[Andrew] For in this world I’m bound to ramble, I have no friends to help me now. He wanders along the edge of the park. And turns. Curving into the park. Wandering past the crazy statues. Humans paying tribute to their past glories. To their own ancestors and spirits that created the world they live in. It’s strange to him sometimes how even humans have a primal need to honor their ancestors just like the Garou. A feeling that it’s important to venerate the spirits, in their own mentally crippled way.
He lets out a sigh and works the fingers of his hands open and closed. Trying to keep the fingers from freezing up in the cold. He wears his usual t-shirt with tattered hoodie pulled down over his head. Face only a dark hole in the amber lights of the park. Tattered sweatpants and sneakers. Cargo pants peeking out through the sweat pants. Smelling a bit of the street funk and dusted with dirt as he goes along.
[Lonna Larson] The park was getting cold. She wrapped herself up in a corduroy jacket and a pair of jeans. It was starting to get cold now, and soon enough the weather would be getting cold enough that Lonna would have to break out her winter coat instead of a heavy jacket. She looked at the sky, at the light cloud cover, and she relaxed. For now? She was comfortable. For now? She was safe, or as safe as a single woman in the park could be.
She stopped, and for a second movement caught her eye and she perked up. The beautiful blonde woman watched as the male made his way along the edge of the park. She inhaled, and found her eyes following Andrew across the park. She cocked her head to the side, and started to head his way curiously.
[Andrew] I’ve seen trouble all my days. I bid farewell to old Carolina. The place where I was born and raised. Large hands. Nimble thick fingers. Powerful, those hands. His body is stocky, and turned padded like some football player by the layers of clothing he piles on to keep from freezing to death without realizing he was freezing to death. His arms and legs might not get frostbite and fall off, but he’s betting that someday he find something cold enough to actually hurt him. Just not today. But still. Appearances.
Humans, as he’s learned over and over again, are all about appearances. If he wanders the chill night in a t-shirt and cargo pants he’s bound to draw attention from someone thinking he must be a lunatic and when his flesh isn’t ice cold from exposure, but instead red and flushed and hot, it’ll raise more questions. He lets out a sigh into the humid air and a puff of vapor gushes from his mouth and curls up into the sky, fracturing and rended by the air.
There’s a definitive feral prowl to his movements, and a smoothness and surity, a sense of confidence, that’s rare to find. He should be a bawler. Maybe not basketball, too short. Soccer? Bit bulky. Rugby? Maybe. Running into him would surely hurt. Football? That anyone could see. The sight of him armored like a midieval warrior, charging into combat with a ball instead of a sword and a logo emblazoned on the side of his helmet rather than a crest on his helm is easy to see. He belongs in combat. Of one sort or another.
[Lonna Larson] She looked at him, and humans were all about appearances. Humans were afraid of him, because Andrew was all primal grace and feral savagery. He was strength and power, and most humans were afraid of his scarred face and his uncommon speech patterns.
Lonna looked at him, and she started to look at him. Lonna started to press forward, and she moved forward. There was tension riding throughout her body, and Lonna knew that she should not be approaching him. She knew that she should not be so close to the creature in front of her, but… but it didn’t stop her from moving forward. From going and investigating this man in the short sleeves and cargo shorts.
“Is everything okay?” she asked him. “You must be cold.”
Bless her heart, Lonna meant well.
[Andrew] He was prowling along, and didn’t stop when she spoke up. But he looked at her as the little pathway they were on headed closer and closer to one of the numerous underpasses that would take them under street level and on to the next part of the park. He eyed her for a moment. She could feel the hungry dead eyes flick up and down her body. She was pretty, and she had to know that. Surely she’d been hit on by nearly every man she’s known and half the women. She’s the kind of attractive that’s enough to catch the eyes, with a simplicity to it that also sense the signal that she’s something a man could possess. Not so sexy that men cower, fearing rejection. Just the right balance between amazing beauty and approachability.
And he looks away without apparently registering some sort of attraction. His first ‘word’ is a grunt of acknowledgement. Sure he’s fine. He’s a beast. He’s in some inclement weather and he’d be far more comfortable if he had some nice fur and a den to be hiding out in right now but he doesn’t so his skin is flushed pinkish. There should be steam rising off him, though there’s not. He should be curled in a ball shivering, but he’s not that either. “M’fine. Your name is Lonna?”
[Rory O’Bryne] (Room for another?)
to Andrew, Lonna Larson
[Lonna Larson] (Go for it!)
to Andrew, Rory O’Bryne
[Andrew] ((Sure!))
to Lonna Larson, Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] She couldn’t sleep, and her new roommate snored. Sharing a room with someone at the Brotherhood is taking a bit to get used too, even though she’s never actually seen this person but in passing, or when they’re sleeping. Tonight the snoring hit a new level, and rather than smother the unsuspecting woman in her sleep, she opted for a walk in the park.
It’s chilly, and her jacket is zipped up, the hood pulled over a mass of curly red hair that refuses to be completely contained. Jeans and boots complete the look, as she wanders the deserted paths of the park.
Well, mostly deserted, anyway.
[Lonna Larson] He grunts. He says that he is fine without having to say it at all. He is fine, yes, and these things are okay. She looks at Andrew and takes him in. He looks at her; she is capable of being possessed. She wouldn’t say no if someone asked- she very rarely did. Lonna was well aware of her reputation. She was lovely, but not overly complicated; the combination of her demeanor and appearance that made her so… accessable.
He looks at her, up and down as though he is hungered; on some level she is used to this. She reaches up and finds herself toying with blonde curls. She is concerned, yes, but not overly so. She is not as edgy as she normally is around him. Her name is Lonna, yes?
“Yes, and you’re…?” she’s pulling for a name, and there is no answer there, “… Andrew?”
[Andrew] For six long years I’ve been in trouble. No pleasure here on earth I’ve found. He nods a bit, which is a gesture that used to be alien to him but that he’s picked up and nearly mastered as much as any other human to the point where it’s almost, but not quite, natural. His feet pad along with hers and he doesn’t seem at all concerned with where they’re going as they wander past the lights that illuminate the night into the darkened passageway that begins leading them under one of the roads that crisscross through the park. Pass on through to the otherside, they should. And she’s heading into a dark tunnel with a gruesome looking feral – The fuck ate his face? A lawn mower? – that could rip her asunder.
“S’what they call me.” So rare to hear him use contractions. And it even has the tiniest bit of a southern tilt to it. English wasn’t his native language, her certainly learned it somewhere, and somehow he must have learned it in the south at some point in his life. It’s stilted and a little awkward. Not smooth like the humans that grow up with it and not quite as wandering and choppy as the foreigners who grow up using their tongue to form alien syllables, and have to relearn the shapes that make the noises.
[Rory O’Bryne] Movement ahead catches her eye, as Lonna and Andrew enter the tunnel that will bring them her way. She tips her head, slightly, and makes sure to step to the side. There’s enough room for them to pass her by if they wish.
There’s no denying purities song in her veins, any more than there is the an ability to ignore the clash of rage, even under the dwindling moon. She keeps her head down, though pale green eyes lift when they get closer, tracking their progress…
[Lonna Larson] “So… is that your name? People can call you a lot of things, and it doesn’t make them a name,” she assures him.
And instinct dictates so many things, and on some level Andrew scares her more than any garou, much less one of her own tribe, should frighten her. Andrew makes her genuinely uncomfortable, and she isn’t even sure why. It could be because of her exposure to ferals. It could be because she is so far removed from wolves themselves that she simply does not know what to do. But she knows names. And she holds them dear. Holds them close so that she could remember them.
She knows where she’s headed, so she stops moving and instead decides to be stationary.
[Andrew] She stops. And he pauses as well. A flick of a glance to the dark tunnel ahead. Unaware of any danger. What danger does he live in? A wyrm beast might jump out and attack him but so far he hasn’t met anything he’s had to run from. He hasn’t met anything that puts such fear into him that he turns and runs. He fights tooth and nail and runs on pure instinct like some beast of war. They all had a little bit of that in them.
He takes a few more steps and puts his back to the darkness. Turning to face her fully. Look her in the eyes with undeniably human brown eyes in a face that belongs to villians in movies. The evil are always marked. They’re always scarred. Deformed. Ugly. In some way. As if the outer shell of a being always imitates the inner heart that beats. Ugly on the inside so ugly without. It’s no wonder he’s got a reputation.
His voice is low, whiskey smokey. He could have been a chain smoking drunk. Had to be, to get that voice. It’s oddly appealing, and cranks up the creep factor in how it contrasts to the hideous mask and scarred mouth that makes the voice. “I was born with no name. And then I earned a name and I was given a name. Am I twice blessed? It’s what the humans call me. Andrew.” And he shrugs.
[Rory O’Bryne] They stop on the other side, the far side, and wait. For what, she doesn’t know. It might be for her, but then again, why would it be? She doesn’t hesitate, but continues on. Into the darkness of the tunnel, step after step, until her presence presses at the Feral’s back, her rage preceding the actual steps, making it seem as something so much larger is coming up on them.
But no. It’s just a smallish, pale, slender woman who couldn’t be taller than 5’4″, who’ steps are quiet and who’s blood sings of Celtic warriors and kings.
[Lonna Larson] “Well,” she starts, “Which do you prefer?”
a strange question. But red hair catches the blonde’s attention and the almost painfully attractive woman finds herself looking down the way, and she sees red hair. She has no idea that this woman is a Fianna, has no clue what blood she bleeds, but she knows that she is intense. And she knows that her blood sings of the Celts and war without Lonna having to know anything about her at all.
He is monstrous. Rory is an abomination. And Lonna?
Well, Lonna’s a witch and a freak, but we aren’t going to discuss this.
[Andrew] His head tilts. Since when did what he’d prefer ever enter the equation? He’s never had a human ask him a question like that. Which name did he prefer? The concept of names at one time had been alien. He knew scents. There was no need to have a name attached. It was the scent. And it was all that mattered. Right now he smelled of dirt. The streets. Of his own musk body odor. But made crisp by the cold air. How could he explain something like names?
His eyes flick over his shoulder. Spot the red hair. The sense of Rage he feels tingling up his spine and making his hair rise on the back of his neck. He could almost smell out her breeding. One of the Proud mead-drinking moon-worshipping pagan-god-following torc-wearing heroes of her kind. They ran close to her blood.
And he twisted back to Lonna. Tall and blond curls. Openness and accesibility wrapped in beauty that scares men or makes them lust after her in immoral ways. And he steps towards her abruptly. Moving into the little invisible personal bubble that follow humans around. Pressing through it like plastic, stretching and then pop. And the crook of his neck where it meets his collarbone is almost in her face. His knees bent a bit. And his head dips and he’s breathing in the smell at the crook of her neck. And it’s what he remembers. It’s her name.
[Rory O’Bryne] Andrew smells and remembers scents – but he would not get that from Rory. Despite the fact that her breeding rings true, it is the same as any other with the same mark of history under their skin. Her skin itself is scentless. He smells of sweat and musk and body oder. She smells of…nothing. It’s an absence that makes her stand out even farther than her red hair.
Andrew steps into Lonna’s personal space, and Rory ducks her head, almost embarrassed to have witnessed such an intimacy. She moves as if to scoot past them without drawing any more notice than she already has.
[Lonna Larson] It’s immediate.
He moves into her space, and she tenses immediately. Visibly. The gesture is distinctly inhuman, and hers is a reaction that is distinctly human. Someone was in her space, moving in and taking liberties when human decencies dictated otherwise. Andrew was not human, though, and the reaction to such was instinctive.
He steps into her space, and she leans her head back slightly and to the side- her neck is exposed. Lonna doesn’t move. She just waited.
[Andrew] His head tilted a bit. She exposed her throat. And on some level, he appreciated that. She was the omega here. And he was in charge. And she knew that. Acknowledged it in a way few humans did and it made him a little more ease.
But it wasn’t what he was trying to teach her. And things were about to get uglier. The poor girl. Don’t you know you don’t hang out with scary faced ferals in the dead of night in abandoned parks near dark tunnels of Doom?!
One hand comes up. Slips into her hair. Part of him notes how soft it is. Silky between his fingers. But he’s not paying that much attention to that. And the other arm moves up, hand forming a hook that latches on just above her hip and across part of the small of her back so she can’t yank herself away. His hand in her hair, against the back of her head, pushes her head in closer to him. Tries to turn her face into him, instead of baring her neck. Get her to take a whiff.
And his voice rumbles near her ear. “Smell.”
[Rory O’Bryne] Rory steps up even to the couple, and then past, doing her best not to truly disturb them – while watching from the corner of her eye, just the same.
[Rory O’Bryne] (Did we lose Lonna? I think we did…)
to Andrew
[Andrew] ((Hmmm… seems we did. Crap. I hope she’ll be back soon.))
to Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] (Do you want to write her out and play on or…?)
to Andrew
[Andrew] (I’m gonna give her some time. Sometimes she has rounds she has to attend to. She usually comes back.)
to Rory O’Bryne
[Andrew] (If she’s not back in 15, I’m gonna call it a night. :( )
to Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] (Ok. I’m finding it very difficult to get into scenes here. Is that normal?!)
to Andrew
[Rory O’Bryne] (Am I just doing it wrong? Haha!)
to Andrew
[Andrew] ((It can be difficult. I don’t think you’re doing it wrong. It takes some time for people to get to know you and start talking to you. A lot of people jump into scenes by talking to each other on AIM first too. I’d look up some of the more active WTA folks on AIM and try talking to them.))
to Rory O’Bryne
[Andrew] ((Talking to you OOCly, anyway. If your char is involved in something IC, no one’s going to particularly ignore you I don’t think. But their characters (some of them) are going to be shy around strangers anyway. They see a lot of folks come and go. Being at the brotherhood helps.))
to Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] (yeah. Rory is staying at the Brotherhood, but it seems to be empty, lately. Maybe it’ll pick up this weekend. Thanks for the tips!)
to Andrew
[Andrew] ((No problem. Look up Damon on AIM and tell him you’re interested in being in storylines. There’s usually some random group of people gathering for a one-shot SL. Battling beasties. Ask him to mention them to you. See if anything’s going on.))
to Rory O’Bryne
[Andrew] ((Have a good one! Hopefully some other time.))
to Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] (I’ll be around. Thanks again!)
to Andrew