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flint_garouWhat should be done, when it should be done. What needs to be done.
9 September, 2012
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (43% full).
Upstairs still smells of steam and shower-soap, although it's faded enough that whoever showered has departed at least a half-hour since. Downstairs smells of fresh waffles, and from the kitchen comes the gentle sizzling of a batch being cooked. At the pan-handle is a contender for the world's most unlikely chef: Norman, making waffles like a pro.
There's the sound of a car in the driveway of Edgewood, and then the sound of the car departing. Soon thereafter, the front door swings open, and shut, and after brief footsteps across the house, Flint appears in the kitchen doorway, looking very much like he's still most of the way asleep, and that this is far earlier in the morning than he's used to rising. His backpack's slung over his shoulder, packed as an overnight bag, and the Walker hugs his arms around himself, sweatshirt pulled close. There's a slight bit of a grin though, when he sees who's in the kitchen. "Morning," Flint offers.
The Get looks up from under his bangs, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Hi?" And then, after a beat, "Hey! You're here!"
Flint nods emphatically. "Iknowright," Flint responds, a hint of excitement making the words run together, before he moves over to the kitchen table. "Asked to. I'm… doing better," he adds. "Not shut up any more." Quite obviously, given as the galliard is out at Edgewood to start with. "Still, only out if I'm. With someone. But I'm not—" that cuts off, into silence as an explanation for a long while, and a shrug. And the slight grin remains.
The Get does not visibly reflect Flint's excitement, but that's par for the course. He merely listens, and, when the Galliard finishes, asks, "Waffles?"
There's another nod, not quite as emphatic, before Flint deposits his backpack on one of the kitchen chairs. Hand raises to push against his brow and push hair that's falling messily into his face out of his face, and then he glances back to Norman.
Norman flips out finished waffles and tips in more batter. "Syrup, butter," he says, pointing to where they sit. "Help yourself. Want to get drinks? There's beer." Beer and waffles, and is this late breakfast or early lunch?
Flint moves over to the fridge, crouching down and then coming out with two bottles of beer. One's set near the Get, before Flint gets a plate and helps himself to several waffles, then moves over to the table, though first finds a bottle opener for himself. "Awesome," he agrees, quietly. Syrup is grabbed and moved over to the table, and Flint sits, though he's on the edge of the chair, pent-up energy showing in his posture. A few bites are taken, before there's a sigh. "Good to be, here, not," Flint says. "Space. Is, is good."
"It's not good. Locking people up," Norman states with a scowl for his own waffle as it cooks. "Not when they don't deserve it. It's… not good. It's not an answer. Just. A way to. Because you can't do what should be done right away."
Flint lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug. "It, yeah. It was better than, if. I hadn't, but." There's a shrug, a pause. "Upstairs had too many things that." Flint's expression turns to a faint line. "As it is, there's. The. Leech, wasn't the… it just took advantage of things, that. Already were, that were there to, that." There's a definite anger in those words, a sense that the teen feels violated in some way, though he cuts himself off and takes a long sip from the beer. "Not an answer, but. Time was as much, answer as anything."
"It's dead." Norman's words are a flat statement, and a promise, and a thin, thin layer of words over grim darkness.
Flint looks down at the table, and chews his lower lip. "Things that still," Flint notes, then pauses a long moment, thinking through things, and looks over to Norman. "What do, what happens, when. A direct order that, but I—" there's a swallow, before Flint continues. "I don't know. If, I. If I can?" There's a searching quality in the tone of the question to the adren, and then Flint drops his gaze to the table again. "If I can do, what Mouse-rhya ordered me to do. Or, really, not to do."
"I don't know Mouse." Norman decides the waffle is done, tips it out, dollops on syrup and brings the plate and his bottle over to join Flint. "I don't know what sort of orders she gives. I mean. A good leader. If you can't keep an order, for a good reason? Then they'll understand that. Things change. In combat, and things. And they wouldn't have known. When they gave the order. Or they don't always have all the information. When they give the order. And they trust you not to be stupid and do things anyway if it turns out it's not the right order after all."
The Walker thinks about this for a long moment, staring down into the beer rather than look at Norman for too long as he speaks. And then down at his arms a little. "I don't think she, understood," he admits, and sighs. "I… when she, talked with me. About resuming duty on the, on the roster, security and patrols and doing things, she. Asked if there was anything, she. Needed to know, and then told me that…" There's not quite shame in Flint's voice, but. "And, what. She, said, cutting doesn't help, but it. Does." It's a heavy topic for breakfast, and then Flint doesn't make any more of it, turning back to his food.
Norman pauses, looking down at his plate, chewing slowly. He takes a long swig of beer to wash the mouthful down. Then, with slow deliberation, he sets plate and bottle down and rolls up his sleeves. That done, he lays his forearms down, undersides uppermost, the pattern of scars clear to see.
Flint tilts his head so as to look, and his fingers, on the table, trace out the patterns of a few of the glyphs, and there's a nod. His own forearms, where visible from sleeves being pushed up to eat, are lined with faint, faint scars of straight lines, old, undersides and tops. There's a slight uptick of one eyebrow, and Flint chews his lower lip, and then nods. "I. She… told me, I'm. Not to," he says, barely audible. "But it's not. That easy, and it helps, and it's not… weakening myself. It's not being… not useful, to tribe, as my auspice. It's, I…" There's no bother to explain further. "But it's an order," the cliath adds, with a visible swallow.
"I… never showed anyone else," Norman admits. "What did she say? The actual words. There's… something to write on. If that's better."
There's a pause, and then Flint shakes his head, chewing on his lower lip and taking a deep breath. "She said, 'And you are not,'" the repetition is in a tone that makes it sound verbatim, though with Flint's usual pausing and difficulties in speech. "'Going to cut, because if you weaken'—" Then Flint purses his lips and moves over to his backpack, pulling out a sketchbook from it, and a pencil. An empty page is found, and Flint scribbles out the rest for a moment, before turning it for Norman.
Flint looks down at the table again once that's done, and adds. "It. There was once, Rina helped me, after, when, I. Couldn't manage the kit, because, but, usually, it's. Just. It's, mine," he says, an agreement in his tone with what Norman said. "And, it. It is dealing. It's not— weakening."
The Get reads with a care that suggests either lack of familiarity or lack of practice, although he stops short of running his finger along the lines or mouthing the letters. He looks up a little as he listens, although his eyes remain somewhat downcast. "No," he says in quiet accord. "She doesn't understand. I… can try. To explain. I never tried to do that. To anyone. But I could."
"It… I respect Mouse-rhya. She… she is, our Don, and all, and," Flint says. "And, orders are. Orders, it's. Not like, the, not leaving, which, I wasn't, didn't even know there were, direct orders, by the time I. Disobeyed." The entirety of it seems to trouble the teen, a little, and he picks up the beer again, to take another long sip. "It. Mom— Rina," Flint corrects, adding, "understands. But Mouse-rhya— it. If, Fallout-rhya or Salem-rhya, then, well." There's a shrug, clearly the supposed 'punishment' isn't the thing that's bothering Flint right now, and then there's a nod.
"But. If it stops you, from… doing what you need to do?" Norman stands and begins to pace, snagging the bottle of beer on the way. "There isn't anything the same."
Flint nods. "Other things— other things. Impair, stop from being actually, able to. Duty, and do my duty and do things. They're. More temporary, they… don't help, not the same." Flint fidgets with the fork, dragging it through the syrup pooled on his plate. "Whereas, yeah. What I need to. To do, is. It." There's a sigh, quiet, and Flint squints his eyes shut. "I mean, I can. Go throw myself at things to kill, but, that's. It's not. It's not, I don't… control that."
"No," Norman agrees again, still pacing restlessly. "It's… Yeah. Control. Nobody making you do it. And, and, nobody should, should poke their nose in! Do they, do they try to stop you, you, having a wank?"
There's a scowl on Flint's face at the 'nobody making you do it' part, and his grip on the fork he fidgets with tightens. "Don't think they, if, that, they'd, care," he mutters, though there's a slight tone of incredulousness there, head tilting wholly to one side so that Flint can stare at Norman for a moment. "Gaia knows, Riley suggests I—" It cuts off with an incomprehensible mutter, though the word 'cooties' is audible in the middle.
The Get still listens quietly, but this time his expression is rather blank for the latter part. He pauses over another long swallow of beer. "Gaia. Showed us how," he says eventually. "It… it's beautiful. And. Focus. Power."
Flint chews on his lower lip and continues to fidget with his fork, then eventually just settles for a small nod. "I. I guess, it. Just, never, that not, other people," he manages, half-explanation, the words fairly quiet, laced with some unexplained anger pushing the sentences to be more short, more clipped than usual, the California in the boy's accent coming through. It could be on either of the subjects that the conversation touches on. Shoulders fall, hunch slightly.
"It's not something for other people," Norman says with a hint of a growl. "It… it's about. Being able to. Because it's a choice. When everything else is other people having all the control, and, and submission, and, something has to get out, or. I don't know for you. I'd. Just Frenzy. And. I didn't want to die. And. They were going to cull me. Because. I'd Frenzy. So I found another way. So I could have control. I didn't want to die. It… helped me to be stronger. Not weaker." he moves as though he's going to look towards Flint, but changes it, and looks out of the window instead. "It's… less. I need it much less now. With other things. The bird-spirit, helping with the memories. Rank. Groundskeeper. And, beating Viv, in a Challenge. It's been months." There's a suggestion in his tone of voice that it might not stay that way much longer.
The Walker nods, gripping the edge of the table now instead of fidgeting. "It's, control, yeah. It's… reclaiming me, control of that. Keeping my head and being able to, do things, instead of, just, words and nothing and things that aren't real enough to, to matter." He grimaces. "And that the order, that Mouse-rhya— I. I hadn't, necessarily, much thought but now, she. That was my control and now, that's taken, and, it's. I'm— it isn't me being a danger like I was, it. Doesn't. She sounded like, it makes me a liability." Flint drains the rest of the beer in one go, tilting the empty bottle back.
Norman takes in a breath, lets it out slowly, and draws in another. "And. It's not having it. That could make you the liability." He's deliberately keeping his voice low. Perhaps it's easier to keep it steady that way. "It might not, but. It's. Climbing without a rope. Maybe you wouldn't need it anyway. But if you've got it, you probably need it less." He takes up his pacing again, but now it seems less haphazard and tension-filled. "I. Don't know. If I went to try to explain. It might just make things worse. I will. But only if you want me to. And. Well. Burning. Isn't cutting? Or. There's spirits. Maybe. I… There's things that could be possible."
Another nod, with vocal affirmative. "I. I want to… to ask Kavi-rhya, about. What Mouse-rhya said. He… they're pack, so. He knows her better, he might understand, or. Know if. Explaining would help," Flint says. "I. Yeah. There're, things that, aren't knives, that. Until things. I… I just want it to be mine." His voice goes a pitch quieter. "Mine, not hers, not taken, advantage of; not anyone's, just mine."
"Give it ritual. Your ritual. That only you know." Norman's pacing continues. "The exercise. That too. When it burns. When you can't, and then you do anyway, and, the pain stops being important. That helps too. And you can run. Just run, and run, as though you never have to stop. Not running away, or towards. Just, running. Only, that's not always possible. I know that. But it's another way to be just you and to know that you can do. And. Ask me. If you need to. Okay?"
Flint picks up his plate, getting to his feet to carry the now-empty plate to the sink, the now-empty bottle to the recycling. "I. I will, thank you," he says, and there's a moment, before he looks to Norman. "I'm… gonna go to the garage, and then, see. Hang the rest of the day and, try and, catch up on. Everything that I've… missed. I'll… yeah." There's not much more said, before the cliath picks up his backpack, nods in departure, and turns towards the stairs.
9 September, 2012
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (43% full).
Upstairs still smells of steam and shower-soap, although it's faded enough that whoever showered has departed at least a half-hour since. Downstairs smells of fresh waffles, and from the kitchen comes the gentle sizzling of a batch being cooked. At the pan-handle is a contender for the world's most unlikely chef: Norman, making waffles like a pro.
There's the sound of a car in the driveway of Edgewood, and then the sound of the car departing. Soon thereafter, the front door swings open, and shut, and after brief footsteps across the house, Flint appears in the kitchen doorway, looking very much like he's still most of the way asleep, and that this is far earlier in the morning than he's used to rising. His backpack's slung over his shoulder, packed as an overnight bag, and the Walker hugs his arms around himself, sweatshirt pulled close. There's a slight bit of a grin though, when he sees who's in the kitchen. "Morning," Flint offers.
The Get looks up from under his bangs, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Hi?" And then, after a beat, "Hey! You're here!"
Flint nods emphatically. "Iknowright," Flint responds, a hint of excitement making the words run together, before he moves over to the kitchen table. "Asked to. I'm… doing better," he adds. "Not shut up any more." Quite obviously, given as the galliard is out at Edgewood to start with. "Still, only out if I'm. With someone. But I'm not—" that cuts off, into silence as an explanation for a long while, and a shrug. And the slight grin remains.
The Get does not visibly reflect Flint's excitement, but that's par for the course. He merely listens, and, when the Galliard finishes, asks, "Waffles?"
There's another nod, not quite as emphatic, before Flint deposits his backpack on one of the kitchen chairs. Hand raises to push against his brow and push hair that's falling messily into his face out of his face, and then he glances back to Norman.
Norman flips out finished waffles and tips in more batter. "Syrup, butter," he says, pointing to where they sit. "Help yourself. Want to get drinks? There's beer." Beer and waffles, and is this late breakfast or early lunch?
Flint moves over to the fridge, crouching down and then coming out with two bottles of beer. One's set near the Get, before Flint gets a plate and helps himself to several waffles, then moves over to the table, though first finds a bottle opener for himself. "Awesome," he agrees, quietly. Syrup is grabbed and moved over to the table, and Flint sits, though he's on the edge of the chair, pent-up energy showing in his posture. A few bites are taken, before there's a sigh. "Good to be, here, not," Flint says. "Space. Is, is good."
"It's not good. Locking people up," Norman states with a scowl for his own waffle as it cooks. "Not when they don't deserve it. It's… not good. It's not an answer. Just. A way to. Because you can't do what should be done right away."
Flint lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug. "It, yeah. It was better than, if. I hadn't, but." There's a shrug, a pause. "Upstairs had too many things that." Flint's expression turns to a faint line. "As it is, there's. The. Leech, wasn't the… it just took advantage of things, that. Already were, that were there to, that." There's a definite anger in those words, a sense that the teen feels violated in some way, though he cuts himself off and takes a long sip from the beer. "Not an answer, but. Time was as much, answer as anything."
"It's dead." Norman's words are a flat statement, and a promise, and a thin, thin layer of words over grim darkness.
Flint looks down at the table, and chews his lower lip. "Things that still," Flint notes, then pauses a long moment, thinking through things, and looks over to Norman. "What do, what happens, when. A direct order that, but I—" there's a swallow, before Flint continues. "I don't know. If, I. If I can?" There's a searching quality in the tone of the question to the adren, and then Flint drops his gaze to the table again. "If I can do, what Mouse-rhya ordered me to do. Or, really, not to do."
"I don't know Mouse." Norman decides the waffle is done, tips it out, dollops on syrup and brings the plate and his bottle over to join Flint. "I don't know what sort of orders she gives. I mean. A good leader. If you can't keep an order, for a good reason? Then they'll understand that. Things change. In combat, and things. And they wouldn't have known. When they gave the order. Or they don't always have all the information. When they give the order. And they trust you not to be stupid and do things anyway if it turns out it's not the right order after all."
The Walker thinks about this for a long moment, staring down into the beer rather than look at Norman for too long as he speaks. And then down at his arms a little. "I don't think she, understood," he admits, and sighs. "I… when she, talked with me. About resuming duty on the, on the roster, security and patrols and doing things, she. Asked if there was anything, she. Needed to know, and then told me that…" There's not quite shame in Flint's voice, but. "And, what. She, said, cutting doesn't help, but it. Does." It's a heavy topic for breakfast, and then Flint doesn't make any more of it, turning back to his food.
Norman pauses, looking down at his plate, chewing slowly. He takes a long swig of beer to wash the mouthful down. Then, with slow deliberation, he sets plate and bottle down and rolls up his sleeves. That done, he lays his forearms down, undersides uppermost, the pattern of scars clear to see.
Flint tilts his head so as to look, and his fingers, on the table, trace out the patterns of a few of the glyphs, and there's a nod. His own forearms, where visible from sleeves being pushed up to eat, are lined with faint, faint scars of straight lines, old, undersides and tops. There's a slight uptick of one eyebrow, and Flint chews his lower lip, and then nods. "I. She… told me, I'm. Not to," he says, barely audible. "But it's not. That easy, and it helps, and it's not… weakening myself. It's not being… not useful, to tribe, as my auspice. It's, I…" There's no bother to explain further. "But it's an order," the cliath adds, with a visible swallow.
"I… never showed anyone else," Norman admits. "What did she say? The actual words. There's… something to write on. If that's better."
There's a pause, and then Flint shakes his head, chewing on his lower lip and taking a deep breath. "She said, 'And you are not,'" the repetition is in a tone that makes it sound verbatim, though with Flint's usual pausing and difficulties in speech. "'Going to cut, because if you weaken'—" Then Flint purses his lips and moves over to his backpack, pulling out a sketchbook from it, and a pencil. An empty page is found, and Flint scribbles out the rest for a moment, before turning it for Norman.
Flint looks down at the table again once that's done, and adds. "It. There was once, Rina helped me, after, when, I. Couldn't manage the kit, because, but, usually, it's. Just. It's, mine," he says, an agreement in his tone with what Norman said. "And, it. It is dealing. It's not— weakening."
The Get reads with a care that suggests either lack of familiarity or lack of practice, although he stops short of running his finger along the lines or mouthing the letters. He looks up a little as he listens, although his eyes remain somewhat downcast. "No," he says in quiet accord. "She doesn't understand. I… can try. To explain. I never tried to do that. To anyone. But I could."
"It… I respect Mouse-rhya. She… she is, our Don, and all, and," Flint says. "And, orders are. Orders, it's. Not like, the, not leaving, which, I wasn't, didn't even know there were, direct orders, by the time I. Disobeyed." The entirety of it seems to trouble the teen, a little, and he picks up the beer again, to take another long sip. "It. Mom— Rina," Flint corrects, adding, "understands. But Mouse-rhya— it. If, Fallout-rhya or Salem-rhya, then, well." There's a shrug, clearly the supposed 'punishment' isn't the thing that's bothering Flint right now, and then there's a nod.
"But. If it stops you, from… doing what you need to do?" Norman stands and begins to pace, snagging the bottle of beer on the way. "There isn't anything the same."
Flint nods. "Other things— other things. Impair, stop from being actually, able to. Duty, and do my duty and do things. They're. More temporary, they… don't help, not the same." Flint fidgets with the fork, dragging it through the syrup pooled on his plate. "Whereas, yeah. What I need to. To do, is. It." There's a sigh, quiet, and Flint squints his eyes shut. "I mean, I can. Go throw myself at things to kill, but, that's. It's not. It's not, I don't… control that."
"No," Norman agrees again, still pacing restlessly. "It's… Yeah. Control. Nobody making you do it. And, and, nobody should, should poke their nose in! Do they, do they try to stop you, you, having a wank?"
There's a scowl on Flint's face at the 'nobody making you do it' part, and his grip on the fork he fidgets with tightens. "Don't think they, if, that, they'd, care," he mutters, though there's a slight tone of incredulousness there, head tilting wholly to one side so that Flint can stare at Norman for a moment. "Gaia knows, Riley suggests I—" It cuts off with an incomprehensible mutter, though the word 'cooties' is audible in the middle.
The Get still listens quietly, but this time his expression is rather blank for the latter part. He pauses over another long swallow of beer. "Gaia. Showed us how," he says eventually. "It… it's beautiful. And. Focus. Power."
Flint chews on his lower lip and continues to fidget with his fork, then eventually just settles for a small nod. "I. I guess, it. Just, never, that not, other people," he manages, half-explanation, the words fairly quiet, laced with some unexplained anger pushing the sentences to be more short, more clipped than usual, the California in the boy's accent coming through. It could be on either of the subjects that the conversation touches on. Shoulders fall, hunch slightly.
"It's not something for other people," Norman says with a hint of a growl. "It… it's about. Being able to. Because it's a choice. When everything else is other people having all the control, and, and submission, and, something has to get out, or. I don't know for you. I'd. Just Frenzy. And. I didn't want to die. And. They were going to cull me. Because. I'd Frenzy. So I found another way. So I could have control. I didn't want to die. It… helped me to be stronger. Not weaker." he moves as though he's going to look towards Flint, but changes it, and looks out of the window instead. "It's… less. I need it much less now. With other things. The bird-spirit, helping with the memories. Rank. Groundskeeper. And, beating Viv, in a Challenge. It's been months." There's a suggestion in his tone of voice that it might not stay that way much longer.
The Walker nods, gripping the edge of the table now instead of fidgeting. "It's, control, yeah. It's… reclaiming me, control of that. Keeping my head and being able to, do things, instead of, just, words and nothing and things that aren't real enough to, to matter." He grimaces. "And that the order, that Mouse-rhya— I. I hadn't, necessarily, much thought but now, she. That was my control and now, that's taken, and, it's. I'm— it isn't me being a danger like I was, it. Doesn't. She sounded like, it makes me a liability." Flint drains the rest of the beer in one go, tilting the empty bottle back.
Norman takes in a breath, lets it out slowly, and draws in another. "And. It's not having it. That could make you the liability." He's deliberately keeping his voice low. Perhaps it's easier to keep it steady that way. "It might not, but. It's. Climbing without a rope. Maybe you wouldn't need it anyway. But if you've got it, you probably need it less." He takes up his pacing again, but now it seems less haphazard and tension-filled. "I. Don't know. If I went to try to explain. It might just make things worse. I will. But only if you want me to. And. Well. Burning. Isn't cutting? Or. There's spirits. Maybe. I… There's things that could be possible."
Another nod, with vocal affirmative. "I. I want to… to ask Kavi-rhya, about. What Mouse-rhya said. He… they're pack, so. He knows her better, he might understand, or. Know if. Explaining would help," Flint says. "I. Yeah. There're, things that, aren't knives, that. Until things. I… I just want it to be mine." His voice goes a pitch quieter. "Mine, not hers, not taken, advantage of; not anyone's, just mine."
"Give it ritual. Your ritual. That only you know." Norman's pacing continues. "The exercise. That too. When it burns. When you can't, and then you do anyway, and, the pain stops being important. That helps too. And you can run. Just run, and run, as though you never have to stop. Not running away, or towards. Just, running. Only, that's not always possible. I know that. But it's another way to be just you and to know that you can do. And. Ask me. If you need to. Okay?"
Flint picks up his plate, getting to his feet to carry the now-empty plate to the sink, the now-empty bottle to the recycling. "I. I will, thank you," he says, and there's a moment, before he looks to Norman. "I'm… gonna go to the garage, and then, see. Hang the rest of the day and, try and, catch up on. Everything that I've… missed. I'll… yeah." There's not much more said, before the cliath picks up his backpack, nods in departure, and turns towards the stairs.