I control me.

[flint_garou]

You're doing better. And it gets better.

5 August, 2012
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (81% full).

Late morning finds Flint lingering in the laundry room of the tenement humming to himself, and occasionally pacing out into the main lobby of the ground floor, with a roll of duct tape around one wrist, long sleeves as usual, but mostly dressed in pajamas. His gaze goes to the door to the street, and then rather purposefully away.

A mobile raincloud on a sunny day, called Norman, turns up on the doorstep. He is sans coat but determinedly bundled nevertheless, with sleeves down and hands stuffed in pockets, one broken lace trailing, the bottoms of his jeans caked in mud. He has to pull out a hand to press the buzzer, of course.

The response is quick, whoever's actually on duty in the office pressing the button to unlock the door before Flint can hear or notice the buzzer, and when that's done, Flint pauses halfway to the seating area, turning to look in the direction of the entry, with a faint grin and wave for Norman when the Get enters.

The Godi looks subtly drained, something as though he's short of sleep but not quite the same. He returns the grin with a short nod; Flint is familiar enough with him by now to know that this is Norman's usual greeting when he likes someone, and probably equates to most people's happy hello. He hovers in the middle of the floor, roughly half way to the seats although not, of course, the same half way as the Galliard's.

Flint pauses a moment longer, thumbs hooked in his pockets, then looks back at the laundry room. The dryer is still going, though, and so Flint moves over to go to the couches, flopping down and sitting crosslegged.

"Huh." Norman watches something invisible crawling across the ceiling. "Never seen one of those in here before."

The Walker lifts his gaze to point that Norman watches, though Flint just blinks at the empty space with another quirk of a grin when he figures it out. "How's it going?" Flint asks, quiet.

The Get blinks a few times, presumably adjusting back to watching the physical part of the room. Then he shrugs. "Wyld's still getting stronger. How about here?"

Flint purses his lips in a shrug. "Quiet, I. I guess," Flint mutters, though it's not so softly as to be inaudible, and he fidgets with the quartz shard that's his. "Restless, but. Stuff goes on." Another grin, then. "Got. I, ran off the flyer, though? And put them into envelopes, with the. With the crystals. A hundred, of them."

Norman blinks again, and this time it seems like raw surprise. There's a long pause before he finds a voice, and it's faintly awed when he does. "Really?"

The cliath nods, emphatically, gaze going up as if he could see all the way to the fifth floor. Flint doesn't have a verbal response, though, not for a while. "It. It, kept me, busy," he explains, a bit of a break to his voice halfway through that doesn't help in being verbose.

"There is," Norman says a little heavily, "lots to do. But… that's… pretty, uh…" words fail him then. "Yeah. Um. That's… a huge favour I owe you. Thank you? And. I guess you can't talk to spirits? Normally?"

Flint looks over at Norman a moment, then down at his lap, hands withdrawing from his pockets to loop hands around opposite wrists. he shakes his head, and then shakes his head again. "It. It's okay, I. I haven't had…" Flint's voice turns bitter, frustrated, "much else to do. And no. I… I can't." Flint tilts his head to one side, for a long moment, "Even if I, I wanted to, I think."

"It's not a Galliard thing," Norman admits, "but some Totems help their children that way. I just thought… there's some city spirits I don't see enough. One of them understands English. But it's… polite, to use the Gift. Maybe he'd come here, if I asked? A newspaper-spirit? He heard things, sometimes. And, if you get an exclusive for him to go after? He likes that. But. He'd be no good for… Things, right now. Leeches don't have a spirit-reflection. Although. I guess that means you'd be safer, in the Umbra. Just a thought."

Flint stares at the distance a moment more, then squints until he's more focused on the present. "I feel so…" Flint pauses, hands clenching to try and sort thoughts out into sentences. "I don't, have. Anything, right now, can't even, go after things I. I hear of, see, or, find out what's going on 'cause." He pauses. "'Side from my packmates, and Nieve-rhya and sometimes Kavi-rhya, you're the only company I've, had." The second part is given a nod, but he swallows, voice going much, much quieter. "I. I dunno. It's. Myself, I need to be, safe from."

Norman's expression is hard to read, but there's a certain understanding there, the sort of recognition garnered from one's reflection in a mirror. "It… gets easier," he offers, and changes the subject. "Have you been able to do anything with the vessel for the Talen?"

Flint takes a deep breath and nods. "Air, water, fire," he replies with another faint grin. "It's in my room, right now? In the silk that. But, not… the. Feeding the ducks, or…" Flint changes the topic back, away from his confinement to the tenement. "But. Finishing, with. Fire, today? After all, something to do, focus on, and. And all."

"The ducks… that's for a whole moon. So there's plenty of time," Norman says, with a touch of reassurance. "I've also had a word with some wind-spirits I know, and they'll make things easier for the ducks in the Physical Realm, next time they… word. M-word. For the winter? That's enough. Well, except for taking toys for the wind-spirits. Fluff and feathers and dandelon seeds. So. You could collect those too. To take to the Umbra. And, earth tomorrow. Uh. yeah, here…" He pulls out a collection of muddy bags that look as if they were scavenged from the trash, four of them. His hands, too, are caked, as well as heavily scratched. His clothes are in a worse state than last time as well, with snags and rips. "North, south, east and west of the Bawn," he says, plunking the dirty bags on the nearest available table. "They go in a bowl together, to bury the ring in?"

Flint nods, looking over the bags of muddy dirt, and grins. "Okay. I can, can do that," the teen agrees. "I've been… working on learning to, make bowls, woodwork. Bowls are harder than boxes." There's a bit of a laugh, though the subject is brought up a bit abruptly. "Earth tomorrow. And, okay. That. That's good." Flint's gaze goes past Norman, then, to the door, tension springing unbidden to every part of his posture until he's visibly working to breathe evenly.

"Then the next day, we can do the Binding," Norman says, expression and voice growing distant. "I hope. We can try and do that here. But. Somewhere outside is best."

Flint is still focusing on his breathing, but nods. "Can. 's long as, if. With someone, can go out. We could, go to the Park glade? Or—" the words choke off, the cliath almost getting to his feet before he regains the tiniest, slightest bit of control, enough to look up, away from the floor.

"I'll be there," Norman says, and he shows his teeth in something very un-smile-like, and it's clear from his sudden shift of mood that he'd welcome a good fight with open claws. It's only a flash, a glimpse of underlying Get, and then he's just Norman again, twitchy and uncomfortable and vaguely deer-like, with eyes that look through things more often than at them. "Uh, I forgot. It probably won't make any difference. But it'd be… respectful not to eat duck, 'til the Talen's all used up."

Flint takes another breath, and nods. "You'll…" Flint looks away, hands clenching, would be fists if he hadn't already looped it around his arms, and the words are choked behind frustration, and behind the frustration, Rage that threatens to erupt and boil over. "You'll. Have to come here, first, but. I'll. Be, ready, to. To go," he manages.

"Maybe we can find something. To beat up," the Get says, matter-of-factly. "There's all sorts of… messed-up crap, at the old zoo. Afterwards. Get the Talen done first."

It's a long moment before Flint's teeth flash, the idea of killing something clearly sitting quite well with the rage the Galliard feels. "Yeah. That'd be, good," Flint says.

Norman gives a nod, decision made, and there's even a grin of approval, small though it is. "Are you okay to do the earth?"

Flint takes another breath and finally steadies, for what value that has, moving to gather the four bags together and not seeming to care what gets on his hands, or his clothes. "Yeah," he says. "'d like to, to. It'll, be good." As he gets up, Flint doesn't look at the door, or towards it, gaze either towards the Adren, or the elevator. "Thank you for, for. Getting it, and. Doing, this."

"They were going to cull me," Norman says, in another abrupt mood-swing. "It got so bad. When I w-was a cub. You're doing better. And it gets better. It… goals. They're good? Having, things to aim for. Real things. N-not… fuzzy things. Like, 'be better'. But. 'Bench-press ten pounds more than I can right now'. And. 'Balance on one foot for five minutes longer than I can right now'."

Flint looks over at Norman, leaning on the arm of the couch now. "Goals, real things. Real things help. Finish the drawing, real goals, not thinking about the… fuzzy things are too far away, too many, what ifs?" There's an abrupt lurch for the door, the Galliard's control not wholly lost, but teeth bared and eyes wide. "Kill her for making it so stupid and I want," Flint mutters. Though, Norman's still between Flint and the door. "Killing her'd be real."

Norman's jaw tightens. "Yeah. But. It doesn't make it better. I thought it would. But. That doesn't make it all go away. That's a… there's things, that help. But. In the end. It's just you. Nothing and nobody else. You just have to decide. Um. And, work at it as well, but. It's the. The part where you know, 'I control me'. Um. Even if I'm not always great at it? But that doesn't mean you're not." He gives a small hitch of the shoulders, not really a shrug. "But, I wouldn't have believed it. If someone had told me. When I first came to the Sept. Or last year, even."

Flint takes another step forward and stills, regaining his self-control and listening, intently, as Norman speaks. "I control me," the Glass Walker repeats quietly, not quite believing the words, and then Flint moves to actually pick up the bags of bawn dirt. "Still want to go out there, and. Kill her and, hurt her, and. Hurt until all the…" He's not talking to Norman, but to himself. "It's not her, it just gave it… blood, pain. One more thing that, to, face."

"You have strength. You just need to find it," Norman says, even as his eyewhites flash and a tic flickers on his cheek. It doesn't change the certainty in his tone. "I need to go. I'll be back."

Flint nods, taking another series of breaths and calming himself. "'kay," Flint agrees. "I'll. I'll be here, and all." There's a nod of parting, before the cliath takes the dirt and goes to push the button to call the elevator, leaning against the wall to wait.