Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-03-20 08:30 pm
flint_garou) wrote2012-03-20 08:30 pm
Entry tags:
Right then.
So, getting along is possible…?
20 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (15% full).
Evening comes, and Flint's still in the breakroom, flopped on the couch, although Nieve's long gone off to do something else. In the mean time, Flint's claimed a bottle of the cheap Mexican import beer, and he's got the television on at a fairly quiet volume, cartoons. The galliard is watching Tom attempt to chase Jerry through the house in numerous ways, grinning at the shenanigans of the show, and occasionally humming along with the music.
Devon has been a bit of a non-presence in recent days, and not just because of his last encounter with Flint that ended in frenzy. His trips to the breakroom have been few and far between, and venturing outside of his room a rare ecliptic occurrence. Likely he'd stay in there indefinitely if he had a food replicator, but lacking such technology he's forced to venture beyond his private walls when food inside them becomes scarce. Thus, despite the still nauseating twisting in his gut, the Ahroun has wandered down the hall and into the breakroom. He's still a mess, if a clean mess. He's managed to haphazardly bandage what was left of his hand and cover his arm up to the shoulder, though some of the burn still shows through above the collar of his shirt. The other hand still sports a very angry gash, partially covered with a couple of Sonic the Hedgehog bandaids. A glance is cast toward the television, but he makes no unnecessary sound to announce himself, heading for the kitchen wordlessly.
"There's pizza, and there's lasagna, and." Flint offers this as a greeting, hitting the mute button on the television and looking over to Devon. The galliard speaks quietly but his tone is civil, not rude at all. "Um. And there's pie. I bought a pie when, on my way home this morning and I've only had a slice and the rest's for whoever. Blueberry." Which seems to be Flint's preferred sort of pie, really.
"Thanks," Devon mumbles, though he looks like he might be sick just at the thought of either and doesn't go for anything so heavy. A couple cabinets are opened before he finds some crackers. "Hope Cockroach doesn't mind if I have a couple of these." It's said more to himself, though not quiet enough that the Galliard couldn't hear. The package is set on the counter and worked open with his one whole hand, a couple of crackers fished out.
Flint then twists on the couch to look at Devon a little more, and it perhaps sinks in quite how chewed up the Ahroun currently is, as the beer is tipped back. It's quite possible that this isn't Flint's first, second, or even his third drink, given the way which the bottle is gripped. "You should shift," he offers to Devon, words a little less hesitant than usual. Alcohol has that effect.
Devon goes still for a moment, hand pausing in folding the opened end of the cracker wrapper. "I can't," he admits, a strain entering his voice. He places the crackers back into the cupboard. "I tried, it's… It hasn't come back."
Flint winces. "Oh," the Galliard responds. "I. Y' want the couch, I can sit on the floor." There is in fact a slight slur in Flint's voice. "I'm gonna have another piece of pie, then."
Devon curls his fingers around the two crackers he's pulled free, looking for a long minute like he might retreat again. The idea of pie is as unappetizing as lasagna or pizza. He swallows whatever lump threatens to rise and turns toward the Galliard. "Don't have to sit on the floor," he mumbles, slowly walking toward the couch. "Can share it."
The younger teen nods, and starts to get to his feet. And wobbles, before he peers down at the beer in his hands, as if Flint is slightly starting to connect the fact that the world's a bit wonky with the fact that he's been drinking. "Whoa," he murmurs, and sits back down on the couch, pulling himself into the corner so that there's plenty of room for Devon to sit.
"You should shift," Devon points out mildly, easing himself into the other corner of the couch. His mouth and eyes tighten as he settles back, and a slight tremor belies his calm front. "Help stave off the hangover that's going to follow. How many've those've you had?" No judgement, just idle curiosity.
Flint looks down at the beer, and tips it backwards, the last fourth of it drank just about all at once before Flint sets the bottle to the side. "Uh. Two've the ciders, and one of the other beers an' three've these…" Way, way too much to drink for Flint's relatively small frame, that's clear. A moment of thought follows, and the galliard shifts, not to glabro, but to lupus, curling into the corner of the couch.
Devon shakes his head slightly and looks at the crackers he's found for himself. They hold little interest, he doesn't look like he even wants to think about eating them. But a moment passes and he tries one, a corner broken off with his teeth and eaten carefully. "The Rajani thing's taken care of," he offers without looking at the wolf. "Probably already heard, but just in case."
Requiem shakes his head out a minute, swinging it slowly from one side to the other as if to try and clear it faster than it actually will. Yes, he heard. Is that what happened to you? Red-Hands should find Pirate Trader-rhya, ask her, she has the healing gift.
"Yeah, I helped some," Devon says. "Went in with Salem-rhya and some other Garou." The crackers are considered again, though he doesn't make any other attempts at eating. "Don't know if she can. The raven-shifter tried, but she'd just helped Doodle-rhya before me, so it didn't do much good. I've been trying to shift, but…" There's a note of fear he can't quite mask in his voice.
Requiem settles down all the way on the couch, tail hanging over the edge, and looks over at Devon. The world isn't spinning so much, which helps the wolf actually think straight. The distant look of the Galliard holding a discussion with the Garou in his head is much, much more obvious in lupus than it is in his birth form. It comes back, is offered, with sort-of certainty.
Devon glances at Flint, brows drawing together in what can only be concern. "You don't look so sure," he says after a moment. "Nieve-rhya wasn't sure either. What if it doesn't come back? I'm like… stuck between two worlds. I can't go back or start over, I'd be a drain on things here."
Requiem's Ancestor is sure, the Galliard offers. It is just that Requiem has never had something like this happen to him, and what his Ancestor says is not always clear. But, it comes back. There is a sound that might be reassurance, offered to his tribemate, regardless of past disagreements.
Devon starts to rake his fingers through his hair, then changes the motion to simply pinch the bridge of his nose. "It hasn't come back," he says, weary and worried. "I don't know what to do. I …I can't feel it. It's… It's like half of me's been ripped away."
The furrowing and twisting of expression is clear, as Requiem tries to push himself to his feet. In lupus, on the couch. And fails. Too much to drink, is the first comment. It comes back. It takes time, though. And it takes resting, he thinks.
Devon sighs and shakes his head some. "I've been resting," he tells Flint, dragging himself to his feet again. "All I've been doing is resting, when I haven't been sick to my stomach or worse." Keeping hold of his crackers, he starts for the door. "Hope your ancestors are right," he offers quietly. "Thanks, though, for the talk."
Requiem huffs and nods, turning to watch the Ahroun go. Red-Hands is welcome. And really should ask Pirate Trader-rhya, about her healing Gift. And then, for the moment, the young Galliard decides to curl up and lay on the couch, eyes slitting closed.
20 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (15% full).
Evening comes, and Flint's still in the breakroom, flopped on the couch, although Nieve's long gone off to do something else. In the mean time, Flint's claimed a bottle of the cheap Mexican import beer, and he's got the television on at a fairly quiet volume, cartoons. The galliard is watching Tom attempt to chase Jerry through the house in numerous ways, grinning at the shenanigans of the show, and occasionally humming along with the music.
Devon has been a bit of a non-presence in recent days, and not just because of his last encounter with Flint that ended in frenzy. His trips to the breakroom have been few and far between, and venturing outside of his room a rare ecliptic occurrence. Likely he'd stay in there indefinitely if he had a food replicator, but lacking such technology he's forced to venture beyond his private walls when food inside them becomes scarce. Thus, despite the still nauseating twisting in his gut, the Ahroun has wandered down the hall and into the breakroom. He's still a mess, if a clean mess. He's managed to haphazardly bandage what was left of his hand and cover his arm up to the shoulder, though some of the burn still shows through above the collar of his shirt. The other hand still sports a very angry gash, partially covered with a couple of Sonic the Hedgehog bandaids. A glance is cast toward the television, but he makes no unnecessary sound to announce himself, heading for the kitchen wordlessly.
"There's pizza, and there's lasagna, and." Flint offers this as a greeting, hitting the mute button on the television and looking over to Devon. The galliard speaks quietly but his tone is civil, not rude at all. "Um. And there's pie. I bought a pie when, on my way home this morning and I've only had a slice and the rest's for whoever. Blueberry." Which seems to be Flint's preferred sort of pie, really.
"Thanks," Devon mumbles, though he looks like he might be sick just at the thought of either and doesn't go for anything so heavy. A couple cabinets are opened before he finds some crackers. "Hope Cockroach doesn't mind if I have a couple of these." It's said more to himself, though not quiet enough that the Galliard couldn't hear. The package is set on the counter and worked open with his one whole hand, a couple of crackers fished out.
Flint then twists on the couch to look at Devon a little more, and it perhaps sinks in quite how chewed up the Ahroun currently is, as the beer is tipped back. It's quite possible that this isn't Flint's first, second, or even his third drink, given the way which the bottle is gripped. "You should shift," he offers to Devon, words a little less hesitant than usual. Alcohol has that effect.
Devon goes still for a moment, hand pausing in folding the opened end of the cracker wrapper. "I can't," he admits, a strain entering his voice. He places the crackers back into the cupboard. "I tried, it's… It hasn't come back."
Flint winces. "Oh," the Galliard responds. "I. Y' want the couch, I can sit on the floor." There is in fact a slight slur in Flint's voice. "I'm gonna have another piece of pie, then."
Devon curls his fingers around the two crackers he's pulled free, looking for a long minute like he might retreat again. The idea of pie is as unappetizing as lasagna or pizza. He swallows whatever lump threatens to rise and turns toward the Galliard. "Don't have to sit on the floor," he mumbles, slowly walking toward the couch. "Can share it."
The younger teen nods, and starts to get to his feet. And wobbles, before he peers down at the beer in his hands, as if Flint is slightly starting to connect the fact that the world's a bit wonky with the fact that he's been drinking. "Whoa," he murmurs, and sits back down on the couch, pulling himself into the corner so that there's plenty of room for Devon to sit.
"You should shift," Devon points out mildly, easing himself into the other corner of the couch. His mouth and eyes tighten as he settles back, and a slight tremor belies his calm front. "Help stave off the hangover that's going to follow. How many've those've you had?" No judgement, just idle curiosity.
Flint looks down at the beer, and tips it backwards, the last fourth of it drank just about all at once before Flint sets the bottle to the side. "Uh. Two've the ciders, and one of the other beers an' three've these…" Way, way too much to drink for Flint's relatively small frame, that's clear. A moment of thought follows, and the galliard shifts, not to glabro, but to lupus, curling into the corner of the couch.
Devon shakes his head slightly and looks at the crackers he's found for himself. They hold little interest, he doesn't look like he even wants to think about eating them. But a moment passes and he tries one, a corner broken off with his teeth and eaten carefully. "The Rajani thing's taken care of," he offers without looking at the wolf. "Probably already heard, but just in case."
Requiem shakes his head out a minute, swinging it slowly from one side to the other as if to try and clear it faster than it actually will. Yes, he heard. Is that what happened to you? Red-Hands should find Pirate Trader-rhya, ask her, she has the healing gift.
"Yeah, I helped some," Devon says. "Went in with Salem-rhya and some other Garou." The crackers are considered again, though he doesn't make any other attempts at eating. "Don't know if she can. The raven-shifter tried, but she'd just helped Doodle-rhya before me, so it didn't do much good. I've been trying to shift, but…" There's a note of fear he can't quite mask in his voice.
Requiem settles down all the way on the couch, tail hanging over the edge, and looks over at Devon. The world isn't spinning so much, which helps the wolf actually think straight. The distant look of the Galliard holding a discussion with the Garou in his head is much, much more obvious in lupus than it is in his birth form. It comes back, is offered, with sort-of certainty.
Devon glances at Flint, brows drawing together in what can only be concern. "You don't look so sure," he says after a moment. "Nieve-rhya wasn't sure either. What if it doesn't come back? I'm like… stuck between two worlds. I can't go back or start over, I'd be a drain on things here."
Requiem's Ancestor is sure, the Galliard offers. It is just that Requiem has never had something like this happen to him, and what his Ancestor says is not always clear. But, it comes back. There is a sound that might be reassurance, offered to his tribemate, regardless of past disagreements.
Devon starts to rake his fingers through his hair, then changes the motion to simply pinch the bridge of his nose. "It hasn't come back," he says, weary and worried. "I don't know what to do. I …I can't feel it. It's… It's like half of me's been ripped away."
The furrowing and twisting of expression is clear, as Requiem tries to push himself to his feet. In lupus, on the couch. And fails. Too much to drink, is the first comment. It comes back. It takes time, though. And it takes resting, he thinks.
Devon sighs and shakes his head some. "I've been resting," he tells Flint, dragging himself to his feet again. "All I've been doing is resting, when I haven't been sick to my stomach or worse." Keeping hold of his crackers, he starts for the door. "Hope your ancestors are right," he offers quietly. "Thanks, though, for the talk."
Requiem huffs and nods, turning to watch the Ahroun go. Red-Hands is welcome. And really should ask Pirate Trader-rhya, about her healing Gift. And then, for the moment, the young Galliard decides to curl up and lay on the couch, eyes slitting closed.