[Curata] He had stood there in silence, watching the swell of anger rising in the Metis. Curata kept his tongue as he watched Charlie disappear behind the building, glad he at least saw the Fianna’s reasons for the clean up.
When the familiar voice comes over the phone, Curata tells Imogen the location of the incident and to bring body bags, and to see if she’ll stop by his truck on the way to get his gym bag under the seat, he’d fill her in on the rest of the details when she gets there.
He clips the phone shut, muttering under his breath as he steps out of sight and waits for her.
[Imogen] Lakeview is her area of town, which is sharply separate from “territory”. Still, it means a short wait for the doctor, even with the detour to stop at his truck.
She drives an old Volvo, held together with rust and paint, the engine sounding choppy and untuned. It was supposed to last her only for the rest of the summer, but it has managed to go for a bit more.
She pulls to a stop and cuts the engine before getting out. The kinwoman is dressed for business – a pin stripe suit, a pale blouse beneath a suit jacket. One imagines she has committed herself to the ruin of her attire.
Her eyes move over the area, taking in what she sees and looking for the Fianna as she shifts the gym bag from her left hand to her right.
[Curata] Curata steps out from around the dumpster, his breath catching on the chill in the air. Already he has stripped down out of his jacket and shirts, using the bloody material to rip strips out of it to bandage up the bite marks he’s sustained on his arms and torso.
He grimaces a little, still running on the adrenaline and gifts coursing through his veins to keep the pain down. “Imogen,” a curt nod of his head to her in greeting, “Charlie and I tossed’em in ‘ere.”
He indicates the dumpster, flipping back the black lids, and peeking inside. “I can jump in to toss them at ye. There isn’t any blood, just walking corpses, smelled o formaldehyde.”
[Imogen] She pauses briefly, “In tha’ case, best not t’toss them,” she says, just in case it was meant literally, “Formaldehyde would be toxic fer me.” A beat, “And none too kind to you, I would imagine. You want gloves?”
She puts the gym bag down beside the dumpster stepping back before turning to head back to the car to retrieve garbage bags and gloves for herself, for Curata if he wants them.
She studies him as she returns, her gaze even on his body, asexually taking stock of his wounds, raking her dark eyes over his flesh before turning her gaze upward. They are former tribesmates – one can barely tell for the business-like attitude of their acquaintance.
“You think you’re up fer helpin’ me bury ’em somewhere? I won’t be able t’burn them.” She puts the case down, opening it to retrieve thick latex gloves, slipping them over her slender hands with an ease of habit.
[Curata] “If’n it were toxic for me, lass, after I bit chunks o flesh from their hides. I’d probably suffer from poisoning by now, don’tcha think?”
He laughs, casting a glance over a shoulder at her. It seems inappropriate for such a reaction, but it is there. He gestures for the gloves, “I’ll take a pair, just in case.”
The strips of dark grey cotton soak up human bite marks around his upper right arm and part of his left side. There was a few at the back of his shoulder near his neck where another had grazed over the naked muscle. The flesh was torn, wounds aggravated, likely to leave scars if they weren’t properly healed through other means than his body’s natural regeneration.
Aesthetically, Curata was pleasing to the eyes, if a woman preferred his type of dark appearance. She’ll see other details of his previous battles, small white scars that slice up his ribcage in a perfect incision. He didn’t carry much in the way of battle scars as other Garou or ahrouns might.
Curata takes the gloves and the gym bag from her, setting it down on the ground. He slid the gloves over his big hands, deciding to change after he goes diving into the dumpster. “I’ll have one odd request from ye and I’ll ‘elp to bury them. I want the heads.”
He rests his hands on the edge of the dumpster, muscles bulging up in his arms and chest as he easily pulls himself up onto the edge, balanced on his feet and drops inside, starting to heft the corpses and their remains up one at a time.
[Imogen] A slight lift of the shoulders at his somewhat inappropriate laugh, at his question. “I haven’t the faintest idea. In humans th’effect isn’t always immediate, it’s long term damage.” He says he’ll take the gloves. She gives them to him, gloves which are clearly not meant for her, but left in the case for others, as they come close to fitting the Fianna, though they do stretch tight over the knuckles.
Imogen’s mouth twists slightly as he says he wants the heads. It is a wry expression, one that acknowledges the morbidity of their conversation. “Souvenirs, is it?” Her tone suggests that it is not so strange to her, after all.
“I have no problem wi’ you takin’ the heads.”
They begin the macabre work of bagging the bodies, Curata passing them over and Imogen letting them drop into an open bag which she holds, when it’s feasible, taking them herself in her gloved hands when it’s not.
They work silently, quickly. The smell of formaldehyde gets up in their nostrils, and a few times, Imogen turns her head to avoid inhaling a particularly juicy breath of toxin.
When the dumper is empty and the bags are full, she steps back to allow Curata room to exit and wordlessly hefts one of the bags with a faint sound of effort. Slight though she has, she is not weak, at least not by the standards of her body type or gender or breed. She is, still, kinfolk and female and petite in her size – but she does it anyway.
[Curata] Curata cannot help but smirk, rather boyishly at Imogen meeting her wry expression. He nods his head to her “Souvenirs, is it?” Amused that she isn’t squeamish over the idea of him taking them.
“I can see ye ‘ave been ‘rounds Fianna a lot if’n ye ain’t going to argue wi’ me taking heads.” A favorite pastime for him or any Fianna to collect the heads of their enemies as trophies, it is what he uses to decorate the Wyrm pole back at the Caern.
Curata picks up the last of the bags, carrying one in each hand as he lifts them off the ground, his boots eating up pavement as he moves quietly yet efficiently back and forth until they fill up the trunk’s space. On the last bag, Curata steps away to pick up the gym bag, moving behind the dumpsters to change clothes, removing the torn and bloody ones. When he comes back, he balls them up with the rubber gloves and tosses them into a garbage bag.
“Ready when ye are, Doc.”
[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly at the question, but does not expound on it in favour of focusing on the task.
She is standing at the driver’s side of the door while he changes, leaning back and watching the streets as she waits. The smell of formaldehyde is strong in the air. It’s unpleasant. She can feel it sticking to her clothing.
Ready when you are, Doc, she tilts her head toward the car in answer, pulling open the door and getting inside. She leans over and unlocks the passenger’s side door as Curata circles around, straightening to fit her key into the ignition.
“Do you know the Cleansing Rite?” she enquires, unaware that she’s misspoke the name.
[Curata] Curata wrinkles up his nose at the stench in the air, he waits until the passenger door unlocks, peels it back and ducks his head down to slip inside. He sets his gym bag down on the floor between his feet, tilting his head up to look at her when she inquires if he knew the rite.
Curata shakes his head at her, “Afraid not, lass, I’ll ‘ave to call Joss and ‘ave her come back wi’ me to do it. I’ll need to pick up m’truck anyhow.” He doesn’t seem to acknowledge her mispronunciation of the rite’s name.
[Imogen] A sideways glance, “I would prefer not t’be called ‘lass’,” she says mildly as she pulls away from the curb. She lowers the driver’s side window by crank, allowing fresh air in to combat with the air from the trunk, protected by garbage bags as it was.
“Might be best t’call ‘er now,” she says, her mouth twisting slightly. “Find out if she can bring us a shovel or three.”
[Curata] Summoning Joss
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 9)
[Administrator] Joss Lehrer, welcome to Lake View (Northside) (Now)
[Curata] Curata has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as Imogen tells him not to call her lass. He shakes his head at her again, rolling down the passenger window to allow air to circulate. He reaches for his phone once again, dialing up the perky Godi he keeps on speed dial.
“I’m going to ‘ave to start bribing ‘er at this rate.” When the dial tone rings and the line picks up, he barks into the phone.
“Joss, sweetling, luve o’ m’life and all, Imogen and I need ye ‘elp wi’ some bodies to bury, so we’ll need to borrow a shovel or three and I’ll need a cleansing on the area where the fight took place. Can ye make it?”
[Joss Lehrer] With her love of earthtones and hippy attire, it usually startles folks when they see her phone – because not only is it pink, it’s SPARKLY too. It even has beads dangling from one side, with a little wolf bead on the end, and the ringtone? Today, it’s the Glee cast singing “Bust a move.”
…what? [Ok smarty, go to a party…]
It goes off and she hurries from her makeshift balcony in the attic to fall on her bed, grab the phone and put it to her ear. “Yeah?” Not exactly as upbeat as she has been. It’s been a long month for her, and she’s still dealing with the after effects, and Evan’s death. But Curata – and his flattery – actually make her chuckle softly.
“Sure, where we headed and do I get ice cream after?”
[Administrator] sunglasses, welcome to Lake View (Northside) (Now)
[Administrator] sunglasses has switched to Lake View (Northside) (Night)
[Curata] “I’ll buy ye a tub o wha’ever brand ye bloody want, just bounce yer cute arse o’er ‘ere.”
[Joss Lehrer] “Cold stone creamery, peanut butter bliss – double scoop in a chocolate dipped waffle cone.” And then all he gets to that is laughter as she gets the directions and rings off.
She tucks the phone into her bag, and gathers the items she’ll need, as she shoves her feet into her flats, pulls on her sweater. She removes the police car from her bag (twice) then slings the bag over her shoulder, puts the car on the windowsill, ignores the mournful chirp of his siren, as she grabs her keys, makes sure she closes the door and heads down to her van.
She talks to her van before she starts it, and lets it run for a few as she digs around and finds the shovels. She finds three, grabs them and tosses them into the back of the Van, puts one earbud from her ipod in an ear, cranks it up – and then is on her way, Althea purring happily as they hit the road.
[Imogen] Imogen drives while Curata cajoles Joss, taking side streets toward the highway. She does not speak, though she smirks slightly at some of the words, her expression wry, her humour slight.
The Volvo chugs as she hits the freeway, accelerating choppily as she starts toward the city’s edge.
[Curata] Curata clips the phone shut once he’s done cajoling the strange little Godi into coming along to help. He blinks for a moment, staring down at the phone before putting it away.
“She wanted icecream.” he says rather incredulously, and just stares out the window as they drive off to a location to dispose of the corpses.
[Imogen] The corner of her mouth twitches. “At least her price is low.”
[Joss Lehrer] Little does he know that Cold Stone Creamery is the KING of ice creams, not just any old run of the mill cheap stuff. But if she can get a full tub of it AND the cone? Score!
Poor guy. He’s apparently forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager. And, despite what she does, who she is, what she is – she is STILL a teenage girl, and ice cream solves a multitude of ills.
However, she makes decent time, and is likely there waiting for them when they arrive – Althea likes the freeway – shovel in hand, and her bag at her hip. And she’s dancing. Presumably to what she hears on her ipod, using her shovel as a partner.
Some days ‘strange little Godi’ doesn’t begin to cover it…
[Imogen] Imogen had chosen the location – and it is as isolated as one can get in the civilization of Illinois – which with farm-land is not all that difficult.
Where and how she’d found this is suspect – eventually turning off the highway and onto a poorly paved road which eventually passes through a small farming town, long fields of cornstalks pale yellow and dead, rustling where they stand.
Past that and into less maintained fields, trees and woods. Eventually, she pulls off the road the Volvo’s poor shocks rattling under the strain, her teeth gritting as they go over bumps and lumps. Eventually, they come to a stop near Althea, and Imogen gets out, glancing at Joss where she stands, dancing with a shovel.
She makes no comment, merely turning away to walk around the car to the trunk and pop it open. Presumably, Joss realizes their presence, and breaks her tango to come their way. When she does, Imogen greets her, simply, with her name.
It’s the start of a long night – or the middle of one for Curata. The graves must be dug deep, the flora protected as much as it can. They are out of sight of any building, out of the road, even, but Imogen takes care where she can. They work through the heavy earth, Imogen’s palms cracking beneath the unaccustomed work, the Garou’s hands worked raw if they are uncalloused as hers are.
By the time they are done, the bodies cleansed, buried the ground rounded with the addition of air in the soul, and covered haphazardly with the sod they’d pulled free earlier, the sun is rising, pale blue and pink in the east.
Imogen straightens slowly, her lips pulling tight to smother a wince, turning her head to look sunward.
“Could yeh take Curata back?” she asks Joss, one hand absently plucking at her soiled blouse, sweat damp, dirt-blurred. “I need t’get t’work.”
One assumes Joss agrees – Garou and kin go their separate ways.
[Joss Lehrer] (cleansing bodies: 6 d 7)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 7)
[Joss Lehrer] (cleansing alley/dumpser)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[Joss Lehrer] (Joss gets her ice cream. Whooo!)
[Imogen] (huzzah! Scene?)
[Joss Lehrer] (aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand SCENE. *takes bow)
[Joss Lehrer] (MT on Curata 5d 3)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 6, 7 (Success x 4 at target 3)
[Curata] (huzzah!)
[Joss Lehrer] (grins)
[Imogen] (flees!)
[Administrator] Imogen has left Lake View (Northside)
[Curata] (After Joss cleansed the bodies. Curata collected up the heads of the corpses and stuffs them in a bag for the wyrmpole. :) )
[Administrator] Curata has left Lake View (Northside)