She got that.
While dialing a number, she walked away, about a dozen yards off, then lifted the phone to her ear.
[Thomas] “Mmm…”
It crackles again, Thomas attention having left the Modi to go to his business. This part of the city was rife with pains, strife, anger and the sort of hate you felt on reflex and never thought to correct. You couldn’t walk a block without noticing some sign of Destruction. It suited the towering Modi well, his appetites for violence assuaged, even celebrated within the streets. It would not be hard to wonder at the methods to his happiness found here in the refuse and forgotten of Bronzeville.
Thomas is similar but not the same. A livewire dangling from a street light. Something to be observed and remembered so it could be avoided.
“Gut~Song” It came out most coherent, voice husking as if dried out and awaiting the crack and break that arrives in the next part of the introduction.
“Skald for Fenris.” A pause, not a hesitation. His head tilts. “Welcome brother.” The words were broken but the tone was not. In that last word alone, there is a something of strength. Conviction. Faith. He bore no blood of legends but instead, carried Fenris in those eyes. Raw and honest.
[Drew Roscoe] A quiet, murmered conversation took place while Thomas cracked and rasped at the new guy that Drew refused to trust, not even as far as she could throw him, and while Maija was quiet and puffing at her cigarette with her groceries left on the ground.
“Rochelle? Yeah-.. Yeah, I.. can’t make it. I’m sorry, I’ve run into something that I can’t pull away from. …I know, toots, it’s not that, I just can’t… No. No. Oh come on, I just saw them. Lamont’s got that clunker up and running, just have him come get her. …Nah, this is it. Sorry. Yeah, sorry again. Bye.”
The phone was clicked closed, slipped back into her pocket, and the Kinswoman sighed and plucked the gray knit hat off her head to drag her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp at the back of her head some for a few seconds, mussing her hair before pulling the hat back on, shoving the red sleeves of her baseball shirt down, and turning to regard the three from her slight distance.
She didn’t walk back over just yet, but instead looked on, listened, and contemplated.
[Maija] She tucks her lighter away, and hoists her grocery back into her hand as she turns her head to the side, exhaling a plume of grayish smoke. The Garou were posturing – uh, introducing – and she takes the chance to step away, following the path Drew did.
A pause, as she got closer, and then. “You was at the bonfire. One Decker grabbed up, before gettin his ass kicked by that skinny kid in football…”
[Drew Roscoe] Well, she was content to watch and listen until the skinny woman dwarfed by her sweater walked over, bringing the smell of cigarette with her. Drew wrinkled her nose a little, but said nothing and wiped the expression from her face quick enough. Maija was regarded almost cautiously at first, and her brow furrowed just a little when Maija chose to make her first words to the Fenrir Kinfolk ones that recalled the shame she’d experienced the first night she’d been introduced to a mass grouping of Werewolves.
Drew’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the same kind that bothered teachers or mothers were known to use, then she nodded simply and hitched her thumbs into the belt loops of her pants, hunching her shoulders up and locking her elbows in doing so. The pose was uncomfortable, idle, out of place. She didn’t know what to do with herself, exactly, and seemed a bit lost, or like she was waiting for something, and that something wasn’t uncomfortable conversation.
But she replied, she wasn’t so rude as to ignore someone completely.
“Yeah….” The tone was bitter, restrained, like she was holding her tongue against something more biting. “That’d be right.”
[Maija] She is careful to keep her cigarette smoke downwind of Drew, and when she lifts it to her lips to take another drag, she exhales in such a fashion it is drawn away from her. When Drew confirms, there’s an expression that flows across her features, chased away almost as soon as it arrived. It didn’t last long enough to really be deciphered, especially when aided by hood that shades her features. It could be just about anything. It’s most likely understanding. All that remains when it’s gone is a slight smirk as Drew answers carefully and bites something back.
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I know he’s a dick. Ain’t with his crew or nuthin, jus’ met’im a few times.” It’s offered almost offhand, but with the definite underlying truth: there are a lot worse. A lot. Right here in Chicago. “Ya ain’t gonna stick ya foot in anythin’ by sayin so.”
Anyway. Her voice pitched lower, softer. “Ya ever need t’get away from th’assholes for a bit, look me up at the Family BBQ on Racine. They ain’t discovered it yet, an’ the ribs is good.”
[Delmar Meister] “Uhhhhhhhhhh.” Low Key still had that confused furrow in his brow, and a tension in his cheeks. “I uhhhh. I gotta ask. What’s with the voice, man?”
And with the question finally out there he pulled his hands from his pockets, tensing himself, making ready. Drew had stepped away and there was no longer a kin buffer to keep him safe. Still, he pressed on.
“I mean uhhhh. Not exactly what I expected from a skald. Know what I mean?”
[Thomas] I mean uhhh. Not exactly what I-
“…The Jackal punishment…”
He is turning away as Delmar offers an opinion, moving toward the Trailer not far from them. His voice was an odd wreckage of breaks and separations, syllables hanging oddly while the vocal smoothness was roughed away by spasms of muscle or sudden parchness in throat.
“…Want a Beer?” He dug into the porcelain of a thrown away toilet, pulling free a couple of cans of Budweiser. They’d recently stocked up and the chill of Chicago’s coming winter would ensure they remained comfortably cool.
[Delmar Meister] “Fuck yeah.”
Delmar’s expression turns suddenly relaxed. Calmly, he approaches closer to the skald, nodding with a pleased look on his face.
“First day and uhhhhh already two fenrir and beer. This city aint uhhhhhh, aint bad.”
[Drew Roscoe] Look me up, she offers. Drew felt like she was getting this from several sides. Messages, little notes, almost sad looking glances. Mia felt something akin to compassion that refused to be labeled as pity for her, to be born into a tribe of such brutes, such uncompromising animals. Gina wanted to keep her at a distance because she was young, stupid, and wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t submit. Her temper flared just a little when she thought about the Strider (though she didn’t know what a Strider was, or even that Gina was one), and she bit some at her lower lip before adjusting her stance again, sliding her feet apart some and settling her weight back so her hips jutted forward just a little. It was a pose that tried a little too hard to be casual, and the footing gave it away as otherwise.
“Y’know? I needed to get away from those assholes when their ringleader was dragging me across the field to a game where they were breaking bones and laughing it off. I needed someone to step up and do something before he dumped my ass on the ground. Y’all girls were like vultures, y’know? Little bit. Waited ’till the Big Bad stomped off and carried his fury with him, then came zooming in to help, to coddle, to comfort.”
She snorted, and the sound was unceremonious and harsh, especially when the face, body, and general demeanor were taken into account with the reaction. “Kinda sorry that you can call him a dick and such now, but wouldn’t say a peep when he was around. Kinda sorry that it took the new kid to stand up to him, not let him throw a fit and get his way ’cause he’s used to it.
“Tell ya what. I’ve got my family, and my places to be when I wanna get away from assholes. Good ribs are hard to turn down, may drop by sometime for them, but they aren’t deaf or dumb, so you’re gonna wanna keep a tighter lip if you wanna keep it that way.”
Jeeze, Drew, hostility much?
[Thomas] “….Two of many…”
He tosses a budweiser at Delmar without very much consideration for gentleness. He takes up a seat near the Trailer, crouching down until he’s settled onto a milk crate with the sort of ease and comfort that comes with home territory. His eyes have failed to vent any of the frantic sort of energy that is housed within, though the lids and flesh around them seem to carry the body’s wants and needs. A vague level of exhaustion touches his face and the space that appears between a jaw slightly ajar.
“…Silence~rhya stands as Jarl. Adren, Modi. Truth~rhya is the Elder Rotagar present. Do not piss either off. The rest of the Sept is…” something akin to a sneer creeps across his features.
“…The Fenrir are strong here.” The sharp cracks and breaks are struggled against for the first time as the word ‘Fenrir’ bleeds from his lips. It sounds more like a rasp then an actual word.
[Maija] She doesn’t say anything until the kinfolk is done, and then her lips twist into a smirk. This one isn’t chased away. She takes a final drag, flicks the butt to the ground and tamps it out. On exhale. “”Nice tunnel-vision. Consider th’offendin offered folded inta all sharp corners an’ shoved.”
She steps away, then turns. “An’ it was his mate that stepped up t’tell him t’back th’fuck off ya. In process. Which is why ya was dumped on ya ass instead o’dragged off. This girl was workin – ain’t no trustfund baby here. Yer were just dumped on ya ass. Ya ain’t even MET a real asshole yet.” SHe chuckles, and it’s without any trace of amusement. Mostly, it’s tired. Make an effort, they said. This is why she don’t.
“Revisionist history is for the weak. An’ I lied about th’ribs. They’re shit.”And with that, she completes her turn, and walks away.
[Drew Roscoe] “Are you shitting me?!” Drew asks no one in particular. Maija says her piece and walks away, puffing on her cigarette as she goes. Drew makes no move to stop her, to press the argument any further. Rather she spins about in the opposite direction and marches back to the junkyard where the men had disappeared. A glance was cast over her shoulder to the girl storming/stalking off on her own accord, then she pushed her way in through the gate into the yard and walked over to Thomas and Delmar with a tension in her muscles and a violence in her step that was recognized as bubbling aggravation.
They each had a beer, looked relatively relaxed, and the irony would strike her later. Monster with a primal, fire kind of hate were more at east and calm than she, just a normal girl that could see too much was. She was letting this get to her, she knew that. She shouldn’t be so pissed off by the girl’s words. She didn’t feel like she’d been scolded or corrected or anything of that sort, but rather she felt like everyone had a bubble around their heads of what or was not acceptable. What did or did not work, what was or was not a desired result. The frustration that came from no one understanding her point made her want to hit walls and kick doors.
She settled for scuffing her sneaker in the dirt before gesturing to the beer clasped in Delmar’s hand and speaking to Thomas.
“Another one of those somewhere?”
[Delmar Meister] Well how about that? He’d gone so far just to come back to something like home. He’d already cracked open the tab on the beer and was watching the skald talk with an odd half grin on his face. The Fenrir here were strong, he’d said. But Delmar was equally interested in what Gut-Song hadn’t said. He took a long swig from the beer can before speaking again.
“So were do I uhhhhhh meet these two? Silence and Uhhhhh Truth? Yeah. Think i’ll uhhhhhhhh.. I think I’ll make it straight with them first.”
[Maija] (Thanks for the play! :) )