Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-03-19 04:00 pm
flint_garou) wrote2012-03-19 04:00 pm
Entry tags:
Working on stuff.
It's okay to ask.
19 March, 2012
Currently the moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (19% full).
It's been the better part of a week since Flint's been seen in the tenement at all, but mid-morning comes and the cliath finally makes his way over to the workshop, heavy-looking backpack being pulled in a rolling cart behind him. Overall, the teenager looks no worse for the wear except for the way that his right arm is cradled tightly against his body and the occasional wince when he jostles it somehow, but that's pushed aside when he enters the workshop, replaced with a grin that sneaks onto his face.
Predictably, Ishmael is sitting at one of the work tables, meditatively sketching out something on one of his many sketchpads. It can't be seen from where Flint is standing, but it's probably a brainstorm event, given lots of erasing and casual sketch lines. And grumbling.
Flint doesn't interrupt or say anything at first as he pulls the backpack into the room, until he goes to use the injured arm, which gets a very sharp yell of frustration. "Owww fuck," follows, and Flint looks over to Ishmael. "I. Sorry," the boy adds.
Ishmael glances up, but without alarm. "Hey Flint," he says casually, glancing to the boy's arm. "Heard you've been busy." The Fostern seems much the same, ready for some new project or another.
There's a long moment of wincing that follows the attempt to move the backpack further and then Flint just looks down at where it is, and gives up. "Yeah," he says. "Got a bunch of old wood and some stuff from the scrapyard this morning," he adds, pointing with his left hand to the backpack. There's little evidently wrong with Flint's arm until he takes off his jacket, though, and then the areas where it has bled through bandaging, shirt, and sweatshirt are apparent, as is the slight wrong-ness to the way the arm hangs at the elbow.
Ishmael scratches the back of his head. "I'm guessin' you've already had someone Mother Touch that up some, huh?" As for an explanation, it seems he's heard enough down the grape vine. "Well aside from makin' a mess of your clothes, what's up?"
Flint shakes his head at the first question. Evidently, Flint's just being really stoic about the fact that it fucking hurts. "Just. I just got back here," Flint explains. "After the skull pigs, others. Were worse off." A small grin. "Nikolai Thunder's-Heart got his face half-bitten off and Alexandra got gored." His arm is small concern in comparison. Maybe. The galliard leans against the handle of the cart. "Wanted to bring this stuff up so I could start working on it alter," he says. "And, Kavi-rhya said he'd help move the computers soon, so. We can maybe start painting the wall, behind them."
Ishmael shrugs. "I got the juice, so just sayin'." He turns back to his work, but is clearly still listening. "Yeah, that's often how it goes. One of the reasons I prefer my guns, but don't always work out that way." As for the painting, he simply nods. "Sounds good. Just waiting on your cue."
For a long moment, Flint looks distant, and then pulls the zipper down on his sweatshirt. "If. If you would, I'd. Appreciate it, Ishmael. Thanks," he murmurs. "It hurts." The last two words are an admission that Flint's not quite comfortable with, for some reason, but given the choice between his arm hurting, and his arm possibly hurting less, there's not much of a choice. "And, awesome. It'll look great. And then people'll stop messing with. With the sticky notes."
Ishmael sets down his pencil and slides off the stool. "Well, looks like you got mauled, so yeah," he snorts, smiling briefly. "We're not Get; it's okay for you to say as much, ask for healing, whatever. So long as you aren't whining about it." That said, he rubs his hands together, and without any ritual, grips Flint's shoulder with one, and places the other against the wound. It likely hurts slightly, but the Fostern expected as much, hence the shoulder-grip. A soft light and warm sensation then flows from his hand into the wound, muting the pain. And then it's over. "Done," says Ishmael, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
Flint winces for a brief moment, and then there is a sigh and an overall easing of tension when the pain mutes and then fades entirely, and the teen grins. "Thanks," he says, tentatively flexing his arm and then grinning a little wider. "Yeah. Got mauled pretty well, but the thing'd gored Alexandra, so." There's a slight, fierce protectiveness in the reference to the Shadow Lord cub, and then Flint turns, picking up the backpack more easily and half-dragging it over to an area where he's been storing the few things related to his project so far. "See, the scrapyard had. There was some old oak from flooring," and he drags out several one-foot pieces, stacking it neatly. "They were, they were just gonna throw it out, so I. Kinda got them to give it to me pretty cheap."
With a flex of his hands, Ishmael nods and returns to his stool. Sliding up on it and swiveling a bit. Practiced! "It's a way of life, getting mauled," he says, flatly, clearly not enthused at the prospect. "But glad you found what you needed. Looks good for what you need it for," he says. "At a glance, anyways."
"I'm not keen to. To repeat the experience," Flint admits. "Skull pigs are nasty." Flint ends up pulling out about twelve of those one-foot wide oak boards, and some scraps of cherry and some dark-grained wood as well, then straightens up. "Hey, can. I. Alexandra and I were maybe, we. Were talking about packing, when she passes her Rite, but. I still don't know all so much about more've the totems, and about. That stuff, and packing, in general. Would… you tell me about them, while I work on some stuff?"
"So I imagine," agrees Ishmael, picking up his pencil again, slightly chewing on the end. Hrm. "Packing?" He glances over his shoulder. "Really all you need to know is that you're gonna be gettin' pretty close to the people you pack with, so make sure you're cool with 'em. And then, you all have to agree on the kind of theme or philosophy that you'd like to follow. From there, the spirits kinda pick you. It's healthy to have one in mind when you go into the rite, but it don't always work out as you might expect. Also, y'need to find someone who can do the rite for you. Mouse is usually good for it, but she's obviously out of town right now."
Flint nods, pulling out a small pine and cherry cutting board that he'd started at some point before, and moving over to find a piece of sandpaper, settling to finish it smooth as he listens. "That. Makes sense. Yeah." A long moment of consideration follows, and another nod. "Right. I. Obviously, there's still some waiting, and even when she passes her Rite, neither've us had much thought yet as to who else we'd. Who else we'd ask," the teen says, turning the cutting board over in his hands and then holding it up to the light.
"There's no rush," says Ishmael, attempting to assure him. "I've been unpacked for months and months at a time. Other Garou might look at you a bit weird, because it's not our 'natural state of being'," he adds, complete with finger quotes, "But no one'll get on your ass about it unless you've been unpacked for an exceedingly long amount of time."
The cutting board is turned over another time and then Flint switches pieces of sandpaper, methodical. "Yeah. I'd rather we. Find the right other people to pack with than… rush, or something," Flint agrees. "And, I mean. I do want to pack, but. Rushing into things, into anything— it makes no sense, period."
"Especially not when these are the people who'll be guarding your ass from more skullpigs," adds Ishmael, nodding sagely.
Flint nods again. "Right." A pause, and the galliard grins at Ishmael. "Thanks." And with that, the boy starts humming to himself, focusing more on his work.
19 March, 2012
Currently the moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (19% full).
It's been the better part of a week since Flint's been seen in the tenement at all, but mid-morning comes and the cliath finally makes his way over to the workshop, heavy-looking backpack being pulled in a rolling cart behind him. Overall, the teenager looks no worse for the wear except for the way that his right arm is cradled tightly against his body and the occasional wince when he jostles it somehow, but that's pushed aside when he enters the workshop, replaced with a grin that sneaks onto his face.
Predictably, Ishmael is sitting at one of the work tables, meditatively sketching out something on one of his many sketchpads. It can't be seen from where Flint is standing, but it's probably a brainstorm event, given lots of erasing and casual sketch lines. And grumbling.
Flint doesn't interrupt or say anything at first as he pulls the backpack into the room, until he goes to use the injured arm, which gets a very sharp yell of frustration. "Owww fuck," follows, and Flint looks over to Ishmael. "I. Sorry," the boy adds.
Ishmael glances up, but without alarm. "Hey Flint," he says casually, glancing to the boy's arm. "Heard you've been busy." The Fostern seems much the same, ready for some new project or another.
There's a long moment of wincing that follows the attempt to move the backpack further and then Flint just looks down at where it is, and gives up. "Yeah," he says. "Got a bunch of old wood and some stuff from the scrapyard this morning," he adds, pointing with his left hand to the backpack. There's little evidently wrong with Flint's arm until he takes off his jacket, though, and then the areas where it has bled through bandaging, shirt, and sweatshirt are apparent, as is the slight wrong-ness to the way the arm hangs at the elbow.
Ishmael scratches the back of his head. "I'm guessin' you've already had someone Mother Touch that up some, huh?" As for an explanation, it seems he's heard enough down the grape vine. "Well aside from makin' a mess of your clothes, what's up?"
Flint shakes his head at the first question. Evidently, Flint's just being really stoic about the fact that it fucking hurts. "Just. I just got back here," Flint explains. "After the skull pigs, others. Were worse off." A small grin. "Nikolai Thunder's-Heart got his face half-bitten off and Alexandra got gored." His arm is small concern in comparison. Maybe. The galliard leans against the handle of the cart. "Wanted to bring this stuff up so I could start working on it alter," he says. "And, Kavi-rhya said he'd help move the computers soon, so. We can maybe start painting the wall, behind them."
Ishmael shrugs. "I got the juice, so just sayin'." He turns back to his work, but is clearly still listening. "Yeah, that's often how it goes. One of the reasons I prefer my guns, but don't always work out that way." As for the painting, he simply nods. "Sounds good. Just waiting on your cue."
For a long moment, Flint looks distant, and then pulls the zipper down on his sweatshirt. "If. If you would, I'd. Appreciate it, Ishmael. Thanks," he murmurs. "It hurts." The last two words are an admission that Flint's not quite comfortable with, for some reason, but given the choice between his arm hurting, and his arm possibly hurting less, there's not much of a choice. "And, awesome. It'll look great. And then people'll stop messing with. With the sticky notes."
Ishmael sets down his pencil and slides off the stool. "Well, looks like you got mauled, so yeah," he snorts, smiling briefly. "We're not Get; it's okay for you to say as much, ask for healing, whatever. So long as you aren't whining about it." That said, he rubs his hands together, and without any ritual, grips Flint's shoulder with one, and places the other against the wound. It likely hurts slightly, but the Fostern expected as much, hence the shoulder-grip. A soft light and warm sensation then flows from his hand into the wound, muting the pain. And then it's over. "Done," says Ishmael, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
Flint winces for a brief moment, and then there is a sigh and an overall easing of tension when the pain mutes and then fades entirely, and the teen grins. "Thanks," he says, tentatively flexing his arm and then grinning a little wider. "Yeah. Got mauled pretty well, but the thing'd gored Alexandra, so." There's a slight, fierce protectiveness in the reference to the Shadow Lord cub, and then Flint turns, picking up the backpack more easily and half-dragging it over to an area where he's been storing the few things related to his project so far. "See, the scrapyard had. There was some old oak from flooring," and he drags out several one-foot pieces, stacking it neatly. "They were, they were just gonna throw it out, so I. Kinda got them to give it to me pretty cheap."
With a flex of his hands, Ishmael nods and returns to his stool. Sliding up on it and swiveling a bit. Practiced! "It's a way of life, getting mauled," he says, flatly, clearly not enthused at the prospect. "But glad you found what you needed. Looks good for what you need it for," he says. "At a glance, anyways."
"I'm not keen to. To repeat the experience," Flint admits. "Skull pigs are nasty." Flint ends up pulling out about twelve of those one-foot wide oak boards, and some scraps of cherry and some dark-grained wood as well, then straightens up. "Hey, can. I. Alexandra and I were maybe, we. Were talking about packing, when she passes her Rite, but. I still don't know all so much about more've the totems, and about. That stuff, and packing, in general. Would… you tell me about them, while I work on some stuff?"
"So I imagine," agrees Ishmael, picking up his pencil again, slightly chewing on the end. Hrm. "Packing?" He glances over his shoulder. "Really all you need to know is that you're gonna be gettin' pretty close to the people you pack with, so make sure you're cool with 'em. And then, you all have to agree on the kind of theme or philosophy that you'd like to follow. From there, the spirits kinda pick you. It's healthy to have one in mind when you go into the rite, but it don't always work out as you might expect. Also, y'need to find someone who can do the rite for you. Mouse is usually good for it, but she's obviously out of town right now."
Flint nods, pulling out a small pine and cherry cutting board that he'd started at some point before, and moving over to find a piece of sandpaper, settling to finish it smooth as he listens. "That. Makes sense. Yeah." A long moment of consideration follows, and another nod. "Right. I. Obviously, there's still some waiting, and even when she passes her Rite, neither've us had much thought yet as to who else we'd. Who else we'd ask," the teen says, turning the cutting board over in his hands and then holding it up to the light.
"There's no rush," says Ishmael, attempting to assure him. "I've been unpacked for months and months at a time. Other Garou might look at you a bit weird, because it's not our 'natural state of being'," he adds, complete with finger quotes, "But no one'll get on your ass about it unless you've been unpacked for an exceedingly long amount of time."
The cutting board is turned over another time and then Flint switches pieces of sandpaper, methodical. "Yeah. I'd rather we. Find the right other people to pack with than… rush, or something," Flint agrees. "And, I mean. I do want to pack, but. Rushing into things, into anything— it makes no sense, period."
"Especially not when these are the people who'll be guarding your ass from more skullpigs," adds Ishmael, nodding sagely.
Flint nods again. "Right." A pause, and the galliard grins at Ishmael. "Thanks." And with that, the boy starts humming to himself, focusing more on his work.