Ugh, I don't even know, anymore.
Wednesday, 11 April 2012 09:40![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouI'm just so damn angry about all of this. Fuck I'll be glad when the moon's small again.
11 April, 2012
The moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (67% full).
It is morning, and there is bacon.
What, you need more? Okay. Nieve is in the breakroom using the kitchen area to microwave some bacon between layers of kitchen roll, four bits of buttered bread waiting to receive the strips once they're done. There's even ketchup.
For the past hour and a half, the loud sounds of frustrations and being taken out on a punching bag have come from the apartment that Flint now occupies, but they cease, and Flint stalks into the breakroom. Quite honestly, it doesn't look like the exercise has done the teen much good, and he quite obviously bears the weight of the moon—and exhaustion—in manner and posture, though Nieve gets a tense nod as the cliath makes way for the refrigerator.
"Bacon sammich?" Nieve is clearly a queen amongst diplomats, taking out the bacon and applying it to the bread, placing the tops on and offering one to the grumpy Cliath. She's got the tenseness of moon-largeness too, but to a much lesser degree. Theurge, natch.
This, at least, is well-received, and Flint doesn't get in the way, accepting the sandwich with a grunt and going to lean on the counter. Quite possibly it's a wonder that he doesn't outright explode, and the teen's tension edges on the side of dangerous, or at least less controlled. However, that's forgotten a moment as he manages to remember manners, and offers a half-terse 'thanks' before taking a bite.
"De nada. So, tell me 'bout this time-travellin' guy," Nieve requests from the Galliard, once he's had time to finish half of the sandwich, and she's taken a bite or two of her own.
Flint glares at the floor, and food only seems to help a little. "Says he's from the Sept of the Thistle an' Spear. Barely speaks something recognisable as English. Showed up with a clap of thunder from across the Gauntlet in full shining armor," Flint says. He's clearly not telling the whole situation, but he's also bristling, so that might be why.
Sensing perhaps a delicate topic, Nieve moves away from that. "An' what else has been happenin' lately?" she prompts, trying to draw the moonsinger out of his funk by using him for his auspice role. That usually makes -her- feel better, at least.
Flint uses the excuse to move to a better topic, at least, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice if not his manner. But his voice softens. "Lex and I are talking more 'bout what we want to, to do, in packing. I've made some cutting boards, and a box, and Ishmael-rhya and I are going to be painting the wall of the breakroom for the memorial. Dunno much more, I've been in the workshop most of the time." Not entirely out of his funk. Mostly, just distracted from it.
The older Walker nods. "Pack is good," she acknowledges. "M'lookin' forward to it m'self. I hope it'll be good f'you, an' all."
"We still haven't got anyone other than her and me, yet. Maybe, maybe Kyler, when he Rites," Flint says. "Not sure." And then, apparently, it's annoying him enough that, with his free hand visibly tightening into a fist, Flint states, each word pushed out. "Until the Uktena kin Thomas learns some fucking manners about how to talk in other people's houses, I told him to get out and not come back, last night." One foot scuffs at the floor, and Flint really does seem on the edge of some sort of general violence.
"Can y'talk about what was said, or sh'we move on?" Nieve asks bluntly. "I ain't about t'squash you in here n'less it's necessary."
Flint considers this, and offers, a little quieter, "Don't know." Manner still speaks of evident Rage, but it's at about the level it was when Flint walked in, and he looks over at Nieve, shoulders raising in a shrug.
Flint moves over to the fridge, and pulls out a beer, then looks at it and puts it back, grabbing a soda instead. "I'm too angry to, to even think about anything else," he says, still that hint of tired uncertainty. "So, I. I'll try. He— Thomas was derisive and rude, about us, our tribe, and about Lex's tribe, and then launched a whole tirade against Theodoric for Theodoric being a Silver Fang?, after I. Asked him to mind himself and his manners. And then when I told him he was being an asshole—" and at that, Flint silences, more to contain the bristling Rage than anything else.
The older Garou listens and considers, and cocks her head at the Galliard. "'kay." She doesn't prompt for more, just watching the only-just-not-a-cub and his bristling. "Go an' work out or somethin', Flint. Be productive or it'll ride you."
Flint sighs, quietly. "I've been working out," he says, frustrated by that perhaps as much as anything. "I've been doing things and I'm still just as angry."
"Then sleep it off. Or meditate," the Theurge continues. "If nothin' else works, go an' fight somethin'."
Flint nods, and offers Nieve a tense, but nonetheless genuine smile of thanks, before he makes his way back out of the breakroom, breathing evening out as he walks.
11 April, 2012
The moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (67% full).
It is morning, and there is bacon.
What, you need more? Okay. Nieve is in the breakroom using the kitchen area to microwave some bacon between layers of kitchen roll, four bits of buttered bread waiting to receive the strips once they're done. There's even ketchup.
For the past hour and a half, the loud sounds of frustrations and being taken out on a punching bag have come from the apartment that Flint now occupies, but they cease, and Flint stalks into the breakroom. Quite honestly, it doesn't look like the exercise has done the teen much good, and he quite obviously bears the weight of the moon—and exhaustion—in manner and posture, though Nieve gets a tense nod as the cliath makes way for the refrigerator.
"Bacon sammich?" Nieve is clearly a queen amongst diplomats, taking out the bacon and applying it to the bread, placing the tops on and offering one to the grumpy Cliath. She's got the tenseness of moon-largeness too, but to a much lesser degree. Theurge, natch.
This, at least, is well-received, and Flint doesn't get in the way, accepting the sandwich with a grunt and going to lean on the counter. Quite possibly it's a wonder that he doesn't outright explode, and the teen's tension edges on the side of dangerous, or at least less controlled. However, that's forgotten a moment as he manages to remember manners, and offers a half-terse 'thanks' before taking a bite.
"De nada. So, tell me 'bout this time-travellin' guy," Nieve requests from the Galliard, once he's had time to finish half of the sandwich, and she's taken a bite or two of her own.
Flint glares at the floor, and food only seems to help a little. "Says he's from the Sept of the Thistle an' Spear. Barely speaks something recognisable as English. Showed up with a clap of thunder from across the Gauntlet in full shining armor," Flint says. He's clearly not telling the whole situation, but he's also bristling, so that might be why.
Sensing perhaps a delicate topic, Nieve moves away from that. "An' what else has been happenin' lately?" she prompts, trying to draw the moonsinger out of his funk by using him for his auspice role. That usually makes -her- feel better, at least.
Flint uses the excuse to move to a better topic, at least, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice if not his manner. But his voice softens. "Lex and I are talking more 'bout what we want to, to do, in packing. I've made some cutting boards, and a box, and Ishmael-rhya and I are going to be painting the wall of the breakroom for the memorial. Dunno much more, I've been in the workshop most of the time." Not entirely out of his funk. Mostly, just distracted from it.
The older Walker nods. "Pack is good," she acknowledges. "M'lookin' forward to it m'self. I hope it'll be good f'you, an' all."
"We still haven't got anyone other than her and me, yet. Maybe, maybe Kyler, when he Rites," Flint says. "Not sure." And then, apparently, it's annoying him enough that, with his free hand visibly tightening into a fist, Flint states, each word pushed out. "Until the Uktena kin Thomas learns some fucking manners about how to talk in other people's houses, I told him to get out and not come back, last night." One foot scuffs at the floor, and Flint really does seem on the edge of some sort of general violence.
"Can y'talk about what was said, or sh'we move on?" Nieve asks bluntly. "I ain't about t'squash you in here n'less it's necessary."
Flint considers this, and offers, a little quieter, "Don't know." Manner still speaks of evident Rage, but it's at about the level it was when Flint walked in, and he looks over at Nieve, shoulders raising in a shrug.
Flint moves over to the fridge, and pulls out a beer, then looks at it and puts it back, grabbing a soda instead. "I'm too angry to, to even think about anything else," he says, still that hint of tired uncertainty. "So, I. I'll try. He— Thomas was derisive and rude, about us, our tribe, and about Lex's tribe, and then launched a whole tirade against Theodoric for Theodoric being a Silver Fang?, after I. Asked him to mind himself and his manners. And then when I told him he was being an asshole—" and at that, Flint silences, more to contain the bristling Rage than anything else.
The older Garou listens and considers, and cocks her head at the Galliard. "'kay." She doesn't prompt for more, just watching the only-just-not-a-cub and his bristling. "Go an' work out or somethin', Flint. Be productive or it'll ride you."
Flint sighs, quietly. "I've been working out," he says, frustrated by that perhaps as much as anything. "I've been doing things and I'm still just as angry."
"Then sleep it off. Or meditate," the Theurge continues. "If nothin' else works, go an' fight somethin'."
Flint nods, and offers Nieve a tense, but nonetheless genuine smile of thanks, before he makes his way back out of the breakroom, breathing evening out as he walks.