Much a' the moon.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012 09:30![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouThis is a crap-tastic time of the month for Thomas to choose to have these conversations. Oh well.
1 May, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (69% full).
Flint emerges from the path into the forest, dressed in sturdy jeans, a pair of boots, and a heavier jacket that's definitively oversized for him. The teen is tugging a little red flyer wagon that's piled with gathered fallen wood, and humming to himself, rather happily for all that the wagon is heavy and makes it slow going through the overgrowth of the forest. He emerges into the meadow, and then pauses, starting to pick brambles and thorns out of his clothing, and wipes his forehead with the back of one hand.
Bedecked in a warm, darkly-colored, button-down shirt, worn jeans, and sturdy hiking boots, a tall, sturdy-looking man appears to be practicing swordplay in the meadow. His sword seems quite polished and elaborate, and the man clearly knows how to use the weapon. The occasional gust of wind rustles his hair and gives him pause, one such gust causing him to turn towards the forest and shield his eyes, blue and bright against the dark of his clothes, hair, and short-trimmed beard.
Flint finishes pulling the multitude of thorns and brambles from his clothing, or at least as much as he will while he's still wearing them, and resumes tugging the wagon in the general direction of the garage. The Fang is given a wave of greeting, and then when Flint's gotten close enough to not have to yell across the meadow, verbal greeting as well. "Hi Theodoric-rhya," Flint offers, quiet as to not surprise the man. Too much. "How… how are you?"
Dirk makes the Walker before he is too close, and has already lowered his weapon by the time the other arrives. "Good morn t'ye, lad," says he, offering Flint a brief and polite bow of greeting, sheathing the sword as he does so. The scabbard is currently hitched to his belt. "Well enough," he explains, glancing back towards the house. "I continue t'be a welcome guest."
Flint nods. "Good." The young galliard takes a deep breath, and glances up at the sky, and his words are measured and careful now, to be better and easily understandable. "Has there been any progress on getting you back to where you came from?"
In one of his many habitual gestures, Dirk rests his hand against the hilt of his sword, the other scratching idly at his beard. "Several theurges have heard me," he explains, glancing back towards Flint and nodding slightly. "They be considerin' the possibility. But they be sayin' nothin' a' plans yet."
Flint leans on the handle of the wagon a little as he stands there. It's full of fallen tree branches from spruce and evergreen, most of them two to four inches thick, and a few that are thicker. Another deep breath precedes talking, though it doesn't banish the hesitation and stutter entirely this time, and the words have the faint edge of terseness from it being galliard moon. "Yeah, I'd guess anything of that magnitude's likely to take time. Anyway, I— I hope things work out well. And. If nothing else, the Hidden Walk is, is a pretty nice place."
"'Tis not home," explains Dirk, his expression solemn, hand gripping the hilt of his blade with the weight of the moon on his shoulders. "But 'tis a good place, aye. If it be that I cannae go, then I will stay." Of course it's far more complicated a matter than that, but the Fang keeps his thoughts to himself for now. It's then that he notices all the branches and collected flora. "Now what be all this?"
Flint nods, and then pulls the wagon so that Dirk can see the contents. Most of the branches have been stripped of leaves or other things, though many of the leaves and needles are still in the wagon as well. "I do woodwork," Flint says, and then points at the branches as he names them in turn. "Spruce, sequoia, pine. I gathered this for a. For a project that I, I'm working on."
"For your tribe, then?" Dirk wonders aloud, taking to a knee so he can inspect the wood more thoroughly. It's simple curiosity, and he leaves the branches undisturbed for the most part. "Or somethin' for yourself?"
Flint doesn't seem to mind the curiosity at all, and leans on the handle of the wagon, one foot set to stop it from rolling now as he does so. "This one is, for my tribe," the teen says, and a very small smile grows on his face. Woodwork is a subject that Flint obviously feels comfortable with. "Because of the overgrowth on the Bawn, and, because we can't get to, to the burial mounds, it was my Rite of Passage to design a memorial for the Glasswalkers named at the burial mounds, and, and since that, I've been working on, on making it. I. I've got my sketchbook inside, if you. If you'd like to see?" A pause, and Flint glances at the other Galliard. "If there's scrap wood after, I'll probably, use it in my own projects. Boxes, cutting boards, small things."
Dirk nods, slowly, placing down a branch as he leans back, eyes on the Walker again. His posture is straight, expression somewhat stony, but that could just be the moon. "'Tis an honourable thing," he says, however, with sincerity. "Our past is what makes us, aye? Show me."
Flint nods, and pulls the wagon over to leave it next to the back porch, before going into the house, with certainty that Dirk will come as well and therefore only one or two glances over his shoulder as Flint moves into the kitchen. On the back of one of the kitchen chairs, a black backpack hangs, and it is in there that the Walker rummages for a moment, coming out with an obviously well-loved 5" x 8" sketchbook. "Here, Dirk-rhya," the teen says, turning to one of the schematic drawings of the memorial, the sculpture that reminds of the city and of organic forms and growing things and life all at once. The entire drawing holds decoration in even more carefully pencilled claw glyphs, prominent ones for tribe and totem, glory and honour, but smaller ones around the individual areas as well that tell the stories of the individuals remembered.
Dirk does follow, in his quiet way. His steps are heavy, and echo into the kitchen. He begins to look at the sketchbook as he unbuckles his sword, in the event he would like to sit on one of the plush chairs. "Ye did all a' this?" he says, eyes flicking to Flint and then back towards the sketchbook again. "'Tis an art. If'n it be done as y'say, I cannae be seein' how your rite would fail."
Flint nods once. "Mouse-rhya named me cliath when I finished, when I showed her, and Kavi-rhya, and Salem-rhya the drawings. I make the memorial because… I want to, because I need to now that I have heard the stories of those who, who came before me here and. And died for this place, and because yes. Our past is what makes us." He holds up one finger. "Just a second. I have some pictures, of the project, on my phone. I. I'm not showing many people until it's done, but." The teen pulls out a white iPhone, and sets it next to the sketchbook. A few taps at the screen bring up a picture of one of the sections, carved and formed of oak to resemble a city building but with curves and contours. There are glyphs inlaid on the piece, Cockroach, honor, glory, Glasswalker, from a wood that looks like cherry or some other dark, red wood, and it's clearly not finished yet.
With caution, Dirk watches the pictures flick by. He's still not thrilled with this Weaver tech, but he doesn't say as much. "So 'tis somethin' ye still be working on, then?" wonders he, aloud. His arms fold as he peers over the Walker's shoulder. "Seems t'be somethin' that be takin' a good deal a' time t'finish."
Flint finishes showing several more pictures, before tucking the phone back away. "Woodcarving taught me, patience, when I took woodshop class in school," Flint says, with another faint grin. "None of it's fast, it takes time. Glue needs to be set, pieces need to dry, even the carving itself." The sketchbook is also picked up, carefully closed, and tucked back into his backpack. "But I like doing it."
Dirk scratches at his head. At least most of that seemed to make sense to him. "Most crafts be takin' time an' patience," he agrees with a slight nod. "'Tis never somethin' I did for myself, though. Aside from learnin' the sword, an' writin' down letters an' stories."
Flint nods, and then pauses, before closing the backpack back up all the way as well. "Yeah. But the project keeps me, keeps me busy," Flint says. "And out of trouble." There's a half-chuckle at that. "Most of the pieces are all the way shaped, now, and the extra pieces are as well." There is a slightly grim note to the necessity of 'extra pieces', a slightly bigger betrayal of the tension that the teen has, and he sighs, then shrugs it off.
Dirk furrows his brows a little, arms tight against his chest, but ultimately doesn't ask. "Then I wish ye the best," he says at length, not wanting to intrude further. With sword in hand, he then walks over to one of the sofas and takes a seat, leaning back thoughtfully. "I don't see much a' your tribe out here."
Flint pauses at the refrigerator and gets a bottle of hard cider, before making his way towards one of the armchairs. "Not often, no," Flint says, pulling out a pocketknife and using it to open the bottle, then taking a sip. "I like to come out here occasionally, though. It's quiet, and peaceful, not. Not like the city."
"Aye. The city be full a' noise," agrees the Fang, sword rested against his lap now, as he begins to recline back, gaze angled towards the ceiling. "I make the walk between here an' where I be stayin' twice or more a day. Good for the constitution, an' better than bein' alone."
Flint nods. "And, I actually like the city, but sometimes, it." Flint shakes his head. "Sometimes it's too noisy. The workshop is, is quiet, but yeah. Better than being alone, and I needed the wood, too." Another sigh from the cliath, and he gets a distant expression for a moment, mumbling very quietly to himself.
Clearly empathizing, even if he isn't the most chatty of people, Dirk nods, idly tapping the hilt of the sword against his lap, reclining against a sofa. Flint is sitting in another chair nearby with a booze bottle of some variety. "When I be needin' quiet, I normally be goin' to my books. Or the sword," he admits.
Flint tips the bottle of cider back for a long sip, before setting it down on the coffee table again. "Makes sense. I— I spent some time against the, the punching bag. This morning, when I got out here. Probably will again later." The cliath squints his eyes shut a long moment following this.
"'Tis much a' the moon," says Dirk, taking a deep breath—rather meditative, at that. "But, 'tis also the way a' things."
Thomas knocks twice before letting himself in. His hat's nowhere to be seen today, and while his duster is currently on, there's the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and streaked through his hair that might suggest he's been exercising recently.
Flint nods again. "Very much the moon," the boy agrees, lifting his free hand to rub at his forehead. Head turns and Thomas gets a curt but still polite enough nod when he enters, and once more, the teen takes a long swig from the bottle. "Hi."
Dirk also welcomes Thomas, but with a slight bow, as is his way. "Pleasure t'see ye, Thomas," he says from the couch. The moon appears to be weighing on both him and Flint.
Thomas pauses a few steps inside, partway through adjusting the collar of his coat. He eyes Flint a moment, but when Dirk joins in, his expression turns downright suspicious. "Hello back," he says, tone cautious.
Flint sets the bottle down on the coffee table again, and the gaze which settles on Thomas is wary. The Walker draws knees up to chest and rests his chin on one knee, half-curling into the armchair with no intention of getting up or moving, at the moment.
Dirk otherwise leans over, drawing a backpack nearer that had been some space away, and fishing out a book. It appears to be something about colonial histories. He reclines once again, and then opens the book, resting the spine against his sword.
Thomas eyes the book now, and eventually one eyebrow twitches upward. "You said something about wanting to speak to me last we saw each other," he says to Dirk. But if that was a prelude to something more, he interrupts himself, because his attention shifts to Flint. "Been meaning to drop in on you. I ain't apologizing for content, 'cause I don't see any reason to apologize for talking about reality, but I am apologizing for implying you were a part of it. You're what? Fourteen? That ain't fair of me, bunching you in with things your grandfather wasn't alive for. So I'm sorry." He tips his head to one side, chin raised.
Light footfalls cross over the ceiling, faint at first as they originate near the barn then steadily growing more noticeable as they move toward the stairs.
Flint lifts his chin and looks up, straight at Thomas while the kinsman talks, and watches a moment longer, before nodding. "Alright. Apology accepted." There's a deep breath in, and then out, and Flint's mouth forms a tight line, for a moment. "And I over-reacted, so I. I'm sorry, too. I'm still…" the teen pauses, holding up one finger in a gesture of pause, as he collects his words. "I over-reacted because, the tenement's the only place I've ever, ever been able to call home. But, that didn't make what I said right, either."
Dirk waits for a pause in the conversation between Flint and Thomas before responding, "Aye, though this may nae be the better a' moons t'speak on it, as ye mae or may not find solace in what I say." He lifts the book. "About what I be readin'." But then the book is back on his lap, and he refrains from interrupting the other conversation any further. He glances towards the stairs.
Thomas regards Flint levelly for a moment, careful not to meet his eyes directly, and then nods. "That's that, then." His attention shifts back to Dirk. "Believe me, there ain't anything you can say that will give me 'solace'. But if you've got something to say, I'll hear it."
Feet, still quiet in movement, appear on the stairs, moving downward. Child-sized and attached to the smallish form belonging to Jacey, the Ronin's gaze is watching the living area as it's revealed, curious in expression of the various voices though apprehensive of doing her own interruptions.
There's a faint half-grin that Flint offers over to Jacey, though it's a fleeting expression replaced by equal amounts of tension, and the teen reclaims the bottle, tipping it back once more until it's empty, and wrapping his arms around his knees rather than interrupt between Dirk and Thomas.
Dirk tips his head, respectfully. "My apologies. There be little solace t'be had when so many be dead." A long glance down at the book, and then he turns to nod towards Jacey as he collects his thoughts. Then, "The Wendigo kin gave me many a book, an' said t'me many a thing about how they feel. I read their books. I read the books here as well, as promised." He then turns to look at Thomas, his expression as solemn as before. "It seems much a' the natural inhabitants a' this land fought each-other for land an' power, much as the peoples a' Scotland an' England, France an' Spain—all did the same. T'see men fightin' t'take what they want by 'cause a strength, an' t'see the consequence a' war, 'tis nae something I can, or will apologize for. War be as old as man's wrath an' pride, regardless a' man's color or fathers, or father's fathers; an' it nae be my place t'claim responsibility for them, as it not be my place t'claim responsibility for rain—over neither a' which m'words hold any sway. However," he adds, shaking his head. "Your earlier points be well taken. The reasons why my tribe an' others took lands from your people aside, they did not care for them in the way they should. All land be a' Gaia, an' all Garou more than men have moral responsibility t'tend t'her wants an' wounds. It be clear that much a' that was not done. An' it angers me that this be so. If they could nae be responsible for those lands, than they should nae have been taken."
Thomas listens without interruption to Dirk, though somewhere in there, something about his expression turns cold, and it doesn't warm at all when he finishes. "So," he says slowly, voice level, but with a faint, underlying tension, "You're upset 'cause your tribe fucked up what it snatched, but not about the things that were done during the snatching, or that the snatching was done at all, 'cause people are assholes. I hearing you right?"
Jacey smiles slightly at Flint, and Dirk as well, taking a full step away from the stairway before coming to a stop. Her gaze ticks between Dirk and Thomas, hands tucking into the pockets of her jeans.
Flint listens as Thomas and Dirk talk, and then pushes abruptly to his feet and disappears into the kitchen, empty bottle in hand. The sound of further rummaging about the kitchen, perhaps for food, follows.
Dirk begins to stand, but not out anger; that solemn expression only deepens, if nothing else. "No. War be always lamentable. Those who break the rules a' engagement an' do not act with honor an' compassion even in battle should nae be treated as heroes, an' should be punished as is their due." He begins to gather up his bag, putting the book therein. "The tribes a' the west attacked yours. Yours attacked them. There was peace. Then war. Then peace again, treaties broken on both sides, lies and sin from many men, good an' honor from some. But as I ken, all those men be dead. I can only read an' learn, an' know the darkness for what it was, an' then pray t'God that I have the strength t'not let it happen again." He shoulders the bag.
Thomas is quiet so long, with his expression so unchanged, one might think he weren't going to respond in any fashion. But then he says, without explanation, in a tone that's calm, but as cold as his expression has become, "Not all." He turns for the kitchen, unhurried, but purposeful.
Jacey flicks a glances toward Flint when he departs for the kitchen, though her attention doesn't fully part from Dirk or Thomas. Her gaze follows the kinsman as he, also, goes for the kitchen, then turns to the Fang with a small shrug.
Flint has gotten himself a plate of lunch meat and crackers, and another hard cider, by the time that Thomas gets to the kitchen, and he looks over, brows raising, and pulls headphones out of his ears. They get draped around his neck, and brows raise slightly, but no question is offered aloud.
Dirk watches Thomas go with no further words to him. It seems he feels that, for the moment, he's said all that can be said. Though there is the slightest quizzical raise to his brows, that will have to wait. "The moon weighs heavy on m'shoulders," he explains, to the other two Galliards, accent thickening along with his emotion. "I be out walkin'." And so he goes, the door opened gently, and closed in the same manner as he goes.
Thomas doesn't offer any answers either, and he crosses immediately to the refrigerator and pulls it open. It only takes a moment for him to snatch up a can of beer and pop it open. His jaw is set in a hard line.
"Stay safe," Jacey calls after Dirk, watching him briefly. After the door is closed, she takes herself toward the kitchen, flicking her gaze between Thomas and Flint.
Flint doesn't seem terribly inclined to press or question, it would seem. One of the pieces of lunch meat is folded, and eaten with little ceremony, and Jacey gets another nod. "Hi Jacey," Flint offers, quietly. There's the very beginning of a slur to the Walker's words.
Thomas remains at the fridge, drinking the beer down in brief, sharp gulps. For the moment, he seems to be either actively ignoring or oblivious to the other two.
"Hi Flint," Jacey replies, a slight grin forming at the Walker's lushy words. She nods to Thomas, offering a "H'lo" to him as well, whether he'll have it or not. "How's it been going?"
Flint picks up another piece of lunch meat, and then a cracker, and then takes another sip from his drink. "It goes… well enough. Busy," he says, grinning slightly.
"Hello," Thomas grunts around the beer can, without glancing over.
Jacey glances toward Thomas, studying him for a moment. "Me too," she answers, words directed at Flint. It's a beat later she looks at the other Galliard.
Flint seems focused for the moment on the food in front of him, slowly considering each piece of lunch meat before eating it. He leans against the counter, and picks up the drink again. "Other'n busy, how're you Jacey?" Definitely a good hint of the effect of the alcohol on the teen audible in his words, but on the other hand, there's less tension for the moment, and he takes another long sip.
Thomas finishes off his can, and gives Flint a brief, squinty look. Rather than say anything about his increasingly intoxicated state, however, he opens the fridge and retrieves another beer.
Jacey shrugs a little, still keeping the grin off her face. If barely. "Well enough that complaining would make me seem childish." She pauses for a beat. "…You should probably slow down a little on the drink."
The front door begins to open. Someone's coming back in! Dirk makes himself apparently some moments later, glancing about to see who else is within. Apparently that was a quick walk. He's still got back over his shoulder and sword in hand—it's almost as if he forgot something.
Flint, Jacey, and Thomas are all in the kitchen, still. There's a clink as the Glass Walker sets the bottle down on the counter, silently taking Jacey's suggestion. A heavy sigh follows, but it seems that Flint's at least achieved well and buzzed, since it's followed immediately by a chuckle. "I should, shouldn' I," he agrees. "Otherwise I'd need'a, to get another one."
Thomas pops open the second can of beer, but pauses with it halfway to his lips as Dirk re-enters. His eyes dart toward the sound of the Silver Fang's footsteps.
Jacey nods solemnly to Flint, though the grin she's been denying peeks through again. "Might consider it, or other methods of easing the buzz." She gives a wave to Thomas, again ambivalent to whether he sees it or not, and turns for the front door. "Hi, Dirk-rhya," is offered in passing, followed immediately with, "Bye, Dirk-rhya."
Dirk begins to lift a hand, but then Jacey's already gone. Oh well. The Fang begins to enter the kitchen, as that's where he hears voices, and nods to both Thomas and Flint. "I be havin' a thought, so I came back," he explains, turning to Thomas. "I have a request. Y'seem t'know much an' have many stories. I think it would do me well t'just listen, so I would hear any stories y'be willin' t'share. To remember," he explains.
Flint raises his brows in the wake of Jacey's departure. The Walker doesn't seem to have any intention of following the suggestion, and the cider is picked up and tipped back again, though the teen remains quiet and in place, watching Dirk and Thomas. And perhaps listening.
Thomas stares hard at Dirk for a moment, before he remembers to avert his eyes. "There ain't any stories I can tell that you'd be keen on hearing," he says into the can. He lowers it without actually taking a sip. "Or that I'd be inclined to tell. It's a long, unpleasant, blood-soaked history, and most of it ain't in those books of yours."
Dirk nods, turning away for a moment, himself, as he considers something for a long moment. "I ask so I can kin the wound," he says, "I do no good by bein' ignorant. More harm by bein' unaware. Hard truths… be necessary. Though I respect the pain a' retellin'. There be many a memory I'd like t'forget, m'self. But this I cannae do." He turns back, sighing deeply. "If'n y'wish, I'll be lettin' the matter lie. If'n y'wish t'share, then my eyes an' ears be open."
Flint moves to quickly wash his plate, and then crosses towards the fridge. The door is opened, and Flint seems to be considering the available alcohol, before he avails himself of a can of beer, moves to reclaim the bottle of cider, and turns to the other two. "If you'll, excuse me, Dirk-rhya, Thomas," and there's a faint nod to each of them in turn, "I'm'a go t'the garage an' let th' two've you, you talk." The words are definitely slurred, but there's a wide enough smile on the Walker's face that wasn't there earlier.
Thomas gives Flint a sharp nod, and lets him get a fair distance away before he answers Dirk. "You ain't 'kinning' this wound, Theo," he says, low and level, but hard. "You ain't kinning any of it. How'm I supposed to tell you this kind've thing, when it's all dusty history pages to you? It's like trying to explain things to the Raven, where she asks me why I've got a problem with Shadow Lords and then just takes it as an opportunity to lecture me on how I should be more open minded. Telling me that these things happen ain't enough, Scotsman, because they shouldn't. And it don't matter how often they happen, the fact they shouldn't ain't gonna change."
Dirk takes a breath to steady himself. "I expect t'understand the sufferin' a' your people about as much as I expect ye to understand the sufferin' a' mine. The Highland clans, clan Duncan amongst them, what had their lands, their language, their religion all taken, given back, an' taken again by the Black Dancers, then the English." He lifts a hand. "But aye, Thomas, from what I be readin', your people had the worst lot by far, an' I ken, I do, that there be no way y'can share with me hundred of years a' spite an' bitterness. An' I'm not askin' ye to. What I'm askin' is that ye' tell me what y'can, so I'm learned even the smallest bit more, rather than not at all. I'm givin' ye that option—I'm tellin' ye I'm willin'."
Flint pauses in the doorway and looks at the two of them, and despite that the young Galliard seems obviously interested—in both subjects mentioned—he takes his drink and himself out of the kitchen, and a moment later there's the sound of footsteps up the stairs.
1 May, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (69% full).
Flint emerges from the path into the forest, dressed in sturdy jeans, a pair of boots, and a heavier jacket that's definitively oversized for him. The teen is tugging a little red flyer wagon that's piled with gathered fallen wood, and humming to himself, rather happily for all that the wagon is heavy and makes it slow going through the overgrowth of the forest. He emerges into the meadow, and then pauses, starting to pick brambles and thorns out of his clothing, and wipes his forehead with the back of one hand.
Bedecked in a warm, darkly-colored, button-down shirt, worn jeans, and sturdy hiking boots, a tall, sturdy-looking man appears to be practicing swordplay in the meadow. His sword seems quite polished and elaborate, and the man clearly knows how to use the weapon. The occasional gust of wind rustles his hair and gives him pause, one such gust causing him to turn towards the forest and shield his eyes, blue and bright against the dark of his clothes, hair, and short-trimmed beard.
Flint finishes pulling the multitude of thorns and brambles from his clothing, or at least as much as he will while he's still wearing them, and resumes tugging the wagon in the general direction of the garage. The Fang is given a wave of greeting, and then when Flint's gotten close enough to not have to yell across the meadow, verbal greeting as well. "Hi Theodoric-rhya," Flint offers, quiet as to not surprise the man. Too much. "How… how are you?"
Dirk makes the Walker before he is too close, and has already lowered his weapon by the time the other arrives. "Good morn t'ye, lad," says he, offering Flint a brief and polite bow of greeting, sheathing the sword as he does so. The scabbard is currently hitched to his belt. "Well enough," he explains, glancing back towards the house. "I continue t'be a welcome guest."
Flint nods. "Good." The young galliard takes a deep breath, and glances up at the sky, and his words are measured and careful now, to be better and easily understandable. "Has there been any progress on getting you back to where you came from?"
In one of his many habitual gestures, Dirk rests his hand against the hilt of his sword, the other scratching idly at his beard. "Several theurges have heard me," he explains, glancing back towards Flint and nodding slightly. "They be considerin' the possibility. But they be sayin' nothin' a' plans yet."
Flint leans on the handle of the wagon a little as he stands there. It's full of fallen tree branches from spruce and evergreen, most of them two to four inches thick, and a few that are thicker. Another deep breath precedes talking, though it doesn't banish the hesitation and stutter entirely this time, and the words have the faint edge of terseness from it being galliard moon. "Yeah, I'd guess anything of that magnitude's likely to take time. Anyway, I— I hope things work out well. And. If nothing else, the Hidden Walk is, is a pretty nice place."
"'Tis not home," explains Dirk, his expression solemn, hand gripping the hilt of his blade with the weight of the moon on his shoulders. "But 'tis a good place, aye. If it be that I cannae go, then I will stay." Of course it's far more complicated a matter than that, but the Fang keeps his thoughts to himself for now. It's then that he notices all the branches and collected flora. "Now what be all this?"
Flint nods, and then pulls the wagon so that Dirk can see the contents. Most of the branches have been stripped of leaves or other things, though many of the leaves and needles are still in the wagon as well. "I do woodwork," Flint says, and then points at the branches as he names them in turn. "Spruce, sequoia, pine. I gathered this for a. For a project that I, I'm working on."
"For your tribe, then?" Dirk wonders aloud, taking to a knee so he can inspect the wood more thoroughly. It's simple curiosity, and he leaves the branches undisturbed for the most part. "Or somethin' for yourself?"
Flint doesn't seem to mind the curiosity at all, and leans on the handle of the wagon, one foot set to stop it from rolling now as he does so. "This one is, for my tribe," the teen says, and a very small smile grows on his face. Woodwork is a subject that Flint obviously feels comfortable with. "Because of the overgrowth on the Bawn, and, because we can't get to, to the burial mounds, it was my Rite of Passage to design a memorial for the Glasswalkers named at the burial mounds, and, and since that, I've been working on, on making it. I. I've got my sketchbook inside, if you. If you'd like to see?" A pause, and Flint glances at the other Galliard. "If there's scrap wood after, I'll probably, use it in my own projects. Boxes, cutting boards, small things."
Dirk nods, slowly, placing down a branch as he leans back, eyes on the Walker again. His posture is straight, expression somewhat stony, but that could just be the moon. "'Tis an honourable thing," he says, however, with sincerity. "Our past is what makes us, aye? Show me."
Flint nods, and pulls the wagon over to leave it next to the back porch, before going into the house, with certainty that Dirk will come as well and therefore only one or two glances over his shoulder as Flint moves into the kitchen. On the back of one of the kitchen chairs, a black backpack hangs, and it is in there that the Walker rummages for a moment, coming out with an obviously well-loved 5" x 8" sketchbook. "Here, Dirk-rhya," the teen says, turning to one of the schematic drawings of the memorial, the sculpture that reminds of the city and of organic forms and growing things and life all at once. The entire drawing holds decoration in even more carefully pencilled claw glyphs, prominent ones for tribe and totem, glory and honour, but smaller ones around the individual areas as well that tell the stories of the individuals remembered.
Dirk does follow, in his quiet way. His steps are heavy, and echo into the kitchen. He begins to look at the sketchbook as he unbuckles his sword, in the event he would like to sit on one of the plush chairs. "Ye did all a' this?" he says, eyes flicking to Flint and then back towards the sketchbook again. "'Tis an art. If'n it be done as y'say, I cannae be seein' how your rite would fail."
Flint nods once. "Mouse-rhya named me cliath when I finished, when I showed her, and Kavi-rhya, and Salem-rhya the drawings. I make the memorial because… I want to, because I need to now that I have heard the stories of those who, who came before me here and. And died for this place, and because yes. Our past is what makes us." He holds up one finger. "Just a second. I have some pictures, of the project, on my phone. I. I'm not showing many people until it's done, but." The teen pulls out a white iPhone, and sets it next to the sketchbook. A few taps at the screen bring up a picture of one of the sections, carved and formed of oak to resemble a city building but with curves and contours. There are glyphs inlaid on the piece, Cockroach, honor, glory, Glasswalker, from a wood that looks like cherry or some other dark, red wood, and it's clearly not finished yet.
With caution, Dirk watches the pictures flick by. He's still not thrilled with this Weaver tech, but he doesn't say as much. "So 'tis somethin' ye still be working on, then?" wonders he, aloud. His arms fold as he peers over the Walker's shoulder. "Seems t'be somethin' that be takin' a good deal a' time t'finish."
Flint finishes showing several more pictures, before tucking the phone back away. "Woodcarving taught me, patience, when I took woodshop class in school," Flint says, with another faint grin. "None of it's fast, it takes time. Glue needs to be set, pieces need to dry, even the carving itself." The sketchbook is also picked up, carefully closed, and tucked back into his backpack. "But I like doing it."
Dirk scratches at his head. At least most of that seemed to make sense to him. "Most crafts be takin' time an' patience," he agrees with a slight nod. "'Tis never somethin' I did for myself, though. Aside from learnin' the sword, an' writin' down letters an' stories."
Flint nods, and then pauses, before closing the backpack back up all the way as well. "Yeah. But the project keeps me, keeps me busy," Flint says. "And out of trouble." There's a half-chuckle at that. "Most of the pieces are all the way shaped, now, and the extra pieces are as well." There is a slightly grim note to the necessity of 'extra pieces', a slightly bigger betrayal of the tension that the teen has, and he sighs, then shrugs it off.
Dirk furrows his brows a little, arms tight against his chest, but ultimately doesn't ask. "Then I wish ye the best," he says at length, not wanting to intrude further. With sword in hand, he then walks over to one of the sofas and takes a seat, leaning back thoughtfully. "I don't see much a' your tribe out here."
Flint pauses at the refrigerator and gets a bottle of hard cider, before making his way towards one of the armchairs. "Not often, no," Flint says, pulling out a pocketknife and using it to open the bottle, then taking a sip. "I like to come out here occasionally, though. It's quiet, and peaceful, not. Not like the city."
"Aye. The city be full a' noise," agrees the Fang, sword rested against his lap now, as he begins to recline back, gaze angled towards the ceiling. "I make the walk between here an' where I be stayin' twice or more a day. Good for the constitution, an' better than bein' alone."
Flint nods. "And, I actually like the city, but sometimes, it." Flint shakes his head. "Sometimes it's too noisy. The workshop is, is quiet, but yeah. Better than being alone, and I needed the wood, too." Another sigh from the cliath, and he gets a distant expression for a moment, mumbling very quietly to himself.
Clearly empathizing, even if he isn't the most chatty of people, Dirk nods, idly tapping the hilt of the sword against his lap, reclining against a sofa. Flint is sitting in another chair nearby with a booze bottle of some variety. "When I be needin' quiet, I normally be goin' to my books. Or the sword," he admits.
Flint tips the bottle of cider back for a long sip, before setting it down on the coffee table again. "Makes sense. I— I spent some time against the, the punching bag. This morning, when I got out here. Probably will again later." The cliath squints his eyes shut a long moment following this.
"'Tis much a' the moon," says Dirk, taking a deep breath—rather meditative, at that. "But, 'tis also the way a' things."
Thomas knocks twice before letting himself in. His hat's nowhere to be seen today, and while his duster is currently on, there's the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and streaked through his hair that might suggest he's been exercising recently.
Flint nods again. "Very much the moon," the boy agrees, lifting his free hand to rub at his forehead. Head turns and Thomas gets a curt but still polite enough nod when he enters, and once more, the teen takes a long swig from the bottle. "Hi."
Dirk also welcomes Thomas, but with a slight bow, as is his way. "Pleasure t'see ye, Thomas," he says from the couch. The moon appears to be weighing on both him and Flint.
Thomas pauses a few steps inside, partway through adjusting the collar of his coat. He eyes Flint a moment, but when Dirk joins in, his expression turns downright suspicious. "Hello back," he says, tone cautious.
Flint sets the bottle down on the coffee table again, and the gaze which settles on Thomas is wary. The Walker draws knees up to chest and rests his chin on one knee, half-curling into the armchair with no intention of getting up or moving, at the moment.
Dirk otherwise leans over, drawing a backpack nearer that had been some space away, and fishing out a book. It appears to be something about colonial histories. He reclines once again, and then opens the book, resting the spine against his sword.
Thomas eyes the book now, and eventually one eyebrow twitches upward. "You said something about wanting to speak to me last we saw each other," he says to Dirk. But if that was a prelude to something more, he interrupts himself, because his attention shifts to Flint. "Been meaning to drop in on you. I ain't apologizing for content, 'cause I don't see any reason to apologize for talking about reality, but I am apologizing for implying you were a part of it. You're what? Fourteen? That ain't fair of me, bunching you in with things your grandfather wasn't alive for. So I'm sorry." He tips his head to one side, chin raised.
Light footfalls cross over the ceiling, faint at first as they originate near the barn then steadily growing more noticeable as they move toward the stairs.
Flint lifts his chin and looks up, straight at Thomas while the kinsman talks, and watches a moment longer, before nodding. "Alright. Apology accepted." There's a deep breath in, and then out, and Flint's mouth forms a tight line, for a moment. "And I over-reacted, so I. I'm sorry, too. I'm still…" the teen pauses, holding up one finger in a gesture of pause, as he collects his words. "I over-reacted because, the tenement's the only place I've ever, ever been able to call home. But, that didn't make what I said right, either."
Dirk waits for a pause in the conversation between Flint and Thomas before responding, "Aye, though this may nae be the better a' moons t'speak on it, as ye mae or may not find solace in what I say." He lifts the book. "About what I be readin'." But then the book is back on his lap, and he refrains from interrupting the other conversation any further. He glances towards the stairs.
Thomas regards Flint levelly for a moment, careful not to meet his eyes directly, and then nods. "That's that, then." His attention shifts back to Dirk. "Believe me, there ain't anything you can say that will give me 'solace'. But if you've got something to say, I'll hear it."
Feet, still quiet in movement, appear on the stairs, moving downward. Child-sized and attached to the smallish form belonging to Jacey, the Ronin's gaze is watching the living area as it's revealed, curious in expression of the various voices though apprehensive of doing her own interruptions.
There's a faint half-grin that Flint offers over to Jacey, though it's a fleeting expression replaced by equal amounts of tension, and the teen reclaims the bottle, tipping it back once more until it's empty, and wrapping his arms around his knees rather than interrupt between Dirk and Thomas.
Dirk tips his head, respectfully. "My apologies. There be little solace t'be had when so many be dead." A long glance down at the book, and then he turns to nod towards Jacey as he collects his thoughts. Then, "The Wendigo kin gave me many a book, an' said t'me many a thing about how they feel. I read their books. I read the books here as well, as promised." He then turns to look at Thomas, his expression as solemn as before. "It seems much a' the natural inhabitants a' this land fought each-other for land an' power, much as the peoples a' Scotland an' England, France an' Spain—all did the same. T'see men fightin' t'take what they want by 'cause a strength, an' t'see the consequence a' war, 'tis nae something I can, or will apologize for. War be as old as man's wrath an' pride, regardless a' man's color or fathers, or father's fathers; an' it nae be my place t'claim responsibility for them, as it not be my place t'claim responsibility for rain—over neither a' which m'words hold any sway. However," he adds, shaking his head. "Your earlier points be well taken. The reasons why my tribe an' others took lands from your people aside, they did not care for them in the way they should. All land be a' Gaia, an' all Garou more than men have moral responsibility t'tend t'her wants an' wounds. It be clear that much a' that was not done. An' it angers me that this be so. If they could nae be responsible for those lands, than they should nae have been taken."
Thomas listens without interruption to Dirk, though somewhere in there, something about his expression turns cold, and it doesn't warm at all when he finishes. "So," he says slowly, voice level, but with a faint, underlying tension, "You're upset 'cause your tribe fucked up what it snatched, but not about the things that were done during the snatching, or that the snatching was done at all, 'cause people are assholes. I hearing you right?"
Jacey smiles slightly at Flint, and Dirk as well, taking a full step away from the stairway before coming to a stop. Her gaze ticks between Dirk and Thomas, hands tucking into the pockets of her jeans.
Flint listens as Thomas and Dirk talk, and then pushes abruptly to his feet and disappears into the kitchen, empty bottle in hand. The sound of further rummaging about the kitchen, perhaps for food, follows.
Dirk begins to stand, but not out anger; that solemn expression only deepens, if nothing else. "No. War be always lamentable. Those who break the rules a' engagement an' do not act with honor an' compassion even in battle should nae be treated as heroes, an' should be punished as is their due." He begins to gather up his bag, putting the book therein. "The tribes a' the west attacked yours. Yours attacked them. There was peace. Then war. Then peace again, treaties broken on both sides, lies and sin from many men, good an' honor from some. But as I ken, all those men be dead. I can only read an' learn, an' know the darkness for what it was, an' then pray t'God that I have the strength t'not let it happen again." He shoulders the bag.
Thomas is quiet so long, with his expression so unchanged, one might think he weren't going to respond in any fashion. But then he says, without explanation, in a tone that's calm, but as cold as his expression has become, "Not all." He turns for the kitchen, unhurried, but purposeful.
Jacey flicks a glances toward Flint when he departs for the kitchen, though her attention doesn't fully part from Dirk or Thomas. Her gaze follows the kinsman as he, also, goes for the kitchen, then turns to the Fang with a small shrug.
Flint has gotten himself a plate of lunch meat and crackers, and another hard cider, by the time that Thomas gets to the kitchen, and he looks over, brows raising, and pulls headphones out of his ears. They get draped around his neck, and brows raise slightly, but no question is offered aloud.
Dirk watches Thomas go with no further words to him. It seems he feels that, for the moment, he's said all that can be said. Though there is the slightest quizzical raise to his brows, that will have to wait. "The moon weighs heavy on m'shoulders," he explains, to the other two Galliards, accent thickening along with his emotion. "I be out walkin'." And so he goes, the door opened gently, and closed in the same manner as he goes.
Thomas doesn't offer any answers either, and he crosses immediately to the refrigerator and pulls it open. It only takes a moment for him to snatch up a can of beer and pop it open. His jaw is set in a hard line.
"Stay safe," Jacey calls after Dirk, watching him briefly. After the door is closed, she takes herself toward the kitchen, flicking her gaze between Thomas and Flint.
Flint doesn't seem terribly inclined to press or question, it would seem. One of the pieces of lunch meat is folded, and eaten with little ceremony, and Jacey gets another nod. "Hi Jacey," Flint offers, quietly. There's the very beginning of a slur to the Walker's words.
Thomas remains at the fridge, drinking the beer down in brief, sharp gulps. For the moment, he seems to be either actively ignoring or oblivious to the other two.
"Hi Flint," Jacey replies, a slight grin forming at the Walker's lushy words. She nods to Thomas, offering a "H'lo" to him as well, whether he'll have it or not. "How's it been going?"
Flint picks up another piece of lunch meat, and then a cracker, and then takes another sip from his drink. "It goes… well enough. Busy," he says, grinning slightly.
"Hello," Thomas grunts around the beer can, without glancing over.
Jacey glances toward Thomas, studying him for a moment. "Me too," she answers, words directed at Flint. It's a beat later she looks at the other Galliard.
Flint seems focused for the moment on the food in front of him, slowly considering each piece of lunch meat before eating it. He leans against the counter, and picks up the drink again. "Other'n busy, how're you Jacey?" Definitely a good hint of the effect of the alcohol on the teen audible in his words, but on the other hand, there's less tension for the moment, and he takes another long sip.
Thomas finishes off his can, and gives Flint a brief, squinty look. Rather than say anything about his increasingly intoxicated state, however, he opens the fridge and retrieves another beer.
Jacey shrugs a little, still keeping the grin off her face. If barely. "Well enough that complaining would make me seem childish." She pauses for a beat. "…You should probably slow down a little on the drink."
The front door begins to open. Someone's coming back in! Dirk makes himself apparently some moments later, glancing about to see who else is within. Apparently that was a quick walk. He's still got back over his shoulder and sword in hand—it's almost as if he forgot something.
Flint, Jacey, and Thomas are all in the kitchen, still. There's a clink as the Glass Walker sets the bottle down on the counter, silently taking Jacey's suggestion. A heavy sigh follows, but it seems that Flint's at least achieved well and buzzed, since it's followed immediately by a chuckle. "I should, shouldn' I," he agrees. "Otherwise I'd need'a, to get another one."
Thomas pops open the second can of beer, but pauses with it halfway to his lips as Dirk re-enters. His eyes dart toward the sound of the Silver Fang's footsteps.
Jacey nods solemnly to Flint, though the grin she's been denying peeks through again. "Might consider it, or other methods of easing the buzz." She gives a wave to Thomas, again ambivalent to whether he sees it or not, and turns for the front door. "Hi, Dirk-rhya," is offered in passing, followed immediately with, "Bye, Dirk-rhya."
Dirk begins to lift a hand, but then Jacey's already gone. Oh well. The Fang begins to enter the kitchen, as that's where he hears voices, and nods to both Thomas and Flint. "I be havin' a thought, so I came back," he explains, turning to Thomas. "I have a request. Y'seem t'know much an' have many stories. I think it would do me well t'just listen, so I would hear any stories y'be willin' t'share. To remember," he explains.
Flint raises his brows in the wake of Jacey's departure. The Walker doesn't seem to have any intention of following the suggestion, and the cider is picked up and tipped back again, though the teen remains quiet and in place, watching Dirk and Thomas. And perhaps listening.
Thomas stares hard at Dirk for a moment, before he remembers to avert his eyes. "There ain't any stories I can tell that you'd be keen on hearing," he says into the can. He lowers it without actually taking a sip. "Or that I'd be inclined to tell. It's a long, unpleasant, blood-soaked history, and most of it ain't in those books of yours."
Dirk nods, turning away for a moment, himself, as he considers something for a long moment. "I ask so I can kin the wound," he says, "I do no good by bein' ignorant. More harm by bein' unaware. Hard truths… be necessary. Though I respect the pain a' retellin'. There be many a memory I'd like t'forget, m'self. But this I cannae do." He turns back, sighing deeply. "If'n y'wish, I'll be lettin' the matter lie. If'n y'wish t'share, then my eyes an' ears be open."
Flint moves to quickly wash his plate, and then crosses towards the fridge. The door is opened, and Flint seems to be considering the available alcohol, before he avails himself of a can of beer, moves to reclaim the bottle of cider, and turns to the other two. "If you'll, excuse me, Dirk-rhya, Thomas," and there's a faint nod to each of them in turn, "I'm'a go t'the garage an' let th' two've you, you talk." The words are definitely slurred, but there's a wide enough smile on the Walker's face that wasn't there earlier.
Thomas gives Flint a sharp nod, and lets him get a fair distance away before he answers Dirk. "You ain't 'kinning' this wound, Theo," he says, low and level, but hard. "You ain't kinning any of it. How'm I supposed to tell you this kind've thing, when it's all dusty history pages to you? It's like trying to explain things to the Raven, where she asks me why I've got a problem with Shadow Lords and then just takes it as an opportunity to lecture me on how I should be more open minded. Telling me that these things happen ain't enough, Scotsman, because they shouldn't. And it don't matter how often they happen, the fact they shouldn't ain't gonna change."
Dirk takes a breath to steady himself. "I expect t'understand the sufferin' a' your people about as much as I expect ye to understand the sufferin' a' mine. The Highland clans, clan Duncan amongst them, what had their lands, their language, their religion all taken, given back, an' taken again by the Black Dancers, then the English." He lifts a hand. "But aye, Thomas, from what I be readin', your people had the worst lot by far, an' I ken, I do, that there be no way y'can share with me hundred of years a' spite an' bitterness. An' I'm not askin' ye to. What I'm askin' is that ye' tell me what y'can, so I'm learned even the smallest bit more, rather than not at all. I'm givin' ye that option—I'm tellin' ye I'm willin'."
Flint pauses in the doorway and looks at the two of them, and despite that the young Galliard seems obviously interested—in both subjects mentioned—he takes his drink and himself out of the kitchen, and a moment later there's the sound of footsteps up the stairs.