Decker Rohl

(ST)
So, now you know what the alpha has in store for you, what your penance will be, and how to get to the atrocity realm. Not a place you probably ever wanted to go. And if you did... Then you must never have been there. So, you stand now, with the alpha at your side, in the umbra and before a door blackened by fire. Behind you is the airt that you walked to get here... Erik, apparently, talks to spirits, and negotiated a guide to lead you both down it.

So, here you stand in half a building, with open umbral forest behind you, and, from what you can see out the door, some post apocalyptic, 1984ish, bosnian rape camp world. The sky is lit red-orange by fires so distant you cannot see the flames, marred by black, sooty clouds that move across it counter to the rank winds. In the distance, huge structures rear up to pierce the sky. Looking like factories made of girders, leaking noxious fumes of yellow, green, and other, darker and less savory colors, they dominate the skyline. It is into the shadow of these that you must go, and beyond.

Before you can contimplate further, Erik speaks. "So... Here we are. You been here before?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "This aint no battleground. You die here, you die fer good." He'll let that sink in for a bit, falling silent as one of those dark and sooty clouds scuddles close, near to the ground.

When it has passed, he continues. "Yer here for a reason. You'll go past those factories... Don't go in 'em, you aint got the time ...And into the woods beyond. Ya can't see it from here, but its there. Once you get to it you'll know where yer goin. There are plenty of banes here, some you can handle, some you can't, and some you won't see till it's too late..."

You turn to enter the realm, but Erik grabs your shoulder, stalling you. "And remember, once your in, there aint but one way to get out. Doors like this you won't even see. And I aint tellin ya how." What will he say next? a no-mmon comment like 'have fun', or something stupid like 'good luck'?

"Come back to us, Modi." No, this is serious shit here, and he's serious about that too.


(decker)
Never been here, but he's heard about it. Not a place the sane would ever want to go. Is he scared? You betcha. There's a difference between not showing fear and not being afraid at all, and it happens to be the difference between glory and stupidity, life and death, most the time.

He's not as stupid as he seems. And he's got a hell lot more to live for these days, too.

(Come back to us, Modi.)

Listening to the Alpha's words, the Modi grunts and nods. He could ask if Erik was planning on taking Noah here too, but he doesn't. Doesn't even cross his mind, actually. A good Alpha's punishments are really just lessons in disguise, and Erik's a good Alpha.

Decker?
Decker's learning to be a good Modi.

Roll of shoulders, crack of neck. Everything's a battle in the end, and strength comes in more flavors than one. Glory, Honor, Wisdom. Spirit, Flesh, Self.

He walks through the door, which shuts behind him and seals without a trace. Just: gone. He walks straight for the factories, just like Erik told him, glancing in without stopping.


(ST)
Erik watches as Decker leaves (enters) through the doorway. He is already thinking of the last one he brought here. Madison. Did well, she did, even though he had to go with her. Decker though, Decker goes alone. Decker can take care of himself, but that isn't the real reason. Where Madison always needed someone to point out the lesson, Decker should find it on his own. Besides, Erik is just plain tired of this place. He's spent far too much time there, and he know's it. But Decker is gone, on his way, and there is little for Erik to do but go home...

The Modi soon learns, well before he reaches the sprawling factory towers, that stealth has value here in the atrocity realm. He has already been spotted by any number of small banes, and perhaps has had to kill a few as well. They are not large, or strong, but numerous and deadly if a swarm passes too near. What manner of place is this?...

As he approaches the factory towers, they rear up into the sky, piercing noxcious clouds miles up. Closer, and the pits out of which the factories spring resolve themselves out of shadowy darkness. Miles deep, the factory towers must go miles down as well. What manner of place is this?...

Closer now, moving in their shadows, along side those things that cannot bear the touch of the weak and baleful light of this plane. They do not trouble you though. Ahead, in an area of green illumination cast by a sweeping spotlight you watch a group of, well, humans being herded into line and into a small door in the face of one of the monstrous towers. Banes, easily of a size with you in your crinos form lash at them with whips of steel, their eyes alight with the same greenish cast as the spotlights. What manner of place -is- this!?...

Looking ahead, there is no sign of the forest yet. Three towers, including the one who's shadow you crouch in now, will have to be passed. The terrain does not look friendly, broken by many pits or cracks running off of the greater pits that hold the towers. No telling what lies in waiting in these, ready to spring upon those unwary who pass near. And then there are several gangs of banes, either scouring the surrounding landscape looking for recruits to press into service, or escorting a line of broken rcruits into one of the towers. And whatever manner of place this is, you don't want to be here any longer than necessary. It is time to be on the move again.......


(decker)
Stealth is not among his few fortes, but after the fourth little clot of banes (each larger than the last) swarms him, persistent as teething puppies and a good lot more dangerous in numbers, he learns to make do with what skill he had.

He takes his four-legged form, which stays closer to the ground, moves faster, moves quieter. Trotting quickly across the open areas and creeping slow, low to his belly through the closed and dark, the Modi makes his way slowly forward. Grey eyes take in the sights and sounds as they present themselves, and though at times he shows his teeth or folds his ears back in involuntary mistrust, distrust, distaste, he makes no sound.

The lines of humans he ignores, after a long stare. Six months ago he would not even spend that time. They have nothing to do with him, and he is no hero. Anyway, he had no time.

Three towers, rearing into the roiling ochre sky, dark shapes at this distance, the features unclear. There is a long stretch of open ground, and banes march prisoners across in triple-lines of fifty or more - sometimes from left to right, sometimes from right to left, and sometimes from one side to the other. The Modi waits for one of the latter groups, crouching in shadow: grey among black, and then increasingly two-legged among shadow. Quick sharp tugs rips his clothes, and a few slashes of his own switchblade simulates the wounds the prisoners bear.

As the center of the group trails slowly past, the Modi stands quickly, slipping into the line at the far side of the bane. He slumps his shoulders, shuffles his feet, holds the chain between his wrists as though he were shackled to it, and keeps his head down. From beneath his brow, he watches the towers grow nearer...nearer, and when the lash of the bane's (devil?)whip falls across his back, he manages to hold his rage down.

Once across, at first opportunity, when the bane with its green glow of a glare is turned away, Decker makes a break for it, dropping the chain and rolling under the overhang of a shambling tenement that houses god knows what. From there, he looks up at the towers, squinting to see the tops.


(ST)
The ruse works, though your back is scored many times by the lethal bite of the banewhips. And though you would expect your anger, your rage to strain at its bonds, it does not. It is the whips, you realize. The whips sap will and anger, making it nigh impossible to resist. It is only though a great effort that you finally break from the press gang and take shelter in the burned building.

You reach the darkness just ahead of a shout. Someone has noticed you missing. With an desire to be found, if only it means you can rip these banes to shreds, you turn and watch three of them fan out and begin to track you towards the dark building... But they do not go far, they do not approach the building too closley. No, once they realize where the trail of blood you have left from your bleeding back goes, they become less interested in you and begin to argue, then to fight amongst themselves. Strange behavior...

In short order the hunter banes have turned back to their prisoners and forgotten you. Which gives you time to survey the landscape and your more immediate surroundings. There is a smudge, some kind of shadow, on the horizon that could be the forest, but it is hard to tell through the fouled air surrounding the last of the towers.

This you notice as your head swings to the darkened interior of the tenement building. For long moments you peer into it, trying to pierce the darkness... pierce the darkness... And you have almost begun to turn away, convinced that there was nothing there for the banes to be affraid of, when the darkness lights with two, four, ten pairs of eyes. A sibilant whisper that before you thought was an unsavory wind becomes the fetid breath of these creatures, manlike, who advance, shambling, stumbling, dragging towards you...


(decker)
Stay out of the factories, Erik said. You don't have the time. There are banes you can handle, and then there are the ones you can't.

Decker's gonna guess the hunter-banes were one of the former had they chosen to follow, but these are one of the latter. "Shit," he hisses under his breath, eyeing the distance to the smudge on the horizon, the height of the towers, the numbers of the apelike creatures coming toward him, and that distance as well.

Deciding on speed over strength, the Modi starts forward on all fours, the awkwardness of the position bleeding away as he melts through his forms, one to the next, all the way to the wolf-form. Still keeping to the shadows (but not TOO close), he sets his pace at a canter, ears swiveled and alert for sounds of pursuit behind him. They don't seem fast enough to catch him, but appearances often deceived in these places, and if they did he would have to be ready to turn and fight.


(ST)
You run and run, and you fight when you have to, though you bleed little, but by fits and spurts you pass the final tower and approach an open area. This is both good, and bad for you. It puts you in the open, or a plain of rock and sparse grass, but you will also be able to see most anything that approaches. You hope.

Ahead, the smudge could very well be a forest, or just a mirage, or who knows, maybe a giant fire running the length of the horizon. Hard to tell. And only one way to find out...

Ears forward and senses alert, you start out at the ground eating lope of a wolf, but in what sem like seconds, a forest rears up in front of you. There. When before it was nothing but a distant darkening on the horizon. Well, here's the forest. Erik said I'd know where to go from here, or something. Just looks like a forest to me...

Or, wait. What the...!

There's a house back there... And a road. Hey! What?!?

Now the forest surrounds you, and behind there is no sign of the open land or the towers that would surely, should, surley be visable still. Ahead, there like a house, seeming very familiar... VERY familiar, but you just can't place where from...


(decker)
Familiar...yet unremembered.

Wary now, the grey beast pads forward slowly, ears folded back against his skull except when they prick upright to catch a distant sound. This happens often enough. He is careful where he places his feet, and though he is nowhere near a master of stealth, he moves quietly enough.

Nostrils flare to catch the scents on the wind. The beast-mind is dominant in this form, and without thinking, he lifts his leg against a tree in passing, and then continues forward. As twigs and leaves pass beneath his paws, paws gradually become more massive, and then less, and then simply shoes. Boots.

In the near-human form, he makes his way forward.


(ST)
Ears, just losing their wolfen sensitivity, pick up a rumbling sound. It comes closer, moving very fast. Roaring and... clanking, rumbling. Then two great, shining eyes rear up over the dip in the road and speed into the driveway. You watch, frightened, from the darkened window of your bedroom, wishing your mommy would come back here, but knowing that she won't. She's out int he front room with -that- man, and you know that something bad is gonna happen now.

A car door slams, and your eyes are drawn back to the car as three people, two men and a woman, get out. One of them looks very mad...


(decker)
It's a strange dual-mind he occupies for a moment: the Decker-self, aware of the time - December 2002, the cusp of the new year; aware of the place at last - Eliza's house, where he was not so very long ago; aware, for another moment, of himself - Decker Rohl, Silence, nineteen-year-old Fenrir Modi...

...and the child-self, aware only of his smallness, his weakness compared to those who would hurt him and his mother, his fear.

The latter comes forward, not so much eclipsing the former as it incorporates it. He has a strange sense of falling backwards through time, nineteen years old to seven years old, losing memory of all that transpired in the meantime. Gone, the rememberance of mate, of pack, of totem, of tribe, and finally - even of garou.

He's seven years old and waiting at the window, and mommy is downstairs with a strange man, and if daddy finds out...

(no, no, that is another story.)

...and there's another strange man coming toward the house. Angry. Holding his breath, the child clutches the cold windowsill, nose pressed almost against the glass, too frightened to call out for mommy.


(ST)
For a moment your fear overcomes you, and you look down at the floor, squeezing your eyes shut. But the fascination, the I must look, overcomes you and you open your eyes again. You stare down at your nightgown, then look up as the man... Decker is what mommy calls him... approach with his friends. And the other man, the one in the house that mommy calls Noah, doesn't sound happy. Mommy says they can turn into wolves when they get mad...

And they seem real mad...

The Decker man and his friends pass out of your sight, in front of the house now, and you rush to the cracked bedroom door just as you hear booted feet on the stairs. Someone outside yells, and the Noah man yells back.

Then more voices, angry.

Mommy sounds real scared...

Then the wall explodes and a giant, furry monster comes through the hole, and you can see it all... Scary, dark, fangs and sharp claws. Its eyes are yellow. You know cause they looked at you. They were hungry. But there was another monster in the house too, fighting with the other monster, and breaking things and maybe mommy too and where was mommy??? And you were screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming for your mommy...


(decker)
Decker is what mommy called him. He's big and strong and always so angry, and when she climbed into his lap to see him better he set her aside. Mommy says she'll be like him when she grows up, an Awroon.

(she doesn't wanna be like him.)

The house shakes on its foundation when the wall splinters. The child loses her balance, goes sprawling, screams and screams for mommy and mommy's nowhere to be seen, and then it's all dark downstairs where it always used to be so bright and cheerful the way mommy keeps it even though mommy couldn't see and

(mommy can't see, and there are monsters in the house!)

petrified, rooted to the spot, the child screams in the doorway of her bedroom, in her violated sanctuary. She's not seven; she's smaller than that, even - four years old.

(Decker was seven when it really got bad. His dad had never been good to his mom, but he wasn't this -bad-, either. Decker was seven when his father decided just the belt-buckle wasn't enough, and took his monstrous form to fling his mother across the room. Broke seven ribs and cracked her skull. Would've killed her if the pack's Theurge hadn't been there to help her. But when the Theurge tried to berate his father, Njal grew violent. He never took the Crinos-form on his mate again, but she lived in fear of it for the rest of her short life.)

These are things that float to the surface of the dual-mind like flotsam after the storm.

These are things that come to his awareness, half-remembered. This body, so small, so frail, is not his; he does not know where he left his body

(mommy i want my mommy)

and those thoughts are not his.

mom i have to help mom

those are. driven by them, he(she) starts down the stairs, bare feet pitterpattering, and he(she) knows there's nothing he(she) can do, but it didn't matter. There are booted feet coming up the stairs, and general chaos in the pitchblack living room, and Decker's friends are calling for Lila and her siblings, and he(she) should call back, tell them he(she)'s all right, but fear has rooted him(her) to the spot again halfway down the stairs: fear, and a sick knowledge that drives into his gut, and his alone, like a spear.

Those pale-gray wolven eyes that turn on him; they could be blazing blue.
(nonononononono!)

Looking at himself through the eyes of another, with the mind of himself, he could be his father.

Terror, need: Lila screams for her mother. He knows because she knows.
Grief, loss: He screams for his. He knows because he remembers.


(ST)
You/her stare down at something that hangs limply in your arms. It is Mr. Bunny/a stuffed rabbitt. There is chaos everywhere: pieces of mortar falling, two by fours leaning, walls gaping. Someone is caling for yoy/her. Must be mommy/Zoe. No. Its the Decker-
monster/your friend/packmate. Rune. And all you/her can do is stare at the bunny/Mr. Bunny. Its got blood on it somehow...

And then you are wisked off your feet and crushed against Rune, a woman, another monster. You know. You can tell. You are affraid again. Very, very affraid. But you cannot scream for your mommy, so affraid are you. What if you make the monster/woman angry like the other monster? No. You don't wanna do that.

And then there is a loud/scary sound and you are wisked around so fast you drop Mr. Bunny/the stupid stuffed bunny. Now no one can save you from the monsters, and you finally begin to cry. Mr. bunny got blood all over him and you can't wash it off now cause he got left behind all alone and scared and bloody. Poor Mr. Bunny...

And then you are you again, but all you can see is Mr. Bunny, laying on the floor in a huge pool of blood... Hey... More blood than should be there. And he's smiling now. I mean, really smiling. the corners of his mouth draw up and up and up, into an impossible clown smile. And then he flashes his teeth, rows of razor sharp fangs.

*************FLASH**************

You stand int he trees just at the foot of the driveway and watch Noah and Corran drag everyone out of the burning house, and then go back in to put out the fire that you started. You watch the whole sorry thing play itself out and finaly the house is dark and everyone is gone. And now you can hear laughter, very soft, from inside the house... And you can move...


(decker)
He can move again, and the first thing he does is grow into his warform. The black tattoo swims down the length of his right arm and solidifies into the sin-black greatxe. Then he rolls his massive, white-touched shoulders, heaves the axe onto one, and drops to three paws as he breaks into a lopsided trot, headed back into the house.


(ST)
Back into the house. Fenris might make some Modi dumb, but not this one. About the time you are thinking of killing the bane, you are shifted into Crinos. When you make the decision to shift into Crinos, you are lopeing down the driveway. Body and will acting faster than the mind. Yes, this is how Fenris makes his Modi!

But the Realm has other ideas. Perhaps it wishes one final atrocity at your expense; that you will never be able to work out your angers on the bane. Or perhaps you have done what you came for and the Realm has had enough of you and is now trying to spit you out. You realize this once you have taken your tenth Crinos sized stride towards the house. Plenty to take you into the back yard and the forest beyond. Why, then, are you still on the driveway, still just as far from the house as you were when you started? Why?

Because it is not quite time, yet, for you to go in there. No. There is still the matter of your guilt. It is considerable, mountainous, and left within it will rot you as sure as the little child has nightmares fed to her by that bane inside. By the bane you called. Your actions called. Sure, Noah was, is a coward. Craven of heart and purpose, but you couldna waited. Yeah, you coulda waited. Fuck. She is just like you. Just like you were when your father was 'bad'. And you. You are just like him. Oh Gaia. Fuck. Fuck NO!!!

Running, running, running but going no closer. The suck of the realm pulls at your back, and finally, finally, you can take no more. With the quickness of an explosion a red waave swims up and drowns the world around you...

...Some time later your vision returns. You stand in the midst of a ruin. The house again, burning and falling in on itself. And again, caused by you, but this time, this time, the bane hangs in tatters from your jaws. the taste of the little girls nightmares fills your mouth like black ichor. Fills your maw like glory, like a hunt well done. The taste is like redemption, something rare and wonderful, and something you don't deserve. You know it, and you don't care. She won't be having any nightmares anymore. Yeah, you care about that.

You close your eyes and sigh, shriking down you your birth shape without the rage to sustain you any longer. Upon opening your eyes you find yourself unmistakeably in the penumbra of the Barrens, not too far from the house. The stink of the atrocity gone from your nostrils, the uglyness of that realm replaced by the face of your Alpha as he stares up at you. Yep, there he is, like he knew this is where you'd be. He levers himself up, using the tree trunk he had been sitting against to aid him. Looks you over, and nods. No words. What would those be worth, now? He just turns and heads back to the city, clasping you on the back warmly.

Well done Modi. Well done...

(decker)
6am's when he gets back. Could be worse. She had a whole 5 hours of sleep already, and she gets almost another 20 minutes while he paces outside her door (wake her or not? when's the sun rising? should just head off. fuck it--)

--before he raises his fist and knocks.

Then he waits, weight settling easily between both feet. It's cold, freezingly so, but after the earlier 'exercise', and considering where he was going next, he welcomes the sensation. The shivering is given free rein, and it settles into a steady tremor, natural rather than spasmodic.

His jacket is balled in one hand, his shirt and pants ripped in places, burned through in others as though by acid.

What she's liable to notice first is his form. Not human. Close to it, but not. Larger, hairier, the slouch less hipcentered thuggish, more slopeshouldered cro-magnon. Door opens and he grunts at her, and only the rhythm of the words, rather than the enunciation, identifies them for his usual greeting.

Sup, Imogen.

A glance over her shoulder, a point of his gaze from below the heavy brow: a question. When (if) she steps back to grant him access, he moves past her. He stinks: not of sweat, nor blood, but of something not of this earth.

A sour stink, sickly sweet at the edges, cloying, gagging. Strips of skin are welted, burned reddened and hairless. There's a gash on one shoulder, and the pattern of the tattoo, if she notices such things, is a hint different from before.


(imogen)
Six-twenty in the morning, and her eyes jerk open as someone knocks on her door, half sitting up, as her body reacts to go and answer the phone, find her pager, answer the door, before her mind is even fully awake and functioning. As her brain finally catches up with her body, she stifles a groan, half falling back against the pillows as bleary blue eyes shift to the electric clock on a bedside table. Six-twenty-one. Five hours sleep. Could be worse. Could be an hour of sleep. Twenty minutes. Something utterly and completely inadequete. Five hours she can manage. Bare feet hit the floor of her bedroom, as she off handedly finds something to wear, a pair of day-old jeans, and a clean shirt, the type that curves across the torso, and fits well, with the sleeves slit by design, so the cuffs and much of the cloth falls away from her forearms, hanging loosely and swinging with the movement of her hands and arms.

One hand drags through sleep tousled red hair, though it's more likely a habit than any sort of believed hope of actually taming her mane, while her other smothers a yawn. A glance through the peep hole results in a frown, small and creasing her brow (..what the hell...?) before going through the routine of unlocking her door. Deadbolt, the lock for the doorknob. The door swings open, and she half flinches at the blast of chill air that leaks away what warmth there was in the front hallway, half stepping aside, her eyes riveted to the inhuman-human form, rents and welts of scorched flesh. It may be the form, or it may be the wounds that draws her attention across reddened flesh, but after a moment, her gaze turns away, breaking the the dark blue stare and turning around to close the door behind him, throwing the deadbolt back into place with a muted click.

She turns to face him, pushing back strands of curling hair behind her ears as she inhales slowly through her nose, the reaction to the rank stink subtle and suppressed as she speaks, "It looks like y've been busy..."


(decker)
And straight past her he goes, not stopping to turn toward the couch or the breakfast bar. More massive in his near-homid form, he thumps his way down the hall, likely waking the downstairs neighbors. "Dire'nI," he begins, the words edged in a long-toothed lisp - stops. Raises a half-conscious hand to his throat, remembers his form, changes down. Can't heal but can talk a whole lot better. Continues, "were takin' care o' some business before I left. 'S what I came to tell you about while I borrowed yer water."

He peels off shoes and socks at the mouth of the hall, shirt halfway down, pants and underwear at the door to the bathroom. The pattern of the rips in his clothes is mirrored by rips in his skin. The whole mess of stinking garmentry is thrown into the shower. He turns at the bathroom door, "Yer pro'lly gonna git the call if y' ain't already. Raided a wyrmhole Rune's uncle dug up down in 'Lantic City. 1622 Ashcroft. 'S in the rich part o' town. Made a big mess."

(Oh. Great.)

Decker follows his clothes into the bathtub, turning the water on full-blast from the tap, pulls the shower knob and slides the glass door shut in time to prevent a small flood. He continues over the water noise, "Was gonna clean up after we got done but Dire got triggerhappy. Had to git the fuck outta there 'fore the cops came."

Plastic bottles. He picks them up one by one and reads. Shampoo. Conditioner. Facewash. Bodywash. Upends this last one and soaps up, cleansing seeping ichor from his body the best he can. Will have to ask Erik to do a rite on him before they got too far.

"Yer gonna find at least four bodies that ain't gonna look too normal. 'N maybe two more inside, if the firefighters got there in time."


(imogen)
If she stared, perhaps it could be forgiven. It's unlikely she's never seen wounds like his (if not on a Garou, perhaps on a dead body), and it is unlikely that the blood that seeps from the rents of flesh makes her queasy. It's possible she's never seen the form he's in. It's also possible that there is the simple difficulty of stopping the comparison that he walked out of here five and a half hours ago. It takes five and a half hours, in this world, in this war, for damage to be caused and for there to be a fire, and mess to be cleaned up. She can probably smell the smoke on him, through all the other smells of horrible things. But, if she stared, perhaps it could be forgiven.

She is either blessed, or cursed with a clinical mind. The welts of his back and visible skin is taken in, the approximate size and shape. She cannot imagine, always, what damages the Garou, but the size of what damaged him comes to mind, formed by a mind that is by parts incredibly experienced, and by others
incredibly ignorant. She watches as he steps further into her home, all bulk and hard edges, near claws. Inhuman but no where near as terrifying as his war
form. She listens as he speaks, his tone half mangled so that she can barely understand the words, having to strain to pick out the consonants and string
them together into something resembling what he may have said. There is something facsinating to watch his form change, because it is against all science and everything she was taught and has spent much of her life upholding says 'this is not possible'. But it is possible, and she watches the form of near man become man, going from unfamiliar reminder of the monster he is (as if she can forget) to the familiar form of a human. The monster he is.

He enters the bathroom, and after a moment or two, she comes to the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. He tells her they've left a mess, and that she should be getting a phone call soon, and her curse is quiet and almost inaudible in beneath the hum and beat of water pouring from her shower head and over his bloody form and against the porcelain of her bathtub, the plastic of the shower door. Her head turns away from him, glancing beyond his view, as if expecting her pager to go off that very instant. More likely, she's simply trying to place where it is. "What did you..." her voice is nearly inaudible as she faces away, and she turns back to look at him, repeating herself, voice now completely free of the raspiness of sleep, clear and strong melody. "What did you do to them? Just claws and teeth?"

Not allowing him to respond before she adds as well, her dark eyes passing over the lines of his body, half visible through the mist, half obscured, the curve of muscle mostly ephereal and misted, while the wounds are a vivid, vicious red. "Are you going to be able to heal those yourself, or do you want somethin' for it? Bandages, or," her eyes dart away toward the medicine cabinet over the toilet, with it's mirror fogged over, ".. something?" she trails off inanely with a faint lift of her shoulders as her eyes turn back toward him. Her arms move slightly, crossing over her stomach, as she awaits his reply.


(decker)
If she stared, it's not so much forgiven as it is unnoticed. At the door, eye contact was measured in instants, and he was concerned mostly with entering. By the time he actually turns to look in her direction again, there is a frosted-glass shower door in between that reduces him to an impressionist's abstract, vivid red on fleshtones, and reduces her to much the same: vivid red (and auburn, and roan, and blonde, and honey) and fleshtones.

By then, she's looked away, anyway.

"Was on the other side, ain't seen what Dire was doin'. Looked like mostly chewin' though." A pause - a hint of apology in his tone, perhaps, or maybe that's just wishful thinking. Garou were always so damn selfish in their war, "Gonna be a lot fer you to clean up."

Hot water stings, but it's a different sort of sting than the seeping-itching bite of the ichor. A better sort of sting. Pearly-white liquid soap turns into foamy white suds, and white suds pinken with blood, darken with taint. It's a veritable artist's palette that goes down the drain, an unknown Van Gogh: Bloody Night.

"Bandages?" Despite himself, a curl of amusement. "What, you gonna try to tend to my 'glorious wounds' like some good l'il kin now?" After he washes himself, he washes his clothes. Dedicated clothes, the shit he was going to wear into the Umbra, god damn it, and look what that bitchspider did to it. "Ain't figgered you fer that sorta thing - " the sound of the bodywash bottle emptying out, the gassy noises, " - you got any more soap?"


(imogen)
She shrugs her shoulders as he speaks, perhaps with apology, perhaps that's her imagination. "I'll manage," she says simply, because she will. she must have contigency plans for times like these. Ways to deal with it. Lies planned. Actions worked out. If she gets the body, if she doesn't. So on and so forth.

She snorts derisively as he speaks out of amusement of her being a good little kin, "No, but if you're going to bleed all over my floor, I'm getting you some damned bandages and you can tend to your own 'glorious wounds' yourself. Bad enough I have to clean out the tub." And the bodies. "Never mind having to deal with it on the floor."

Good little kin she's not, though she does move from the doorway, actually entering the bathroom, walking to the sink and the cupboard beneath it, ducking down to open it. A few moments of plastic tapping against plastic as she rummages for the soap, pulling it out, taking the step or two that reaches the shower and reaches out with a hand and pulls back the sliding shower door, and offering him the bottle of soap.

As the shower door is pulled out, much of the gathering steam is released into the bathroom, a wash of heat against her skin, and likely doing little to help the early morning chaos of her hair, reacting to the humidity. The bathroom mirror had already been misted but now the grey has gone a near white.

"I told you. I'm no good, unless somebody's dead," she concludes, still offering the soap.


(decker)
She'll manage, she says. He knows. So he doesn't say anything. At her affront, though, there's a snort, a smirk, punctuated with a slap of fabric against the porcelain tub, and then the metal clunk of the bathtub plug going down. He drops to his knees in the tub and gets to work.

Should probably just ask to use her washer and dryer. Or run next door and use Rune's. But a wash cycle is 50 minutes and a dry cycle is another 40, and he didn't have that sort of time. So there he is: Decker Rohl, survivor of the stone age, beating his clothes clean in the artificial lake.

When the door slides open, his skin tightens from the chill even as her hair kinks from the moisture. The mirror fogs over completely and somewhere in his mind the idea occurs to him: harder to sidestep, now. Not that it mattered here. He reaches up with a dripping hand to take her soap from her, sets it down beside him, grabs up the empty bottle and hands it back.

Holds on to it a beat. Waits to catch her eye, and waits a little longer.

At last, "I know you ain't." Good with the living. Good little kin. One or the other.

Another moment, and then the nod up bleeds some measure of intensity away somehow. A hint of a smirk, "You ever git good, I'll run away screamin'."

He lets go of the bottle and drops the hand to the clothes swimming in the filling tub. Absently, he stirs his clothes for a moment before picking out an article to scrub roughly. Another minute's worth of thought passes before he accedes, "Bandages'll be good, yeah."


(imogen)
The warmth of the steam carresses her skin even as his skin tightens against the chill of the outer bathroom. The blood of his clothing is diluted by the warm water and runs pink against the white of the porcelain tub, beginning to pool at his feet as the tub begins to fill. It would perhaps be polite to offer him the use of her washer and dryer, but she cannot imagine he'd have any reason to do this in the bathtub but that he doesn't have the time. Somewhere in the flurry of conversation of last night (not so long ago), he'd mentioned going to the umbra.

The heel of her palm rubs absently against one eye as she reaches out to take the offered empty bottle of soap, hands cool and dry against his warmer slick digits as her fingers fold around the plastic to tug it from his grasp. He holds on to it, however, and her eyes lift to meet him as her hand falls away from her face to hang loosely by her side. It's blue on grey as he speaks, the faint smirk curling across his mouth, half mirrored in her own lips, as an eyebrow arches. "Really?" she inquires rhetorically, as he finally releases the bottle, "I'll be sure t'keep that in mind."

She casts another look over the welts of wounds sizing them up before nodding slightly, "S'what I thought," she says as she tosses the empty soap bottle into a waste basket, returning to the cupboard in vague search for the largest bandages she has. And the tape that goes along with it. A sidelong glance, a flicker of dark eyes as she glances over her shoulder at him, "What changes th'tattoo?" Roll of bandages. Scissors, the right hand kind. All that's missing now is the tape.


(decker)
"Yeah, you do that," the coiling anaconda amusement as she takes the empty bottle from his slackening fingers. "Ain't too many other ways to scare me."

While she looks for bandages, he wrings out his shirt and tosses it over the edge of the bathtub, starts on his pants. He isn't so much getting his clothes clean as he's getting them less dirty, less tainted, mildly wearable again. By the time she finds bandages and scissors, he's done, wringing out the last of the water from his damp clothes before he rises to slap them up along the top rail of the shower.

Water goes off. Lingering droplets dripping from the cuff of the pants, the hem of the shirt, splat slowly into the tub. He steps out, animalistic exhibitionist: nothing she hasn't seen before, anyway. Dark wet footprints seep into the shower mat, scattered around with drops of water dripping here and there while he takes the bandages, the scissors. Mutters a thank-you.

No tape. No matter. The Modi measures the bandage against the largest gash at the junction of shoulder and chest - the shoulder with the tribal tattoo, not the other - before laying the loose end of the roll of bandages against the cut. Adhesion by blood. Quickly, he wraps the bandage around his shoulder thrice, snips, and ties the two ends.

"What?" Tattoo. "Oh." A glance at his right shoulder, more or less unscathed, while he ties bandages here and there, and ignores the smaller wounds that would close by the end of the day, if that. Only when he's done and reaching for his still-sodden clothes does he reply, "'S a fetish-axe."

(?huh?)

"My grandfather's. It's an axe with a spirit inside. Bound to my skin, so I can take it anywhere - like this." He reaches to touch his shoulder. "Comes out when I need it."


(imogen)
The water sprays across her floor in brown-red droplets from the clothing, as he smacks the water out of articles of clothing. Then it drips from the pants as he hangs it the shower railing.

He steps from the tub, dampening the mat, as he stands stark naked and reaches down to pick up the bandages and scissors. When he seems to be able to deal just fine without tape, she stops her rummaging, closing the cupboard beneath the sink, and shifting her weight to half turn and watch as he makes a make shift bandage, using more than half the available bandages to do it.

It's not until he's finished tying his makeshift bandages, that he answers her, and her expression flickers blank as he touches on a rather unknown subject for her. She was told spirits existed. Or perhaps not told so much as overhearing. She's perhaps seen, once or twice, a Garou leave to the umbra. In some ways, however, it's like speaking to an atheist about the presence of God. She needs to see it to believe it, and otherwise, it's untouchable, drifting through her fingers like sand. She simply cannot grasp it.

The expression breaks as she glances down, rising to her feet from her crouching position as her hand snakes behind her pulling a towel from the rack, and half tossing it in his direction, "You're dripping," she points out, eyes flickering pointedly down his body (nothing she hasn't seen before) to rest about his feet, where he's currently soaking through her bathmat. "Though," a glance at the clothing he apparently intends to put on, "If you're just getting into that, I suppose it won't matter. You'll be dripping anyway."


(decker)
Hand on the leg of his pants, ready to pull it down from its makeshift hanger, he pauses. A frisson of irritation somehow threads its way through his consciousness; she can see it easily enough, bare as he is. It's in the tightening of his musculature, and the shift of his posture. Shoulders back a notch, head tilting a little up, a little to the side, as he watches her.

Aggression.

"Imogen," there's something left hanging there; something he doesn't say when he compresses his lips, follows the path of her eyes down his own body. First it's just the eyes, and then he lowers his head as the line of sight passes out of easy sight. Silent, he traces the rivulets of water turning pink, then reddish, as water passed through blood and into her rug.

(It's just. a -rug-.)

She had a knack for pissing Garou off. He had a knack for pissing everyone off. Yeah, it's a goddamn match made in heaven.

Finally, he completes the motion - closes the two-inch gap, snags his pants off the toprail, and starts putting them on. "Clean yer precious fuckin' rug when I get back," he snaps.


(imogen)
As the muscles tighten, the glance that flickers in her eyes (because she won't look away) is almost as eloquent as the muscles that tighten beneath his flesh. At this very moment, with the near-full moon set, she'd likely rather be anywhere but here underneath an angry Fenrir's glare in a space that barely allows both of them comfortably.

"You," she begins quietly, through set jaw and ground teeth, "Have a wonderfully horrible habit o' thinkin' tha worst of people. I'll deal with the damned rug," Whatever irritation she has is neatly coiled a frozen surface, to be taken out on probably some unsuspecting intern, or some police officer. Or simply to be converted into the workaholism that appears to be her life. A tilt of her chin toward the open door, eyes following her movement, "I'm goin' ta go wait f'r my pager to go off."

She turns, neatly avoiding a droplet of water, which would be slippery on bare feet and it would not be beneficial to go cracking her head before going to work. Since she'd have to go to work anyway, because now there's a mess to clean up. As she takes the few steps out the door, her hand reaches out behind her, grasping the knob and giving it an absent tug behind her, half closing the door behind her, leaving only a small space between the door and the jam.


(decker)
He snaps his shirt off the top rail, water splattering against the walls. Wrings it out one more time and tugs it on over his head while he toes the door open and follows her into the hall.

" 'N you," he shoots back, just as quiet while he peels the damp fabric down over chest and abdomen, "have a horrible habit o' walkin' away, shuttin' down, all the fuckin' time."

The shirt's rolled down, clinging clammily, folding on itself in belts and streaks. He gives the hem a last angry tug, and one of the rips widens with a sussurant sound. She heads for her pager and he heads for his shoes, because damned if he didn't know she walks away and shuts down because a full moon isn't the right time to provoke him.


(imogen)
Damned if he didn't know. Damned if she didn't know. Damned if she didn't push the line from time to time, and infuriate him when she refused. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

He follows after her and she doesn't look back as she begins down the hallway, moving easily across the hardwood strides swallowing the floor beneath her. "Yeah, I wonder why when it's so fuckin' safe to stay still, " she fires back over her shoulder, sarcasm poisoning her tone as their paths fork, he goes for his shoes and she goes off in search of her pager, found by her answering machine, that still declares a message or three on it's display. Her fingers pluck it from the smooth wooden surface of the small corner table, while the other hand drags through her hair, tugging through sleep tussled tresses, shoving the mess over her shoulders. Air exhales slowly through her nose as she checks the display of the pager. Simple things. The batteries.

One hand slides down, clipping the pager to pocket of her jeans, creating a sharp lump the curve of her thigh. It's more habit, than anything. She knows it will be coming out in moments to answer a page, in either case. It's the worst thing, this waiting. It could be hours, because of the fire. She could be at work before this all comes into play. It could be in ten minutes, or in five minutes. In seconds. She can't very well call someone and find out. According to the world she spends much of her life in, she hasn't even been to told yet.

So here she is killing time with a somewhat disgruntled Fenrir whose wounds and icy clothing is likely doing very little to improve his disposition.


(decker)
He doesn't go for his shoes after all. That had been on his mind, but then her biting sarcasm lashes the air and he turns to (on) her.

"Fuck you," low and furious. "Ain't gonna hurt you 'n you know it."

Trouble is, he didn't know that for certain, not for long. A moment passes, and then he crosses the room to the small foyer, putting distance between. Shoves one foot and then the other into his shoes (blessedly dry), stomping in place to get the fit right, stomping harder than he needed to, to get the frustration out. Downstairs neighbors weren't gonna be sleeping for long, if they still were at all.


(imogen)
She half turns as he speaks, his low voice cutting through the biting silence, watching him and his full moon rage. Her eyes cut across his damp clothing, filled with rents and tears, with visible gashes of skin and flesh. His shaved head and it's faint bristle, barely visible in shadow. The fuzz across his face of five o'clock shadow some thirteen hours overdue. The pulse of his heart in the hollow of his neck.

He looks anything but calm. And he didn't know for certain, not for long.

"Yeah, I know," she replies after a moment, words forced slow. "Don't mind me if I don't press my luck with it, alright?" And the moment she took looking at him must have been spent finding the reigns of her temper (... shutting down, all the fuckin' time) or else reminding herself of the full moon and his rage, if she could forget it, feeling it every second she's in the room with him.


(decker)
It's an intense stare he fixes her with, and knowing her, it's an intense stare she fixes him with. From the corners of her eyes she can see the minute residual movements of his body, the sway of shoulders and shift of balance, as he gives his feet a last few stomps.

It's the intensity of the stare that would wither flowers, ignite tinder. The room is filled with his rage: impossible to forget. Decker, all in all, isn't easily forgotten.

For better or for worse.

"All right." Quiet: pacified? Or maybe he just didn't wanna fight, for once. "All right."


Rage washes across her flesh, half causing her ire to rise to meet it, half causing her to desire, wholly and fully to leave the room, and not look back. She stares at him, and that was not the answer she'd expected.

"Alright." she echoes after a moment of dead silence, half stunned. It's in those moments of silence that her pager goes off, because someone either finally found the bodies, or finally decided it was safe enough for the medical examiner. It does not shrill, as it could, instead vibrating from within her pocket, the sounds of the mechanisms that makes it work audible to his ears. Her hand reaches down reflexively and pulls the pager from her pocket, yanking it past the cuff of denim, pressing a small button that silences the vibrationsl, glancing at the display. Her eyes raise again, looking at him for a moment, speaking even as she reaches for the phone by the answering machine. "That would be them. I'll," a pause as she scribbles the phone number on a pad of paper, dropping the pager back into her pocket, her attention still turned to him. Watching him for the brief moments before she has to go and shower, and he'll leave.

"See you when you get back, then" she concludes, the phone in her hand, half way to dialing, perhaps simply waiting for him to leave before she went about on her business.


She watches him. He watches her.

And then she's dialing and he's pulling the door open. "Yeah, all right." All right seems to be the word of the day. It's all good. It's all right.

It's never all good, all right, but one could hope. "'Night, Imogen," he adds, a careless tacked-on act of habit, before he shuts the door behind him.

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:22AM EST
A vague nudge of his chin up. While she glances toward the door, he looks at their entwined hands. His own nature is a mystery even to him sometimes: he doesn't understand how it is that he can suddenly become so huge, add on so much mass from nowhere and so much strength. It makes no biological sense, that he should carry so much rage inside this (never/always) fragile human shell. That he could change and break her fingers if those fingers remained entwined in his when he did. The sheer size of his handpaws would crack her knuckles apart.

Might be the thought of that, that makes him unthread his fingers. "Should probably go see the fuck Dire wants," he mutters and pushes himself to his feet. "'N you should pro'lly git some sleep."

So you're mine? He should ask her, one more time, just to be sure.
He should ask her just to hear her say it.
He shouldn't have to ask at all.

And he doesn't. On his feet now, he starts for the door - remembers, stops. Turns.

"Oh. Got somethin' fer ya." Another rock? His left shoulder drops as he reaches into his pocket. He tosses something to her: a disc of carved of wood, half-dollar-sized, almost perfectly round and oddly smooth-grained at the sides, as though it had not so much been cut as had grown that way. On either face, Garou glyphs carved in relief, one side different from the other. It's only a millimeter or so at the thickest areas; nearly cut through at the thinnest. Wouldn't be hard to snap it in half.

"'S called a talen," he says, brusquely enough, at the door now, pulling it open while he gave her the rundown. "Got an air-spirit in it. Keep it with you. If yer ever in trouble, crack it in half. I'll know. 'N I'll come fer ya." A brief flicker of something, neither grin nor smirk, as he steps over her threshold. "Sick o' always wonderin' if yer all right. 'Night, Imogen."

The door shuts behind him and he looks at Dire for a moment. Then, without greeting, he heads over to get a slice of pizza. "This ain't gonna make me sick 'r nothin', is it?"

Dire Warning

Fri 12:25AM EST
*He arks a brow and looks to decker and looks at the pizza* not unless your more a pussy than the stories make out. * a soft smile and he shakes his head no* This is the good stuff. Meat lovers, double meat and cheese from the good Pizza hut.

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:31AM EST
Decker sniffs the slice, a tad suspicious, and then bites in. It's cold as a tomb, but then cold pizza isn't always a bad thing.

"The 'good' Pizza Hut?" He wasn't aware there was a 'bad' one.

Dire Warning

Fri 12:33AM EST
*he grins* This one has a waitress. * he nods and eats some more* THat's nice. * he grins and nods to the door* Shit ok? Kinda overheard. Not trying to but * he srugs* Garou ears ya know. Yall ain't real talkitive but sounds like Bloo... Imogen and you were doing alright.

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:38AM EST
A waitress? Blankness. Then Decker gets it. "Oh Jesus, Dire..." a snort, almost a chuckle, as he wolfs down half the slice. Then, a sidelong glance. A smirk. Had Dire come by thirty minutes earlier - or worse, an hour and a half earlier, when the bombs were going off, those good ears of him might've been torn off by now. " 'Sall good."

Dire Warning

Fri 12:41AM EST
*he nods* Good to hear Rhya. * he sniffs the air* Your pack isn't around? * he jerks a thumb to the deck across the way* Can'thear anything out of there. I'm curious as to what they think of me and if my ass is going to be muchly kicked.

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:46AM EST
A snort, as the Modi leans back against the balcony balustrade. Realizes he forgot to do up his belt. Polishing off the pizza, he threads the steel-tipped tongue through the buckle, cinching his pants low on his hips with the white canvas strip.

"Luc's out gittin' some 'waitress' of his own, I think. Must be a Skald thing. Livin'ston's sleepin' off enough downers to kill an elephant. Rest of'em are doin' whatever it is they do." He reaches for another slice. "Dunno why they think o' ya. Don't think James 'n Rune are quite over yer charm yet, though."

Bite, rip. Carnivore's pizza.

Dire Warning

Fri 12:48AM EST
*he nods* Yeah. I was kinda harsh on um. Hopefully they will get past it though. I mean we're all here fer the same thing. * he eats* And garou arn't ment to run alone. I figure it's better with me on their side than aginst them.

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:50AM EST
A mute nod up, slow and slight. Agreement, or just something to do. Grey eyes flicker around, then - "Where's yer pup?"

Dire Warning

Fri 12:54AM EST
Sleepin'. She sleeps alot. WIch is good, as when she's not shs movin' around like a weasel. Got her a christmas tree last night. She's all happy. Little things make her happy. * he smiles softly* Think You'll ever have pups Rhya?

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:55AM EST
"Jus' call me Decker." All that Rhya-ing made him feel weird. Like he should be responsible or something. Start giving edicts and leading Wyrm raids. Finishing off his second slice, he looks to see how many remained, and helps himself to a third. Eyes narrow for a moment, grey glinting like iron, and then Decker glances down at the lumps of cold sausage on his pizza. "Nah, I think not."

Dire Warning

Fri 01:00AM EST
*he nods. Hell there were tow entire untouched pies below the one they were eating* 'S cool. We all do or parts in our own ways. *he nods to him* Our kind battle more wyrm than some. Those Fianna, and Gnawers, they pump out more pups. QUality over quantity and all that. * he looks up at the moon and takes in a deep breath.* I keep seeing the strangest things in this town.... chased off an annoying thing last night with a bell. Got a pot of money though. Not too bad.

Decker Rohl

Fri 01:04AM EST
A quiet smirk. "Think y'mean quantity over quality when it comes to them Fianna."

The moon overhead is huge, leering, round. Decker doesn't have to look up to know it; he can feel it in his blood. He eats pizza fast, barely tasting it from tip to crust, because it gave his teeth something to do other than crush bone and flesh. Then his eyebrows go up - a pause - and a snort.

"Salvation Army? You chased the fuckin' Salvation Army man off 'n took his money?"

Dire Warning

Fri 01:07AM EST
*he nods* I ment you and me. * he grins* Them fianna are just watered down drunken fangs. * he srugs* Their Kin are sure nice though. Fiesty. * he smiles and nods. Tilts his head* Damn right. That fucker threatened to sic his army on me too. HA he ran like a little girl. I killed that damn bell too

Decker Rohl

Fri 01:13AM EST
"Wait 'til you piss 'em off," Decker mutters. A fourth slice goes down and then he's down, wiping his hands on his jacket before reaching into his pocket for his baggie and his cigarette paper. Propping his foot up on the balustrade post, he uses the surface of his thigh as a table, rolling a joint with the careless deftness of long practice. Can't do it on the balustrade itself - too damn icy and wet.

Another snort, this one more amused than anything. "They's there fer charity, Skald."

Dire Warning

Fri 01:15AM EST
Well if they all run away like that fucking annoying bell guy did, I ain't too worried about pissin' um off. They are just humans. * he srugs and watches decker. tilts his head* What's a Charity?

Decker Rohl

Fri 01:24AM EST
"Yeah well," a pause as he licks the joint shut, then sticks it between his teeth while he zips up the baggie and tucks it away in the thigh pocket of his baggy denims again. Dire would recognize the scent as those "herbs" he'd found in the gangbanger's truck. In the meantime between words and words again, the Modi's mood seems to take a downward plummet. Not hard on a night with a moon that full.

"You keep chasin' humans around 'n they's gonna call the cops on ya. 'N then yer gonna leave a lotta dead cops with bite marks around fer Imogen to clean up so the Veil ain't ripped. 'N then Imogen's gonna be home at 5am 'n I ain't gonna be too happy 'bout that."

Schzzhhhchhhk. A match struck hard on the bottom of his shoe, and then cupped to the tip of the joint. Eyebrows raised for emphasis, grey stare bared and crackling, "Understand?"

Snagging the joint out of his mouth, he blows smoke away from the Skald and adds, lazier, "Charity's just a pretty word fer gittin' somebody else to pull yer weight when yer too damn weak to do it yerself."

Dire Warning

Fri 01:29AM EST
*he nods* Yeah... I try. * he looks around and sniffs the air* But if you'd heard that bell man. * he shakes his head* you'd have went over there too. Lemme tell ya, UGg.

Oh I know what a Charity "is" I ment what in the conversation "Was" a charity?

Decker Rohl

Fri 01:33AM EST
Just a grunt. The Modi takes another hit, drawing the joint away from his face (pinching the unlit end off to keep the pot from spilling out - packed too much in. oops.), studying the glowing emberous tip.

Then, cocking an eyebrow - "Eh?" He didn't understand that at all. In lieu of a response, he holds out the joint to Dire, offering.

Dire Warning

Fri 01:35AM EST
*he shakes his head no. He tried that onece as a cup. His sences were too acute for it. Makes him gag* No thanks.

you said something was a charity, what was the charity? I understand the word... You didn't mean an ARMY is a charity did ya?

Decker Rohl

Fri 01:37AM EST
A roll of muscled shoulders: suit yerself. Decker keeps his joint all to himself. A nod up. "Salvation Army's a charity thing. Take the shit from the rich 'n turn it into gold fer the poor."

One elbow against the balustrade behind him, the Modi relaxes - as much as he can. It isn't much.

Dire Warning

Fri 01:38AM EST
*He ponders tht for a bit and tilts his head* Dosn't sound like any army I've ever seen or talked about. I'll take your word for it. *he nods* I'm poor, Carmen's poor so I guess it worked.

Decker Rohl

Fri 01:50AM EST
Snorting quietly, "Yeah, guess it did."

There's a moment of silence: a tense one, strung with invisible ragelines. Decker smokes his joint like a chimney, barely remembering to hold a hit in before dragging off the next. When the bomber joint's half-gone, he unfurls his arm, a deceptively lazy gesture, and grinds it out on the balustrade.

Stows the last half away. Dusts off his hands. Exhales, cracks his neck. Going off to Atrocity Realm the next morning, at dawn. Too fuckin' riled up to sleep. Too fuckin' late to bother Imogen. Too fuckin' antsy to bother with dragging James and Rune away from each other.

"Feel like killin' somethin'." The Modi straightens, levels a look at Dire. "You game?"

Dire Warning

Fri 01:53AM EST
*he nods* sounds like a plan. * he stands dusting his own hands off.* havent killed anything in.. shit.. days.

[at this point, COMPLETELY pulling this outta my ass--]

Decker Rohl

Fri 02:00AM EST
"C'mon then. I'm drivin'."

Like he was gonna trust Dire's "skills." He takes the Skald out to the black Tacoma, the alarm beeping quietly as he disables it. Kinda cool. Made him feel all rich 'n shit. Climbing in, he starts up the engine while Dire gets in on the other side.

"Rune's uncle's got the hookups. He mentioned a crackhouse down in AC where they's gittin' mighty close to puttin' together a superdrug. Perfectly mellow high, but addictive as fuck, 'n supposedly you git tolerance to it like that." He snaps his fingers. Not sure if Dire understood half of what he said, though, so he sums it up, "Basically it's real bad shit.

"They's small now, but once they hit the right switch 'n perfect the process, once this shit hits the streets, they'll be too big to touch. So if we gonna bring 'em down, we do it now."

Of course, this will get the Wyrm's attention for sure if it's gotten a Glass Walker kinfolk's, but what's a few fomori to two Fenrir on a full moon?

Dire Warning

Fri 02:03AM EST
*he blinks as the car beeps* OPhhhh a fetish car. Nice.. * he pats the hood. He nods* bad shit. Right. * he takes Bubba from the inside of his too large jacket as he sits and shuts the door, holding it between his legs* Sounds like a night on the town worthy of a beer when we sing the tale.

Decker Rohl

Fri 02:14AM EST
Decker starts to contradict the fetish car line - stops. One, Rune bought it. God knows what the Glass Walker did to it. Two, let Dire think what he wanted.

"I don't sing," bluntly enough. True enough, too. Probably couldn't hold a tune if his life depended on it. Throwing the truck into reverse, they swerve out of the parking spot, bounce out of the lot, and away they go.

South. Freeway. Eighty miles going eighty mph. Do the math. One hour later - an hour of silence unless Dire has something to say - they pull off the interstate, onto a large boulevard, westbound. The lights of Atlantic City glitter garish in the distance, but they aren't going there, per se. They go down a smaller road, and then another, smaller still.

It winds. It turns. It's lined with big oaks and classic lamp-posts. White light, even - not the yellow of sodium lights. What, you thought the Wyrm only dwelled in the hearts of the poor?

Decker reaches into the map compartment to take out an address. Leaning forward over the wheel, the Modi squints at the dimly glowing house numbers, checks it against the slip of paper. "This is it," he says, quiet and grim, with a nod toward the house. "Gonna park 'round the corner. Then we're gonna cross over 'n scope the spiritscape out. Decide how to get in after."

Dire Warning

Fri 02:17AM EST
*he nods* You drink. I'll sing then. * a chuckel. as he relaxes for the drive. No need getting riled before the time for such.

he holds the silence and watches the driving. he's not stupid. Just a bit ignorant. The things he leanrs WILL be put into play. The smaller roar does this weird dance. Looking up to the house he nods* Sounds good... no umbral re-enforcements that way... catch um flat footed when we go in on the Real.

Decker Rohl

Fri 02:24AM EST
The house is huge. Fuckin' magnificent. Probably 10 bedrooms or something, great big white columns out front, beautifully trimmed hedges (nature bound into manmade shapes) scattered over a luxurious green lawn. For all that, it has a feeling of dread clinging to it, as though beneath the pristine white columns and the greystone facade there lay nothing but blackness.

Around the block the black Tacoma goes, parking. The lights go off and the engine goes dark. Decker opens and shuts his door in case anyone was listening - looks around in case anyone was looking. Then he adjusts the angle of the rearview mirror so he can see himself, and concentrates.

The Umbra is thick here, and he was never good at this. Dire probably gets across much sooner than he does - Decker needs all the luck he can get not to take half a fuckin' hour. When finally he squeezes across, the drops on his ass on the Penumbral ground. The truck had disappeared. Guess it wasn't a fetish after all.

By then, Dire would have had plenty of time to see the house. In this otherworld, it is ghostly, nothing but a hint of columns and walls rippling purple-black, a negative of its real-world self. The spirits of the hedges are withered things; the grass is sere and yellow. Inside the house, in the basement, the sick purplish glow thickens, darkens, spreads like blood. In its midst, barely glimpsed, are the ghosts of laboratory tables, equipment.

Not surprisingly, banes flit like ragged bats around this glow.

Dire Warning

Fri 02:28AM EST
*He's there when the Modi comes over. Crouched and sniffing. Having shifted to his breed form apon entrance the dark ashen gray furr blends in with the landscape.. His words are in high tongue. Unaccented as it's the first language he leared speak* The ground is cold here. Far from any moon paths. The darkness will conceal that wich light might betray. our advantage lies in stealth and surprise... * he looks up at the Modi as he stands. the crinos crouched there looking though the spiritual remnants of the bushes* Banes to infest the "bad shit" All blind yet their hearts can see that which would doo evil unchecked if loosed apon the world.
* Seems he gets down right... Skald-ish when on the hunt don'the?*

Decker Rohl

Fri 02:36AM EST
He is a purer version of himself on this side. He stands straighter, and his blood's purity shines truer. At the same time, he is a weaker version, his spirit not nearly so strong as his rage. The edges of his shape blur slightly, as though he were not altogether on this side.

Decker rubs his eyes, and then takes his preferred Hispo-form. His language too is that of their people as he does a quick count of the banes: All right. Not many. We can take them, but beware if they should call for reinforcements. We have no Godi, and our primary task is Realmside.

Dire Warning

Fri 02:39AM EST
*he chuffs accknowledgement. jerking his muzzel to the right as he breaks to the left. THe natural flanking instinct of the wolves coming out. Gaining some distance his form slips over the hedge and useing the long shadow cast by the house itself he advances. His claws shapening themselves on the gorund as he goes. Decker would catch the gleam of razors from his position as the lanky Crinos dives behind a bush and looks up*

Decker Rohl

Fri 02:50AM EST
And...he's off!

Dire Warning is a dark grey shape in the shadows. His tribesmate is a shade lighter, burnished steel to Dire's storm-washed granite hue, and keeps pace in his direwolf form. Dire breaks left; Silence peels to the right. Though they are not a pack, instincts run strong, and they do share blood.

The bushes are scrawny and provide little enough cover. Still, the banes - small ones, gafflings, semi-intelligent at best - do not seem to notice, and continue their haphazard circling.

Then there's a short, sharp chuff from the Modi then, and a nudge of his snout. Follow the line of sight and Dire will see -

aw shit.

Big. Ugly. Eight jointed legs like a spider, but this is nothing the Weaver ever made - or if it is, it is corrupted beyond recognition. Chitinous exoskeleton gleams wetly with blood or some other ichor; between the gaps, beneath, nothing but a dull red glow. Obviously the overseer of this little banedance, the octoped creature sits at the center of the whirlwind, its taloned legs (entirely too many joints) move meditatively.

Dire Warning

Fri 02:55AM EST
*his eyes narrow as he sees the aracneid. He nods and he scents the umbral air. He notes it's local He notes the shape and size.
Lips peeling back from dagger light teeth. Icy blue eyes focous.

Suddenly across the gap. That, not of the pack as of yet is still speaking to him in his mind. Not a harsh invasion but a gentle one.

The spideer is seen there. Standing and turning twords dire. A flame is then seen. bursting bright as dire bellows Chalengs, right on the creatures eyes. As it spins and lashes out a form of Decker, bigger than life leaps up from behind to come down with claws on the spider evin as dire rushes to join from his role as distraction.

These flicker though the Modi's mind and Dire looks over ears perk and he waits for accknolwedgement*

Decker Rohl

Fri 03:01AM EST
The Modi's grey eyes flicker over to Dire. A second or two passes, and then - a flick of an ear, a lashing wag of the large tail. Acknowledged.

Dire Warning

Fri 03:05AM EST
*Dire stands from the bushes and hops over and stands to his full height and spreads his arms widly. His head tossed back as he lets out the anthem of war. Howing it out as only a Skald can and then drops into a combat pose. His high tongue coming out bitter and fridged*
Come, lets dance spidy. You and I and we'll see whom still has legs to shake when the dawn reviels our bodies!!!

* As the spirit turns twords the Skald focouses his intent and calls on his gifts. Razor shar claws gleam as he makes a sigal in the umbra air. As the spider starts forward flame does indeed burst out on thecreature. Right on it's many eyes, a cold blue flame burning fridgely hot*

Decker Rohl

Fri 03:10AM EST
As Dire bursts from hiding, the arachnoid wheels about, eight legs moving in flawless, frightening synchrony. Two dozen glowing eyes, the same baleful purple of the haze, bore into the Skald. The ebbing pulsing light flares particularly bright for an instant, casting the area in stark surreal purple. The hedges are grotesque and skeletal, light shining straight through its wilted leaves like radiation.

Then fire of a purer sort explodes into the creature's eyes, sending it rearing back on four legs like a viper, the four taloned forelegs whistling through the air. On its underbelly, clearly visible, is a seam where the chitinous plates of its armor are jointed by a membrane running the length of the body, glowing the same dull red glimpsed at all its joints.

There's a sound like shrieking children, like trains on emergency brake, like a thousand steamkettles all at once. Oh their fuckin' sensitive ears! No time for that, though. The four flailing legs crash back to the ground - into the ground, four inches deep, and the arachnoid, trailing a small train of smaller half-confused banelings, is flashing toward Dire.

Did the Skald think it would be slow for its meditative stillness? It's not. Eight legs piston up and down, nearly blurring - the thing scuttles unbelievably quickly up from the pit of the basement, across the blasted yard. The distance here seems to be deceptive - though the bane seems to grow larger, it does not seem to come any closer. What at first looked perhaps dog-sized is fast approaching the side of a cow...an elephant...

Impact in ten. Nine. Eight.

Hold...wait for it...
The Modi crouches motionless, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to stillness. Closer to the arachnoid than Dire, the bane would have to charge past his hiding place to reach the Skald.

Dire Warning

Fri 03:15AM EST
YES YES!!! COME TO ME YOU UGLY GANGLY BEAST! BRING IT! YOUAND I WILL DANCE AND WHEN WE'RE DONE ONLY I WILL REMAIN!!!! *He howls and damn if the Skad deosn't hold out his arm. Massive powful hand clinching and the war hammer SNAPPING into existance there. Oh yes. rarly seen in the real world the hammer is with him now. Bubba was left in the truck. Dire turns size ways,
Seven, six.....
He cocks up the long handeled war hammer, eyeing the burning attacker as it comes at him like a flaming meteor. His ears folding back. He hopes this works. If not... well. It'd have been fun. He saw where he must strike, or where his follow though strike must come when Decker attacks. He's ready*

Decker Rohl

Fri 03:23AM EST
Decker flashes a glance at the Skald, craving suddenly the ability to speak into minds - did he see the target? - five, four - the Skald courage for sure, but probably not much brains - three, two -

- one -

The thought that flashes across the Modi's mind, irrelevant, is that Bubba must be sorry to have missed the action. Then the arachnoid thunders by - the size of a small city bus, eight legs stabbing into the churning earth - and Decker bursts from hiding, dropping into the wake of the monster, his Hispo form eating distance faster than his Crinos ever could. A spurt of Rage sends him flashing through the air, changing into the warform, black tattoo becoming black axe as clawed hindfeet reach out for a foothold on the monster's back.

CRACK. The greataxe, aptly named Ogre, sinks three inches into the monster's back. He'd expected it to sink a damn lot more than that: the fucker was tough.

The fucker was also rearing up again like an untamed bronco. Ride 'em, cowboy! That horrendous shrieking fills the penumbral air, and the Modi yanks the axe free, hindlegs and free forepaw scrabbling for a hold on the blood-ichor-slick chitin while he spins the axe in the air and readies it for another strike.

Meanwhile, below, Dire gets a damn good view of four slashing talons, an arching chitinous body, and that red gap.

Dire Warning

Fri 03:35AM EST
*He howls as decker bursts out and into sight to better distract the beast. WHen Deckers attack lands dire is ready. FUCK this thing was big. He grins in his crinos form. Ahhhhh the stories he would tell. The buss sized beast has already grown to house szed in the Skalds brain. but back to the here and now.

OHFUCKIT"SFASTTIMETOMOVEDON"TTHINKMOVEMOVEMOVEMOVE!!!!

THe young skald moves with a grace that humans couldn't even understand. First flipping backwards as the claws come.
Landing and coiling his powerful crinos legs to dive forward evading those same claws on their return swing. The hair being shave from his shoulder as he goes past. fliping enterly as he rolls forward he rises as it rears, Decker hacking from the top,

Dire attacks from below. The Hammer comes from way back. A stroke that could launch a gol ball a mile with a follow though powered by his own rage the war happenr comes up around down and arks back up connecting solidly with that seam. That membraind that ran the creatures length. Slamming into it with all the power the get could produce*

Decker Rohl

Fri 03:43AM EST
pop-RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!

The head of the hammer smashes through the membrane, ripping a hole big enough to fit Dire's Crinos-sized head. The beast SHRIEKS deafeningly, coming down on all eights again, but it's not engineered quite right and its stabbing talons can't quite reach Dire. Red plasmic ichor floods out, hissing down the hammer's shaft like acid before it starts onto Dire's furry arms.

It burns, it burns!!!

That it does. It burns pretty damn nastily. Fortunately for Dire, Decker - so silent compared to the Skald - lands another crushing axe-blow from above (over here motherfucker!) and the beast's attention is diverted. Its primordial chaotic destructive mind churns: it reaches a decision.

Get the gnat off my back.
In other words: ROLL.

Eight legs push it over too fast for the Modi to leap to safety. The beast's weight is crushing; its legs, churning it about, lash out and catch Dire in the belly, whacking the Skald back ten or twenty feet. Then the arachnoid is back on eight legs, stamping after Dire like a furious bull while the Modi grits his teeth and drops to all fours - the three legs that are still working, that is. Resist Pain didn't help when a bone was powdered.

A bark, or perhaps it's better described as a roar -
INCOMING, DIRE!

Dire Warning

Fri 03:54AM EST
*his arms burn for a second as the shit flows over him. he yanks down regaining his hammer and his own Resist pain kicks in. burning fur, he'll deal with that in a minute. POOF the fucker dissapears from over him. Looks like that minute was now. he scrapes the shit from his powerful arms as fast as he can OOOOOFFFFF!!! that fucker kicked him and he's airborne.
Ahh this is what it's like to fly. * the hammer flying with him as the get's iron grip keeps the weapon.
He lands and rolls wiping more of the shit off as the beast comes at him again. *
yeah yeah yeah. Bitch bitch bitch, moan... Oh shit!
*He leaps up. Poweful crinos legs launching him high. He seems to not have bones as he twists dodging the flailing legs, his dexterity awesome as he lands and coffs. blood spraying. That kick must have collapsed a lung. Breathing was hard but he'd breath after this thing was dead. He's on top now. His acrobatics olympic, his desxterity godly and then he remembers
Better start hitting it. Sadly he's farther forward than decker was. SO he starts swining at what he can see. Those eyes weakened by the fire at the start. SWING SLAM SWEING SLAM! Two explaoad in juice before the beast even registers where he is.
HACK!
SOme more blood spit up and still the Skald fights on. A jaunty little whining hol excaping him
"Spiders tasty in the plate
Oh the spiders I love to hate
Spiders I goosh with my HAMMER!
DIE YOU FUCKER DON" MAKE ME STAMMER!!! * he's rearing back for another blow even as his one lunged song rolls out*

Decker Rohl

Fri 04:05AM EST
If Decker were the arachnoid...he'd kill Dire just to make that one-lunged song stop.

Fortunately, Decker isn't. Axe dragging, he starts shambling their way. Halfway there the bones are reknitting. Three-quarters of the way, he's barely even limping.

By the time he's there, the leg's good again. He's back on two feet, the axe held tight in two hands. The Skald is whacking at the thing randomly, not terribly effectively (that armor is thick), but the distraction helps, and so too does the wound on the belly. The beast is weakening, slowly but surely; its frantic and furious stamping is slowing. A forest of talons stabs and churns like a medieval obstacle course; Decker charges through the pandemonium, dodging not quite as deftly as the Skald. A talon rakes across a shoulder, another misses his head by an inch, and then the red gash is showing before him.

The Modi drives the axe upward (this is called a run-by axing), ripping it messily out in his wake. Ichor spills, burns, splashes; the arachnoid lets out another shriek, bucking Dire right off its back. Meanwhile, Decker darts out the opposite side through the forest of legs - not fast enough. A talon comes down through a paw. Decker snarls, spinning about on the pinned foot, and hacks at the jointed appendage.

Dire Warning

Fri 04:12AM EST
*He flys backwards and as he goes though the air he calls out. As best as he's able with his blood soaked maw*
"Ya know, Decker... "
*he's still arking up*
"I tinink we've gone about this all rong..."
*he's arking down*
"We should have brought a can of raid."
*SLAM aned roll. the hammer hits the skald in the head on his roill clearing him straight out of that contemplative mood. He shakes his noggin and looks up. Dammit this thing gotta quit throwing him around. What was this? MIB? He aint' no bugs bitch. He gets up and looks around. grabs his hammer and cacks. Dropping the hammer and picks it back up. He's racing twods the moster.
Deckers axe flys up and SLAMS into the leg at the joint. DIre nors as he leaps forward. Hammer arking down from the otherside. SLAM Deckers ASx is forces the rest of the way though as the hammer compleats the force of the cut. Dires teeth lashing out and grabbing the now freed leg close to the body. Hammer dropping. And suddenly the skald goes buck craxy. Using that leg to hold on with his teeth he just startsl shredding at the underbellie with all 4 legs. ;aoershyglisuzglialudglizsdliugblabrldgblabfdlbglrbvlablvbardlugvblbvla rlkgbliuzebdglbvaluebvliaberwlivbabalwb
coming out of his mouth as he holds on. hopefully too close to kick. HOPEFULLy as his claws rake and scrabbel and cut and gnash and yeah!! *

Decker Rohl

Fri 04:20AM EST
Leave it to a Skald to be funny in this sort of situation, Decker thinks - somewhere between annoyed and amused, while his grey eyes watch for another opening under the arachnoid's body. There--!

--the Skald is closer, sees it first. Dire dashes under the belly of the beast. Jesus he's gonna git 'imself killed...

"aoershyglisuzglialudglizsdliugblabrldgblabfdlbglrbvlablvbardlugvblbvla rlkgbliuzebdglbvaluebvliaberwlivbabalwb," snarls Dire, verbatim, slightly muffled toward the end as ichor comes pouring out. The chitinous plates creeaak apart, as the membrane tears, faster and faster, and then somehow the Modi's grabbed onto two out of the seven remaining legs and heaves the flailing spurting thing on its back.

Dire's gibberish goes on. Dire's assault goes on, only now he's on top of the arachnoid and Decker's beside him in an instant. The membrane rips faster and faster now, tearing apart under the strain of the chitin plates coming apart. The monster was about to literally split open, if not turn inside out.

Dire Warning

Fri 04:26AM EST
*As the bug is flipped Dire lets go in mid air. spinning around like a cat he lands. still snarling out his displeasure with it in general. Seeing Decker henods. Razored claws lashing down to latch onto the plates Across from decker. His strength isn't the truly titanic sort of the Modi's but the crinos was noones pussy. As decker pulls his half his way the skald pulls his half his way.*
HACK!
* Blood sporays and he calls out cheerfully*
"MAKE A WISH DECKER!"
*and gives a herclean effort to yank his half his way*

Decker Rohl

Fri 04:32AM EST
What? Momentary confusion. Then the Modi gets it. Grunt. Wish this motherfucker would just DIE--

--YANK.
CRACK.
SPLOOSH!

The arachnoid cracks right in half, just like a wishbone. Ripped asunder, the talons flail and spasm one last time - and then still. For an instant they can see, at the core, the churning spirit-heart, sickly green and ghostly blue, collapsing it on itself. Imploding. Dissipating. Then every joint bursts; ichor floods out until the brilliant light of the penumbral moon - red fading to grey, fading to nothing, drank soundlessly in by the black earth.

In a matter of seconds the remaining exoskeleton looks ancient, collapsing it on itself with hollow booms and groans. The work of the Destroyer, once destroyed, quickly disintegrates. In the distance, the small banestorm whirls confusedly before scattering in all directions, the gaffling-banes unable to function without the domination of their overseer.

Decker looks at the mess, axe in one handpaw, the other reaching forward to pick a talon off the ground. A memento, if you will.

Now to finish this Realmside, he growls to Dire. Somehow I don't think it'll be hard, after this...

Dire Warning

Fri 04:36AM EST
*he nods walking around After it's split and reaches down to claim a fang. Wrenching it free before the rest disolves. * The posion might come in handy... Repay the ... bad shit people, with some shit they never dreamed. * he looks around and walks over gripping his hammer. muttering*
All the furr off my arms.. I look like a get of a poodle.... *he snarls* First one that laughs I'm stuffin' this fang up their ass. * He nods to Decker* Ready.

Decker Rohl

Fri 04:42AM EST
A blank moment, and then the Modi lets his jaw loll open wolfishly, the corners almost tilting up. Don't worry, bland and deadpan, the unaccented Garou spech, the poodle-cut doesn't make you look fat.

Then, growing sullen again, Don't wait for me. I may be slow.

Dire already knew that. It took Decker half a minute to get across last time, and that was Decker being lucky. This time, he didn't have a reflective surface.

By the time Dire has crossed the gauntlet, the Modi is still nowhere in sight. Realmside, the house is ablaze with lights now - utter shrieking chaos - and perhaps half a dozen men are hurrying to carry supplies, equipment, reagents and the like out of the house, into a truck. From the basement of the house comes an ominous rumble, and a tremor in the ground. The men see Dire then - bloodied and in his warform - and the screaming begins in earnest.

No time to lose, if Dire wanted to catch them all.

Dire Warning

Fri 04:49AM EST
*He throws back his head and lets out a truly primal roar. It's too late to run now and Dire Warning is here. He races twords the truck. Hammer shimmering from view and taking up position on his arm again. The 900 pound monster 9'6" if standing is moving.. moving moving.. The truck growing nearer and nearer. He could just stop and flip it over but where is the fun in that. The get launches again. Seemingly as at home in the air as he is on the ground.
Half flip. Head pointing towrds the ground....
Twist, facint the way he was flying.
Talons lashing down connecting with the top of the trick as he flys over. His weight yanking it with him. Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek CRASH as it slams down on it's side. Talons are ripped from the metal.* YES YES FLEE BEFORE ME YOU LITTLE GNATS! FOR HERE COMES YOUR RIGHOUS DEATH!!! * He cuts another roar loose and starts wading though the workers.
Slash, There goes somones leg flipping into the air
Gnash! Someones head flys bidily from the man.
CRash!! A leg kicks out to cave in a thirds chest. He nears the acess to the basement they are flowing out of. Not there yet. Can't let any get away and these little fuckers get slippery when covered in blood.*

Decker Rohl

Fri 04:53AM EST
Eenie meenie miney moe -
...that's one, that's two, that's three, that's four...

As Dire slaughters his way into the house, he can scent acrid smoke and more chemicals than a college professor can name. Music's going somewhere, loud, and so is the TV, but no one's watching. Two more men come bursting up the stairs from the basement, arms loaded with racks of test-tubes and erlenmeyer flasks just as Dire rips the staircase door off the hinges. Smoke billows out, and the basement - perhaps once well-lit with the sterile white light of fluorescent bulbs - is plunged into fire-flickering darkness.

"I don't get it," one babbles excitedly to the other, "it just fuckin' blew up, I swear I didn't touch shit." His friend stops dead, staring. Heedless, he prattles on, "It was fine one minute, perfect distillation process, and then two minutes ago it just--Frank? Frank?"

He thinks to look. The rack of tubes slips from nerveless arms, crashes to the concrete. Test tubes shatter en masse. "Frank" turns and, wisely, tries to run.

Dire Warning

Fri 04:58AM EST
*The smell hits him and the Crinos reers back himself. HACK!!! * the last of the blood from the now healed lung flys out.
Smell higher in Crinos. Quewed to the hunt but this reek. This must truly be wyrm tait MUST BE. He looks down with eyes afire with icy feircness. His mind almost blanks. He almost frenzies. Instead he lashes out. Taloned hands grabing the running frank...........
YES, got him by the leg. Then. Frank becomes the weapon.
he's ripped from the ground and his body comes aorund to crash into the other man. SLAM!
Bones shattering. SLAM!! SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM RIIIIP!
On the back swing most of frank rips free to tumbel into the yard. Now only a leg.
SLAM. Dire snarls. Cant' fit down there in crinos. He keeps the leg as he shifts down to glabrow. Teeth shrinking as his face becomes somewhat homid and his tail goes away. His fur retracts (( where it's not burned off)) and he heads down the stairs pausing at the bottm hefting the bloody club looking for more*

Decker Rohl

Fri 05:02AM EST
Sadly enough, there's no more. The Skald's ferocious gaze catches only on overturned lab tables, shattered flasks, and a queer imploded contraption at the center of the room. A chemical fire has erupted, coincidentally blazing its way toward a large cabinet labeled "FLAMMABLE." You know the kind. Red, metal, stores alcohols and organic solvents.

Hopefully, so does Dire.

Dire Warning

Fri 05:08AM EST
*His Snarl cuts off like a switch. replaced by a tilt of the head and a *Arrrroungh? * his eyes widen and he turns, spending rage to shift to hispo, the leg is let go as he instantly reverts to a 4 legged form. Catching that same leg in his horriable jaws in this form and RACING UP the stairs ass for leather. He leaps out of the starte well and though the air hits the ground and leaps again hoping to. yess yeeeeeeeeeeees pull up your paws, YES cleared the over turned truck and rolling on the ground as the expected explosion starts from below.

Ether, often used as a cutting agent for drugs mixed with those other things. At first there is that instant of silence as the air outside the hole sucks in.

Dire covers his ears with his paws even as he rolls arcoss the yard.

Then the FOOOM!!!! As it starts to expand. The basement not big enough and the foundation cracks and the ground for about 20 meters around the house buckels up with the gass and pressure wave radiates out in a sphere.
Then the BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!! as fire shoots out of the stair well in a merry ark. Thrusting up into the manor in a lillor as well, expanding like a living animal. eating everything it finds and growing.

Dire sits up and shifts to homid. Leg still in his mouth as he stares at the house right as the windows expload outwards and he rolls away as the glas rains down in that tinkeling melodic way*

Decker Rohl

Fri 05:15AM EST
...and that's when our grumpy Modi finally squeezes through the Gauntlet, still halfway across the lawn - just in time to duck and cover ("Shit!") from the glass raining down.

Then, in the aftermath, with the fire blazing behind him, reflecting off the glass bits scattered all over the yard, Decker reverts to homid and surveys the damage. Jesus Christ. Leave the Skald alone for five minutes and look what happens. He couldn't even begin to count the body parts. Imogen was going to be working overtime for weeks to taint and/or rid of all the evidence, and there goes her Christmas bonus check too.

But that's not the most important thing. Neighbors can ignore meth labs in the basement, midnight rave parties in the house, and 3am drug deals - but they can't ignore an explosion that rocks the street. Every light in every house within a block was coming on, and you can bet people were calling the cops. And in a neighborhood like this (remembering the winding streets, the sheltering oaks?), the response time is measured in seconds.

Decker snatches the leg out of Dire's mouth, tosses it down, and grabs the Skald by the arm, hauling him to his feet. "Time to split," he says, "compose that damn song later."

Dire Warning

Fri 05:20AM EST
*He's hauled to his feetl well up any way feet already moving he lands when decker drops him and nods*
Right right right right right! * he's moving qucikly with decker away tords the shadows, away from the burning house. when

a whisteling starts. He looks up and tilts his head with another.
Arrrroungh? He blinks and reaches up. Nods and casually pushes the Modi about 5 feet to the left.
CRASH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A twisted and chared form hits th gourd where decker was, looks something like a copllage dorm fridge. Dire ponders a moment checking inside but looking around he sniffs the air and snorts* Time to split... shits rainin from the sky now. God damn I hate these wyrm holes.

Decker Rohl

Fri 05:24AM EST
"No shit," growls the Modi, not too much happier having nearly been smushed by a falling fridge. They make their way to the truck without further incident (though if the truck is scratched someone had hell to pay...), pile in, slam the doors. The engine starts as the sirens begin to sound in the distance; roaring up, they pass three squad cars and a blazing red fire engine.

After that? Peace and quiet. For the moment.

Decker Rohl

Thu 12:54AM EST
Boots go up Imogen's stairs. It means he's been in the Pine Barrens again. There are pine needles stuck in the mud and the snow between the tread of his soles; the scent of the wilderness clings to him crisply, as different from the scents of the city as night is from day. Beneath that, the not-quite-scent of his rage, spent and rebuilt and built even higher, nearly full beneath the nearly full moon.

His hands are in his pockets. Switchblade in the right-hand pocket (never did finish trimming his nails. Will have to remember to do that). The little disc of wood he'd been whittling in the left. It's bitter cold, and he's in his heavy winter coat again, and he finds himself missing the heat of summer like a fish misses water.

Her SUV's in the parking space, so she had to be home. Her lights are still on, so she probably wasn't asleep. His boots crest the top step, cross the icy balcony, and he lifts a hand to hammer on her door.

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 01:07AM EST
The full moon often meant she slept less, even before the Garou that lived next door, well... lived next door. Perhaps it was past experience. Perhaps it was a natural discomfort that disturbs other human's sleeps.

As it was, she was up and reviewing a medical textbook, scrawling vague notes across a notepad. The hammering on the door is identifiable, at least in a guess, and for a moment she stares at the hallway, the door not quite in view. After a moment, she leans forward, placing the text on the ground and kicking it absently underneath the chair. The notebook is closed and tossed onto the coffee table. Her hands lift to her face, rubbing at the curve of her brow, before the movement continues, raising to drag through her hair as her steps take her toward the door, and finishes as her hands fall, swinging to her sides. Barefoot, she crosses the distance to the door, one hand sliding into her pocket while the other reaches for the deadbolt. She still glances through the peekhole, a habit born of 'if it was something worse than him, wouldn't you feel stupid?'

The dead bolt is thrown back, with a dull thud, and she pulls open the door, moving aside to avoid the inward rush of chill from the air as much as she can, feeling, nonetheless the shiver of gooseflesh along her arms.

Decker Rohl

Thu 01:18AM EST
So Decker looks at her for a minute, taking silent inventory. Hair and eye, and fine pale skin. Check. He draws his right hand out of his pocket, scratches the trailing end of his eyebrow. A raise of those eyebrows, then, as he nods toward the inside of her condo in wordless question.

After she lets him in and locks the door, after he takes his shoes off and lays his coat over the back of the couch, after he takes a seat where he always does, he picks a white thread that had come loose from the stitching on the seams off the denim of his pants.

"Gotta talk to you." He levels his grey eyes at her, sets his loosely curled fists on his thighs, leans back. "Gotta tell you some things."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 01:29AM EST
The wordless question receives a wordless answer, her hand leaving the curve of the door to gesture slightly toward the interior of the condo. Com'in. said in not so many words. No words.

She steps past him as he enters the condo, pushing the door shut and locking it once more, sliding the deadbolt into place. Her hands have left in her pockets, and she vaguely rubs at her forearm as she turns watching as he removes his shoes, following him into the living room.

She has not yet reached the easy chair when he sits, and speaks, half turning in the motion of watching to look at him as he speaks. An eyebrow lifts as he speaks two uncharacteristic sentences. Both hands lift, palm up in a faint motion that could and likely did, mean go ahead, as she takes the last few steps toward her chair, sinking into it, sliding a foot beneath her. "Go ahead," she says after a moment, confirming her slight motion of hands.

Decker Rohl

Thu 01:42AM EST
And now he has no idea where to begin. It all tied back to Noah somehow. Or did it? It all tied back to her tribe, then. Or did it? Shit.

(Just tell it straight.)

"There's another Fianna kin. She's blind. I been bringin' her groceries 'n shit. Was bringin' her groceries when Corran told me 'bout you 'n Noah. Smashed her chair on my way out the door, so I brought her a new one." A pause, and this is not a time for him to look away from her. "She kissed me."

Another pause. Should he offer excuses, reassurances? There are none:
" 'N I kissed her back."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 02:04AM EST
It all ties back to Noah. It all ties back to her tribe. It's a wonder she had not abandoned the Garou society altogether, or at least that she hadn't tried harder when she'd been found. It's a wonder she lets him into the condo when he comes to visit at one in the morning. She has to wonder at a lot of things.

The reaction is almost non-existant as he speaks, because she's schooled herself that way. Rarely do strong emotions crest across her pale features, and they certainly do not when she does not want them to. Whatever reaction there is (because from the dark blue eyes, there's something be it fury, amusement, shock, horror, or hatred, but there is something) it is difficult to read or catologue. She so rarely follows the designed paths.

A fianna should get angry.
A kinfolk should be accepting of fate.
Some would cry.
Some would throw things. There is a rather sizeable textbook at her feet that might make a rather sizeable dent in his head.

And perhaps she simply denies everything she should be, and everything she should feel as the silence stretches on, etching itself into the air between them scrawling out volumes of words that are not spoken, and thoughts that are not shared. She has hardly moved from her seated position, poised almost like a dancer since he'd spoken, but she does move now, leaning forward to rest her elbow on the armrest, her opposite hand falling to rest her fingers against the curve of her slender wrist.

"And?" the one word cuts through the silence like a knife.

Decker Rohl

Thu 02:13AM EST
And?

Who knows what he was expecting. Not tears. He can't imagine her in tears. But anger? Yeah. Likely. Dodge those textbooks, boy. Or bite them in half, spit them back out at her: do it again 'n it'll be you in pieces. The potential is there, in his blood, his moon, his genetics. Whichever worked.

Instead he gets a silence like a tundra, so far north that no trees grow. Instead, a one-word question.
He holds her gaze because there's little enough else to do.

"'N nothin'."

That didn't seem like enough. A lift and fall of his shoulders, white cotton stretching and compacting. He wants to run his hands over his head: something to do, to break the stillness. They stay where they are, though, the knuckles large, fingers long and curved under.

"I told 'er I ain't the father fer her kids that she's lookin' for. I told 'er not to waste 'er time."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 02:37AM EST
She does not want to hold his eyes. It's been too long a day, too long a week. The moon is too full and she can feel his rage crash and quake around her like a maelstrom.

She has had far too much of the Garou and their rage lately.

But meet them she does, with dark blue eyes, solid and unflinching. It would be a relief more than she can say to have him break the gaze. Because if he does it, it is not weak. If he does it, it is not submission. He's already a Garou. She has to fight for every inch she can get.

It would be more satisfying, perhaps if she would get angry, and throw things. Or at least give him some sort of obstacle, some reaction other than a single word question, and a silent bitter stare.

And?
N' nothing.

And nothing. Her hand leaves her wrist for a moment lifting and twisting so it's palm up, raising in a gesture that might be assension (unlikely), agreement, forgiveness or simply hopeless.

Anger is a slow burn for some, and a flash outrage for others.

"What do you want me to tell you?" she inquires after a moment, as her hand falls once more her fingers skimming across her wrist, absently massaging the joint.

Decker Rohl

Thu 02:49AM EST
"I don't know."
Nothing to say.

He watches her and she watches him, and gradually a frown comes over his face, a grimace. At least there's that much. At least it tells her more than the pokerface. Full house, royal flush.

Royally. Fucked.

"Jesus Christ, Imogen!" - an outburst - then nothing again. He stares at her like she's the riddle of the sphinx, and then he tries again. "The fuck do you want me to say?"

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 03:05AM EST
"I don't fucking know!" She flares back, slamming her hand open palmed against the armrest, putting much more strength and power behind those three words than he had, only moments ago. Her fingers drag across the fabric of the armrest, curling into a half loose fist, and she turns her hand over, her attention flicking toward the upturned knuckles and fist. Slowly, the long white pale fingers loosen and flatten.

There's the Fianna temper. Celtic flare.

As quickly as it surged, it's wrapped once more, not necessarily because she does not want to be angry with him, but because if he becomes too angry with her, she might not survive the night.

She may not always guard her tongue, but she often has the sense to shut.the.fuck.up. during the full moon. "I don't know," calmly now, each word enunciated and rolled in her mouth, spoken with a cornish tongue, liquid.

She is not finished speaking, drawing in air through her nose, inhaling slowly of the tension that tightens the space around them. Her eyes, pools of midnight in a pale face, slide back to him, following the edge of the coffee table to his knees, from his knees to his chest, chest to his face. Face, eventually, to his eyes.

"I'm sure it would be all well and proper to make you apologize. But I'm not about to grant some sort of absolution." Said retrospectively, almost. These are not words meant exactly for him, but instead voicing thoughts half formed. It's the slightest change of tones that indicates that this is more (or perhaps less) than a half voiced thought, as she speaks again, "You want her?"

Decker Rohl

Thu 03:19AM EST
At the flashfire of her temper, not a word from him. He keeps his mouth shut. His eyes flicker away; he bites the inside of his cheek; looks back. Steady and silent. Months ago: ages ago on her balcony, before he'd earned the right to step inside her condo -
"Fiesty redhead, just like they say, huh?

She is not finished.
She is not finished. He never expected absolution. He never gave himself anything of the sort. It's why this is the first thing he tells her tonight: so she knows what he's really like. So she knows he'd claim one woman, and be tempted by another. Or some such shit like that.

And then she says, You want her? and the trailing lilt of her question (or maybe it's flatly spoken, and there is no lilt) isn't even done when he hurls it at her -

"NO."

- like it could be a weapon or something. There's that Fenrir fuckin' temper. The air seems to pop between them, like the sound barrier being broken. His jaw is tense, his fists clenched tight now, and the cords on his forearms stand out. His eyes narrow; he shakes his head.

How can you think that?!
It isn't spoken.

"I don't." Contained now, fiercely so, after the initial outburst. "Was a mistake, a fuckin' - " Decker isn't one to talk with his hands, but he gives one angry flap, can't find a better word, " - mistake."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 03:40AM EST
He hurls his negation at her, with enough force to cause her to slam her mouth shut and nearly bite her tongue.

She offers him one word, bitten through clenched teeth, with enough force behind it, that if force were decibels she'd scream it at him. As it is, it is barely above a whisper. "Good." The word bitten off, halting whatever torrent of words that might have followed. Or never would.

It isn't spoken.

There are some things she appears to forgive. Easily, without thought. Bruises on her arm (they heal) first and foremost. Marks on her flesh. Even being pulled across a table (he has no way of knowing if he would have found out without Corran). It may mean there is either something very wrong with the Garou nation, or something very wrong with her.

Or nothing at all.

Her hand lifts, dragging through her unruly locks of flame, tugging through the knots, as her eyes lift to some point through the window across the living room, "Good." she repeats, with somewhat less force, but no less feeling.

She's out of things to say, or things to tell him, one or the other, it makes no difference in the end. The silence burns, and it's the kind of silence, if her flare had not declared it so clearly, that indicates fury beneath the chill.

He hasn't asked for absolution, and she won't give it. So after a moment her eyes turn to him once more her hand falling from her hair to rest, curled against her upperarm, thumb absently rubbing against the cotton-clad flesh.

Decker Rohl

Thu 03:56AM EST
We over?

He asked her once; he should ask her again. But he doesn't. Maybe he doesn't want to hear what the answer could be.

After a blank moment, looking at her looking at him, grey and blue and seeping seething rage and ice-locked fury - after a moment, he gets to his feet and heads for her kitchen. Pours himself a glass of juice. No alcohol for him tonight.

Drinks. Drinks slowly. After each swallow he looks at the glass, watching the level fall like it meant something. When he's done he washes the glass and sets it aside dripping, then thinks better of it and grabs a dishrag. Dries it. Puts it away. Then wipes down the counter.

Stalling.
Thinking.

Eventually, though, he runs out of tasks. Can't clean her whole damn kitchen just to put things off. When there's nothing else to do, he wipes his hands on his shirt and sets them at the edge of the counter, loosely fisted.

"Lissen," he says finally, his tone low enough that if she weren't a musician with ears attuned to sound she wouldn't hear at all, "I ain't gonna promise you nothin' 'cause promises break real easy where I come from."

Stalling again. Get the fuck to it.

"I'm gonna tell you somethin', and I want you to hear this:

"It ain't. gonna happen. again."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 04:25AM EST
She watches him as he stands, but her attention turns away as he walks toward the kitchen, and she does not follow. If she did, likely her choice of drink would be something hard, something sharp tasting and a testiment to her fianna blood. Over the last few days, she has wanted nothing more than to get very -very- drunk.

It hasn't happened. Things to do. Things to do.

She hears the faint sounds of the fridge opening, the suck of air, the thud of the door shutting. Silence as he drinks. Slowly. Time crawls. Water runs and he washes the glass. A faint creak as a cupboard opens. A clunk of the glass. A thud as the cupboard closes. Silence.

Her hands raise to her face in the silence, massaging the bridge of her nose. His voice is quiet, and she has to strain to hear him, turning her head to look at him. He can catch sight of her only in profile, half obscured by the fall of her hair over her shoulders.

Had he asked her again, she may have answered him with silence, unwilling to take the answer into her own hands. The last time, she had said no. There are many questions he'd asked her, where she's answered such.

She'd like to make this harder on him.

She gets to her feet, instead, her hands sliding into her pockets, thumbs sliding through her belt loops. She doesn't walk toward the kitchen, instead walking toward the breakfast bar. It's not until she's a foot or two away her eyes turn to him, leaving some other point that she'd used to catagorize her thoughts. Think her actions through.

The breakfast bar between them, and she stares at him. For a moment, he may think her silence is her answer. After all, she had told him she would give him no absolution.

She wants to make this harder on him.

"Fine," a smouldering word as her hands leave her pockets, and her elbows move to rest on the breakfast bar hands flat on the smooth black surface. "I believe you."

Decker Rohl

Thu 04:47AM EST
His fists tighten until his knuckles show white. His jaw tightens until the muscles of his face are taut and drawn, cords of steel. He stares at her and then he glares at her, an artery in his throat pulsing, a vein across his bicep strained.

Because she was making this
so. damned.

( - a flicker in his form - perhaps nothing more than a trick of the darkness - a split-second of snarling grey enormity - )

hard on him.

"Goddammit," nearly snarled, as he brings his fist down on the countertop and cracks the tile. Wheeling, he storms out of the kitchen, snatches up his jacket, and heads for the door before he snapped. He doesn't even slow: "Be gone for a few days. Umbra."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 05:02AM EST
A flicker in his form, perhaps nothing more than a trick of the darkness. But it's not. A flicker in his form, a split second of snarling grey enormity.

She takes a step backward, fast and quick, away from the breakfast bar and her eyes wince shut as his fist crashes into the counter, cracking tile.

"fuck." a bare breath of a word, issued without concious awareness. Perhaps she thinks she just thought the word. Perhaps she's unaware of the curse at all.

Several more steps to the side this time to get out of his path (there are days when she steps out of the roil of his rage, and there are days when she walks right into it) and to give him a wide berth.

"Don't--" walk out like this... the sentence caught off, almost before she'd completed the first word, whatever she had left to say caught in her throat, pressed back in a harsh swallow as her hand sharpy pushes away strands of hair behind her ear.

If the single word had stopped his departure at all, if he'd turned to look at her he can watch her consideration of him, the moment of indecision as she moves no closer. If he does not turn, even if he continues to walk, he can hear her silence behind him, as she moves no closer. She does not follow.

"I'm sorry."

Regret for her vindiction, perhaps, momentary as it was. Regret for the whole fucking weekend, the whole situation. It cannot be two words uttered easily.

Decker Rohl

Thu 05:29AM EST
She thinks she says I'm sorry, but she doesn't. She says I'm so-- and he pivots, rearing a pointing hand up like a viper.

"No." Snip. Cut off, just like that. "I'm sorry."

For Chrissakes. They can even manage to argue over who gets to apologize. A beat. He drops his hand, slips it behind him, and backs toward the door. Fingers close around doorknob. He holds it like the Holy Grail and goddammit he'd come here to tell her some things, ask her others, and so far he had one and a half down, half a million to go.

A breath sucked in.
"Look."

"I caught up to Noah. Ain't done nothin' to him that he ain't done to you. Scared 'im a bit." A lot. "Dragged 'im around a little." Half a mile of snow, rock, mud, twigs, into three trees and through a log wall. "Then I told 'im I claimed you."

Wait.
What?

He's watching her. Gauging a reaction, it seems, until he looks away. Exhales. Looks back. Pries his fingers off the door with some difficulty and starts to put his hand in his pocket before it seems to him that the action would look weak. Like he was hiding something. Hiding bloodstains that cannot be seen; hiding the monster he is.

His hands stay where they are, forcibly loose at his sides.

"But I ain't never asked you."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 06:00AM EST
"-rry." The last syllable lost beneath his negation, vehement for the second time that night, and her mouth shuts, her jaw tightening. They could find many things to argue about, thousands of things they do not see eye to eye on. The price of human life. The value of mercy. The value of her independence. The price of his pride.

She stares at him (Look), and her arms cross as she waits, drawing some measure of psuedo protection from the defensive posture. It's like standing with your back against the wall, when you know the monsters can get through the walls. It does no good, but it satisfies the animal instinct if only for a moment. She takes her moments.

Her brow furrows faintly a fine line forming between her brows as he speaks of claiming. Something in that bothers her, be it that it's a Fenrir claiming her, or that it's him claiming her to Noah; that it's without her permission. That she is claimed at all, and this was everything she had run from.

It could be any of those reasons. It could be all of them. It could be none.

I'd be a lousy blood mate.

A comment that had resulted in an arguement that had resulted in a dent in her door. Her head ducks away, attention sliding downward to the hardwood at her bare feet, her weight shifting from one foot to another.

She's made no secrets of her incompatibility with the Garou world and it's ideals. The idea of a mate. Children and a nice porch, holding conversations with other kinfolk. Hell, other than Bridie, as far as he knows, she doesn't know any other kinfolk.

Her attention turns up once more, following the line of his jeans, and the hands held loose at his sides before her eyes lift again to touch upon his face a hand dragging through her hair.

"I..." she begins without quite being completely sure about the completion of the sentence and where exactly she was going with that one single word, barely worth half a breath. A pause, and a faint sound in the back of her throat, which is as close as any human can get to a growl, this sound of half derision, frustration. "When I was talking with Noah, he said I'd been claimed, and unless I contested it, you'd have it, with all it... entitled y'to. Your mate." The word spoken as a half unfamiliar term, and apparently perhaps what she does know of it, she does not appreciate.

As if, like him, she has realized that where she places her arms is a weakness, her hands drop from her elbows, falling to swing loosely to her side, the only flicker of her tension being the slow press of her thumb against the large scar indentation of her index finger. "I told him that I didn't live by Garou terms, and if he wanted an answer, he needed to speak with you on it. I didn't want to answer, because I didn't have a bloody clue what it was something like that would get me into." A twitch of her lips, a pulled mirthless smile, more a smirk painted on her face, "I know what it is to be a Fianna's mate. Whatever it is to be the mate of another tribe..." the smirk fades and her eyes crawl away to her forearm, the brand of black ink washed into her flesh, "That was not particularly something spoken of, except for in absolutes. Y'don't do this." A slight gestures of her hand, indicating this. them. This moment. This night, this day, this here and now.

She's been talking for a while. An inhalation, slowly, as her eyes turn away from her arm, and back toward him, her exhale slow, the breath of the dying. "... So." She can speak, and eloquently when she puts her mind to it. She can even be charming, if she were to pay attention, and not use what skill she had to repell people and Garou as opposed to being liked. "I already know I can't be a Fianna's."

Her head tilts slightly, and it might just be his ever present rage that causes the thrum of tension through her slender frame, "What do you want from me, Decker?"

Decker Rohl

Thu 06:35AM EST
It's doubtful he even hears half of what she says. Or if he does, it's doubtful he listens. Not now, at least.

His ears hear. His mind stores it away by rote, and later - much later, if ever - he will recall it and sift through it again. Or maybe he won't. Maybe when he leans back against the door as though she wearied him more than the burden of moon and rage and duty and war ever could, when he leans back, shuts his eyes, he shuts her out.

No matter. He hears the question.

And he rubs the bridge of his nose. He kneads it between his fingers, thumb and forefinger at either side of the small crook there. It's been a long day. Long week. Long couple of months and she dares ask him what he wants from her.

"Fuck, Imogen..."
(isn't it obvious?)
"...you ain't never asked stupid questions before."

Drops his hand again. Straightens. She didn't want to hear him beg, but she did want to hear the words. Yeah, he gets it now. Or maybe he doesn't. Either way, he doesn't even bother to think. She gets it as it occurs to him, unfiltered by his ever-so-exclusive mental dam which so often reduced him to single syllables, to two-word sentences and one sentence explanations.

"Don't want nothin' but you." No hesitations. No looking away now. No turning back either. "Starin' me in the eye all the time. Drivin' me outta my mind half the time. Arguin' when good l'il kin keep their mouths shut. Askin' questions all the time. Talkin' when you shouldn't 'n sayin' nothin' when ya should. Runnin' around when you should be hidin'."

He draws a breath. There's a pause for the first time, and then he looks away, looks back. Softer, "Starin' at me like that when the lights are on. Kissin' me like yer gonna starve without me when the lights are off. Makin' me wonder. Keepin' me guessin'. All the shit you do that'll gitcha killed someday."

He's not eloquent. It's a fuckin' rambling mess, strained at parts. But it all sums up easily enough with a small nudge of his chin up, as though all the explanation he really needed was her, "Just you.

"Now answer the god damn question, Imogen."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 06:55AM EST
How many different ways will she have to answer this question? It all comes down to 'do you want me?"

Was it a mistake? Is it a mistake?

Do you want me? Are you mine?

She didn't want to hear him beg. She didn't even want to broach this subject. Without borders it meant there was nothing to overstep. No responsibilities. No ties. No connections.

She's looking at him as he speaks, even when he doesn't look at her, as if by watching him she can divine why he'd bother. What difference it make. For the second time that night, he misunderstands her, and she doesn't even bother to correct him. Because it would take too much time. Because it was too dangerous, and the moon was too full, and she was too tired and what he said was more than she'd expected and nothing like what she needed.

She closes the distance in several steps, bare feet quiet against the wood, her hands swinging loose at her sides, moving with her own grace which is unremarkable among the Garou where it is a warrior's grace. She has an ease of movement that is pleasant. There is nothing dangerous about her. There is nothing animalistic. Just one foot in front of the other, each step sure and even.

As she reaches him, her hands lift to his face, pausing in hesitation inches from him, close enough that he can feel the difference in their body temperatures. He, warmer than most humans, and she cooler.

Isn't it obvious?

"I want you," she says as the pads of her thumbs move lightly across his face, and she tilts her head slightly, looking at him, in the eye, because he rarely trusts what he can't see, and she wasn't bred for submission, any road. "You shouldn't even have to ask."

All the shit she does that will get her kill some day. Early in the morning, when the moon is nearly full, she kisses him, drawing his mouth to hers, needing his breath more than she needs her own.

Decker Rohl

Thu 09:33PM EST
How many different ways will she have to answer the question? How many different times?

He shouldn't even have to ask. But for all his thug confidence, all his Full-Moon strength, he has no solid ground on which to stand. Not here. Not now. So he asks. Again and again and again.

One more time. One last time?
"You have any idea what yer gittin' into--?"

She kisses him because sometimes words aren't enough, and he doesn't believe what he can't see. Feel. Touch. He kisses her because oftentimes words aren't close to enough.

hun. gry.

A time later: on the couch. Didn't make it to the bedroom this time. Clothes strewn about or merely rearranged - fuckit, who cares - it's been days. It's a full moon. And she almost got killed in the meantime. And the music is still going softly from her stereo because she's always filling her life up with some sort of background noise in the place of words, and he leans his head back against the cushioned back of the couch, closes his eyes, catches his breath, slows. his. blood.

Then he leans to the side, snags the remote control from the arm of the couch. Turn it up, turn it down...? Click. Turn it off. Just as good.

"Do you?" - like there was never an interruption. He's good at that. Good at holding on to scraps of conversations from minutes, hours, days ago. She might be puzzled for a moment, though; the original question had been half-muffled, half-indistinct. Then he clarifies, "Have any idea what you'd be agreein' to?"

Because. he. didn't.

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 10:04PM EST
Each time she answers, she is forced to stop, and pause, and try and dance around it, because in some ways she did know what she was getting into, and in others, she hadn't a clue, and goddamnit, when did they ever answer their own questions except for on the edge of fury and fear?

She kisses him so she doesn't have to answer the question, and to deflect the conversation away. She kisses him because words are not enough and it's been days.

A time later, on the couch, she pulls away as he leans back, fingers lifting to drag through her hair. He picks up the strands of conversation and her eyes lift to follow the contours of his face.

The silence that follows the death of the music, some instrumental is almost deafening. Though for Decker, it would be broken by such simple things as the hum of the fridge.

"I know enough." To avoid the question, to push it off, to walk away from her tribe, and the Nation, to spend who knows how long trying to keep beneath the radar. To have walls, and solitude, and music in the place of words.

Her thigh presses against him, as she straightens, half sitting, one foot touching the half cold hardwood floor beyond the edge of the couch for balance.

And perhaps she said she knew enough because she didn't want to know anymore (don't tell me anymore, I don't need to know. I know too much already, even if that is nothing more than the slightest bits of knowledge.)

She had tried to pull the information from Noah (his mate, Imogen), without success. She had tried to pull the answer from him (what do you want of me?) without success.

And now, it may be that she doesn't want to know. "Do you?" Her and her questions.

Damon Sands: i'm a bit confused *dies*
Bodhar: Shit.
Bodhar: I wrote confusingly?
Damon Sands: are they - uh - sitting or laying down? *ROTFLMAO*
Damon Sands: nononono
Bodhar: SHE is sitting up.
Bodhar: I dunno what he was doing.
Damon Sands: but - *just dying*
Damon Sands: oh god...
Damon Sands: of all the things to be confused over.
Damon Sands: "what position were they doing it in..?"
Damon Sands: *ROTFLMAO*
Bodhar: (cracks up_
Damon Sands: okay, i thought they were sitting. *ROLLING* oh my god.
Afridelle: *is lost*
Elizavieta: uhm.
Damon Sands: i think i'm blushing, man. my ears are all hot *ROTFLMAO*
KitsuneNeko: *hides behind Afri*
Elizavieta: i'm so saving this conversation for posterity.
Damon Sands: OH NO!
Damon Sands: *ROTFLMAO*
Bodhar: Poor Damon.
KitsuneNeko: *blinks at Damon* ... you suck
Damon Sands: well, take out the blushing line!
Elizavieta: in fact?
Damon Sands: *is a pirate of luuuuvin', does not blush*
Elizavieta: i think you should include that snippet of OOC conversation in your log.
Damon Sands: NO! *ROTFL*

[a little later]

Damon Sands: *dying still*
Damon Sands: mei, i'm serious! are they sitting or what? *ROTFL*
Afridelle: why dying?
Damon Sands: nevermind *takes this to IMs*
Damon Sands: because i really AM confused!!!
Bodhar: (LMAO)
Damon Sands: and i can't play if i don't know!
Bodhar: You're insane.
Damon Sands: cuz it's like a movie in my head

[and in IMs]

Damon Sands: okay. *ROTFL* i cannot believe i'm asking this.
Damon Sands: gah! *flaps hands around*
Bodhar: Neither can I.
Bodhar: (LMAO)
Damon Sands: who was on top? *LMAO*
Damon Sands: it's IMPORTANT! *LMAO*
Bodhar: No it's NOT.
Bodhar: (cracking up)
Damon Sands: well if she's still sitting ON HIM he's not gonna GET UP
Damon Sands: *ROTFL*
Damon Sands: oh my fuckin god
Bodhar: She's not sitting ON him.,
Bodhar: She moved AWAY.
Damon Sands: *ROLLING. NOW.*
Damon Sands: *ROLLING. AROUND.*
Damon Sands: *CANNOT. BREATHE*
Bodhar: Poor Damon.
Bodhar: You missed the part in my post about her moving AWAY... and then sitting up.
Damon Sands: that's it, this is going into the log *ROTFL*

no, i saw that!
Bodhar: So she isn't sitting on him.
Damon Sands: the fourth-from bottom line, right?
Bodhar: Thus he can get up.,
Damon Sands: that was unclear! *ROTFL* oh fuckit *goes post*
Damon Sands: so! ridiculous! *dies* NEVER in ALL my years of RP have i EVER ASKED THAT!
Bodhar: (laughing) Okay. Think about it. If she moved away (which is earlier in my post) she wouldn't be sitting on him.

ANYHOW. Go post. And I've never been asked that before.

[after that pandemonium....]

Decker Rohl

Thu 10:27PM EST
He toys with the remote control for a moment, cool plastic and rubber buttons. Power, Volume, Play, Stop. Setting it back where he got it, he shakes his head once.

Then the Modi leans forward and finds his boxers somewhere, then streeetches to snag the trailing leg of his pants as well. Sitting back, he dresses efficiently enough, pulling one garment and then the other up, an arch of lean hips getting them over his flank. The sweat-sheened gleam of his body is interrupted first by white cotton, and then more completely by dark denim.

He zips up, buttons the button, and leaves the belt for later. "Ain't never thought 'bout matin' or nothin'." That much was true enough. "I know it means yer mine. But it's more'n belongin' to each other. It's ...serious."

It's sacred. It's duty. It's breeding.
He doesn't say that because he can't imagine passing any part of his fucked-up self down to yet another generation.

A shrug of bare shoulders. It's exceedingly rare that they talk about these things. It's rare enough that they talk at all. So long silences pass before he finds the words again, during which he toys with the buckle of the canvas belt, and the metal-tipped loose end in his other hand.

"I know this ain't whatcha had planned."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 10:45PM EST
She watches for a moment as he begins his effecient process of getting dressed, before turning, leaning forward to pick up the scattered articles of her own clothing. Bra, underwear. Jeans sliding over pale skin, the whisper of the zipper as she pulls the tab. The button slide through the hole with one hand as her other hand scoops up her shirt from corner of the coffee table. Three quarter length sleeves, the kind that will obscure the tattooed flesh of her upperarm, so easily visible against the sheen of her pale skin.

It's serious.
It's sacred, it's duty.
and he cannot imagine passing any part of himself down to another generation.
Lord knows what she thinks on the subject.

Her hand slides through her hair again, pushing back chaotic half damp strands from her eyes and over the pale curve of her shoulders. "No. It's not." The shoulders lift, slightly, in a half dismissive shrug, as she answers him, honestly.

She pulls the shirt on, tugging lightly at the hem as her eyes drift away toward the front window, perhaps drawn by the sounds of a car being horribly abused against speedbumps, or perhaps simply to break the gaze.

After a moment, her dark eyes jerk back to him, "What about breeding." not quite a question so much as a lead in as she broaches the subject he had chosen not to, for whatever twisted reason she may have. "You want that?" the question tensed and quiet as a pale hand pulls violent waves of red hair from the collar of her shirt.

Decker Rohl

Thu 10:54PM EST
That's something of a mire Decker just stepped into. He talks about getting exclusive. Getting serious. And she talks about kids. Any sane man would run screaming. Right. Now.

He's not human, and it's debatable how sane he is. Any of them. So he takes it seriously enough, shaking his head. "No."

Well, that precludes discussion.

"Rather not. Kids is scared o' me. 'N I got bad blood." Whatever the hell that meant. "So if that's gonna be a problem - " a shrug.

(Rap rap on the door.) Decker's eyes strafe that way and a scowl cross his face. He knew the sound of those steel-toed boots, and goddammit if Dire didn't have a sucky sense of timing. A grunt, "Jus' ignore it, dammit," and he makes no move to get up.

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 11:01PM EST
Her head half turns to glance toward the knocking, with a half muttered, "who the hell.." trailing off as he speaks. She frowns in the direction of the door, but considering his comment, she makes no move to answer it.

if it was a packmate, he would likely know. She's all too familiar with the odd silent conversations, information that might be passed on, when someone deigns to raise their voice.

Many sane women would not have wanted the answer he gave. Biological clock is ticking, the War isn't getting easier, do your duty, and all that rot. For her part, she exhales slowly, shaking her head.

"No." Words said without consideration or thought, probably something decided well before he'd suggested that it might be an issue.

Decker Rohl

Thu 11:09PM EST
"Dire," the one-word explanation. He can wait. Decker was having a fuckin' conversation.

Or. Rather. Decker's watching Imogen, because they had so few words between them, and sometimes he thinks if he just looked long enough, hard enough, he'll figure some part of her out.

Garou are all about fighting for lost causes.

Sitting on the couch, humming with rage tonight even in repose: thick powerful chest and shoulders, lean muscular waist. Bare arms and capable hands, one of which he holds out to her now. The 'C'mere' - didn't even need to say it sometimes. And when (if) she does, he looks up at her, then down at her hand in his.

"Tell me something."
Like what?

Lean back again, slouch down a little. Head against the back of the couch, eyes on her, "'Bout what you had planned."

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 11:24PM EST
A brief sharp expulsion of air as he elabourates, half amusement and annoyance. He can wait. The last time Dire appeared on her porch, it resulted in first Decker punching him, and then James beginning the fight. Whether or not she expects that to be also the actions of this meeting, she is apparently in no desire to commence the second meeting.

She looks down at his offered hand for a moment, calloused fingers, hands that can become claws, and kill someone, or touch her. After a moment, her hand takes his, skin cool against his.

Tell me something.
'Bout what?

He doesn't give her that stall, and she makes a soft sound of half consideration low in her throat as her free hand tucks a curl behind her ear. "I was... well, I wasn't thinking of it too much, at first." She shrugs as she looks back at him, dark eyes that rarely look away, startling against her pale face.

"Just. Where to go. And then, just... doing my job. Trying not to ..." she smirks faintly, her shoulders lifting in a faint half derisive movement, as she sits, finally, mostly because it was odd to stand while he sat. "Show up. I think I was goin' to practice that for a while, and then consider what the hell to do next."

Decker Rohl

Thu 11:35PM EST
It's his turn to exhale, the corners of his mouth briefly hooking up - a laugh stripped of sound. She sits, and where this would be when another man might slip his arm around her shoulders, he leaves his where it is - loosely pressed to hers, hand around her hand. Fingers through her fingers.

He didn't give her a way to stall, but he never needed a reason, himself. He's quiet, then - simply and completely so. Between her shoulder and his, skin and skin, there is only the barrier of her shirt. Moments earlier, there had been nothing at all.

He can still smell her on his skin.

"You mind?" he wants to know. Or maybe he's just like anyone else: he only wants the assurance of a pretty lie. Somehow, though, that doesn't seem to be the case with him. Ever. "That it ain't workin' out that way?"

Imogen Slaughter

Thu 11:55PM EST
Their conversations tend to be disjointed, when they are not arguements, more question and answer than any actual action and reaction.

She looks at him for a moment, with her look of near inexpression, before her attention flickers down toward the entwine of fingers of their hands. A nod, because most people would offer a lie, but for some reason she tends to go toward the truth, no matter how brutal it might be. "Sometimes, yeah. Not..." The phrase trails off, and her head shakes again, this time in mild frustration, a smirk touching her lips, derisive.

"Yeah," she repeats, inverting the words, "sometimes, I do." Her attention flicks toward the half sound of Dire, barely audible through the door.

"It just isn't worth dwelling over." she concludes, her attention turning back toward the rage and violence that is the Fenrir just inches away.

Decker Rohl

Fri 12:22AM EST
A vague nudge of his chin up. While she glances toward the door, he looks at their entwined hands. His own nature is a mystery even to him sometimes: he doesn't understand how it is that he can suddenly become so huge, add on so much mass from nowhere and so much strength. It makes no biological sense, that he should carry so much rage inside this (never/always) fragile human shell. That he could change and break her fingers if those fingers remained entwined in his when he did. The sheer size of his handpaws would crack her knuckles apart.

Might be the thought of that, that makes him unthread his fingers. "Should probably go see the fuck Dire wants," he mutters and pushes himself to his feet. "'N you should pro'lly git some sleep."

So you're mine? He should ask her, one more time, just to be sure.
He should ask her just to hear her say it.
He shouldn't have to ask at all.

And he doesn't. On his feet now, he starts for the door - remembers, stops. Turns.

"Oh. Got somethin' fer ya." Another rock? His left shoulder drops as he reaches into his pocket. He tosses something to her: a disc of carved of wood, half-dollar-sized, almost perfectly round and oddly smooth-grained at the sides, as though it had not so much been cut as had grown that way. On either face, Garou glyphs carved in relief, one side different from the other. It's only a millimeter or so at the thickest areas; nearly cut through at the thinnest. Wouldn't be hard to snap it in half.

"'S called a talen," he says, brusquely enough, at the door now, pulling it open while he gave her the rundown. "Got an air-spirit in it. Keep it with you. If yer ever in trouble, crack it in half. I'll know. 'N I'll come fer ya." A brief flicker of something, neither grin nor smirk, as he steps over her threshold. "Sick o' always wonderin' if yer all right. 'Night, Imogen."