Opportunities.
Sunday, 16 September 2012 17:28![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouAnd maybe getting to spend more time in the workshop.
16 September, 2012
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (6% full).
Looking absolutely no worse for the wear today, Flint sits on the couch, with the security monitor and stuff set up within easy line of sight. Short sleeves, loose cotton pants, socks but no shoes, and two sketchbooks. There's no new scarring on his arms despite all effort perhaps to the contrary only a few days before. One sketchbook, the original, older and well-loved, is set to the side, and the second, the newer (although the smaller size of the ones that he's got) is opened in his lap. The mechanical pencil is being used, and Flint's currently copying out some information from one to the first few pages of the new. iPhone is set next to him as well, one earphone in and the other loosely over his shoulder.
Nicodemus appears on the monitor for out front and shortly thereafter lets himself in through the front door. He steps into the lobby, spies Flint, and announces, "It's practically a heat wave out there. Seventy-five degrees in mid-September. Can you believe it?" He moves into the room, then casually leans against the wall. "Any excitement around here today, or all quiet on the western front?"
Flint looks up, and with the hand with the pencil in it, gives the kin a bit of a wave. "Not too much, you. You, heard about, Dark-Fur, and, firsted?" Flint pauses then answers his own question, "Of course, you, you did. That, was yesterday, that's pretty much, it, that. Today's been pretty quiet and I've." The galliard pauses and takes a breath. "Gotten a lot, done while my shift, and earlier. Redid my wall, and the drawings, there, so that, if I. The… did I show you?" Flint pauses and answers his own question again. "The bookshelf I, showed you. I. Want to build it, in between, things. Project, you know? I, looked stuff up and priced, lumber, today."
"Sounds like a job for a cargo van to haul back here. I'd offer to help shuffle the raw materials, but unless you want nothing bigger than about 2 feet wide and 5 feet long, it won't fit in my two-seater." Nicodemus pushes off the wall and heads over to you, stops, and reaches into his pocket. "Check it out," he says, pulling forth a stack of $100 bills wrapped in a bank band that declares there to be $10,000 in the stack. He holds the wad of money out for Flint to hold. "Ever hold ten grand before? That's the cash Mouse gave me to buy a used van with."
Flint bobs his head in acknowledgement. "Ishmael-rhya helped, get, arrange, when I got wood for the memorial. But most of those pieces were, three to four feet long, max, and. Some of them, I paid the, lumberyard to deliver a block away and, hauled myself, on the hand truck," Flint says. He eyes the money for a moment, takes it, running one finger to flip the edges of the bills, then hands it back to Nicodemus, quite almost nervously "The, never held more than two hundred or so at a time… ever, in my life." Even if he's on the more verbal side, the boy still speaks quite quietly, and what's noticeable now that isn't often because he's quiet, is that his voice is breaking, the deepening of puberty. "The, memorial ended up costing, just under five hundred. Everything else has been, boxes, cutting boards, little things that." Another shrug follows.
Nicodemus slips the money back into an interior pocket—you'd never know he had that much on him—and nods. "I think we'll have the van either next weekend or the week after. We can do a hardware store run or go to a lumberyard if you want something more specific. Uh. I don't suppose we've got a woodshop around here or anything?" He looks askance at you. "Plus side to being a werewolf? Not a big deal if you cut a finger off in shop class, eh?" It's meant as a joke apparently, as he raises his eyebrows just a bit.
The galliard tilts his head to the side and looks up and over at Nicodemus. "There's… you, there's the workshop on the fourth floor. Have you seen it yet? It's, Ishmael's mostly, but I use it, and Ishmael-rhya mostly is working over at facilities at, Terminus and all. But it has, a lot of things. It." Flint nods and grins. "I'd, appreciate that. I've called, the two lumber yards, and I can, they. Remember me, from when I bought earlier. So they'll have, what I need ready, when we get there. I…" there's another pause, and Flint takes a deep breath. "If, you'd like… I could. I could make something, a piece, or something, for you. So that, to repay you, for, buying the stuff for me." The boy sounds quite serious about this offer.
"Really? I had no idea that there was a shop on the 4th floor. That's kind of neat. Do we have someone that can do auto and body repair, too? That would be useful in fussing around with the cargo van." Nick then asks a somewhat related question. "Does working on crafts help you focus better? Take the place of…?" He gesture with his right hand towards his left forearm. "You mentioned having that mural project helped earlier, so I was curious."
Flint manages a small, faint grin. "It helps," he agrees. "Like art does, but moreso. It, if I work on it long enough, focus enough, I… lose myself for a bit. The rest of, the world can go by, and n— n-not bother me." Flint glances down now, and draws a line through one sentence on the sketchbook in his lap." There's a bit of a shrug, and brow furrowed in thought. "I don't think that, we as a, as a tribe, have someone who does, auto work. I know that Alexandra, Nik-rhya was teaching her a bit, about working on cars. They. The Shadow Lords, have an auto shop. But. I don't think it's a body shop?" The boy doesn't sound so clear on the difference.
Nicodemus settles onto the arm of a neighboring chair, wrapping the tail of his greatcoat off to his left side. "I thought as much. You're a pretty smart kid," he claims, pausing there for a moment to let that sink in. "And I suspect there are times when your mind is racing so fast, by the time you're forming the words, your head has already moved on. And that creates, like, a distortion between what you're thinking and what you're saying. Couple that with distracting voices from ancestors, and it's even more difficult. Lots of assumptions here," he reiterates.
"But if doing art projects helps you out, then maybe we need to just make sure you've got lots of art projects to work on. Maybe look at opportunities to monetize the output, too. If you're interested, I could cast about for a place that might be interested in selling hand-crafted wood furniture. Sales could go towards funding more projects. Turn a self destructive impulse into a more positive one. And I think a little stability will actually go a long way in the long term." His voice is calm, soothing, and non-judgemental. He shifts in his seat, repositioning himself before bringing up the next subject.
"I'm not so sure about Nik and his shop. I've heard, through the grapevine, that he has what looks like an interrogation room or a torture chamber over there. And, frankly, the one time I met Nik, he was a bit of a jerk to a friend of mine." Nicodemus idly scratches at the bridge of his nose. "I think I'd rather just take it to a body shop rather than associate with him. I don't think we'd get along. And as is, I'd rather spend a little more elsewhere than deal with him again and come in further under budget for this project."
Flint is quiet as Nicodemus speaks, occasionally nodding. Then, he grins a bit at the last part from the kin, though it seems more wry than anything else. "I… Nik-rhya's Fostern, and he's my packmates' elder and all, but. I. I, don't have to, like him, otherwise," the cliath points out. "Shadow Lords work, different than the rest of, the tribes. I trust Lex, and Ky? But I wouldn't trust, any others." Then he shrugs, and changes the subject, seemingly not keen on talking about it too long. Instead, Flint returns to the first subject brought up.
"It, words, yeah. I know what, what I'm saying. But then, if, not slowed down enough, then other people…" Flint purses his lips, shrugs, and looks down at his sketchbook some more. "Ancestors are, hard. Not always distracting, sometimes, they. Say things, that, useful, helpful. Sometimes, both of them are—" Flint glances at Nicodemus, then down again. "Both are, very angry. One is a galliard. One is, I think, ahroun." He pauses, doodling a glyph in the middle of the blank space of the page, one that he hasn't yet taught Nicodemus. "I'd, like that," he tells Nicodemus. "Furniture, and. Small things, too. Cutting boards, boxes, book-ends. Things in-between. It would be, really good if I had, more reason to. Crafts, spend time in the workshop."
"I try not to associate with people who think torture is, you know, an okay thing to do. As a rule. Not an actual written-down rule, because it ought to be common sense with that sort of thing." Nick manages to punctuate this minor ramble with a brief, disapproving frown. "Dark Side." He then moves on to discuss woodworking. "I don't think it'd be too difficult to find a market for your stuff, though I doubt you'll make much money off it. Not in this economy, and not with all the cheap Chinese stuff available in WalMart. You know that Mr. Lee does wood and bone carving, right? I've only seen him do more Native America stuff, but it might be interesting to learn how to make a bow and arrows, flutes, and other things." Nick pauses, considering what he just said. "A galliard who can hand-craft fine musical instruments?" He raises his eyebrows, intrigued at the concept. "How does that strike you?"
Flint raises his brows and cants his head to one side. "He does?" Flint questions. His tone is careful, neutral in mention of the Uktena kin. "I. That would be neat. It's, always good to learn about, different ways. Different places that, carving came from. I'm… I can carry a tune, and sing things that someone else has, has taught me, but I don't, know so much about music, otherwise," the cliath explains. "I don't, write songs, create music that, is original, or what. It. Being a galliard, for me, is about showing." Nonetheless the boy doesn't sound averse to the idea. "It, could be good, to learn, nonetheless. Norman-rhya and I've talked, about art some, about carving, about. Process. Anyway, it could be good, if." The 'if' isn't extrapolated on, and Flint looks to Nicodemus. "Some people are, always, willing, to. To pay for some things, regardless." The boy's grandparents come to mind, in fact. "It will, I. I think it will pay for, materials at least, and some for time, and. Some for pocket money, I'd. And I'd like that."
Nicodemus waves a hand dismissively. "I don't think you need to be able to actually play an instrument in order to make one. It'd be more like experimenting with how crafting the instrument affects the pitch, tone, an timber of final product. I'd wager that Stradivarius wasn't all that great of a violin player, but he certainly had an understanding of wood quality, shape, and how it affected musical resonances. All you'd really need to do would be able to play a single note at a time, and then just to see what it sounded like."
Flint nods again. "Makes, sense. Plus, always. Always worth, trying at least once, learning. Even if, it doesn't become a primary thing, or whatnot," the boy responds, falling silent in thought for a long moment, then continuing. "One would, have to know, some. The scales, and all of that." Another pause. "But, Kavi-rhya could, teach me that. Or Kaz-rhya if she, comes back in town at, anytime soon." Flint sounds a little wistful at mention of the Gnawer galliard.
Nicodemus nods encouragingly. "I'd start out with something fairly simple—not a violin or a guitar. Maybe a reed flute." He then shares an additional thought. "I'm not sure about how plausible this might be, but maybe you could cross over to the spirit world and have some kind of spirit—maybe a wood elemental or a tree spirit or a reed or wind spirit?—help you with learning and understanding the secrets and subtleties of tuning and producing a richer sound."
The teen listens to this and furrows his brows in thought, before digging around in the couch until he comes up with the pencil again, and turning his attention to scribbling in his sketchbook. "Dunno, but. I. I'll ask Norman-rhya, though. It." Flint pauses, and turns about a mood ring that's on the index finger of his left hand. "Might, be a bit, until after. We, already, made a Talen, recently, it. There's. Time, can't ask, too many things of, spirits at once, because." That's said, and then Flint just nods, rather than finishing the thought that he'd been on. "It, I'd. Like, learning more, about music, and in. General. It—" Another pause, and Flint sticks the pencil so that the clip clips to the wire binding of the sketchbooks. "It'd make, the galliard in my head, happy."
"You've got a singing, instrument-playing galliard in your head? Not a storyteller type?" Nick inquires curiously. "How do you know it's not just your subconscious playing tricks on you? Or an over-active imagination? This whole ancestor thing—it's a little unusual," the pseudo-kin admits frankly.
Flint rolls his eyes. "Songs," Flint responds to Nick. "Songs. I. Sometimes, I can learn the fragments of songs, that I hear, that." He pauses, then continues. "The, when I was a cub. I, Kavi-rhya started to, teach me the Litany. I knew it, bits, before he finished saying. Later, I. Knew songs. The Battle of Blue Ice Ravine. Except, Kavi-rhya never taught me that one. Other tunes, too, tunes that—" Flint pauses, and looks to the ceiling, then past Nicodemus at some empty point in space. "I couldn't, there's. No other way, than. I didn't grow up with, I'd never, heard of Garou until, Kavi-rhya and Mouse-rhya and Devon offered me, a, place, off the streets."
The cliath pauses a moment longer and then continues. "Plus, there. It, the ancestors, can. Sometimes, they help with more practical, things. When Alexandra and Ky and I went on our quest, to find our Totem, to be a pack, to. To find Bigwing," the boy says, "we. There was a lake, we were in the Umbra, near Lake Arthur. And I. I don't know how to swim. But I asked, and I trusted, and the. My ancestors, do. And, I knew how to swim, and climb, and better than I ever, otherwise."
Nicodemus listens closely, intently, curiously. And he apparently believes you. "Sounds kind of like you have a living, dynamic, psychic resonance with a few of your ancestors." He mulls that concept over in his head for a moment. "At least they're sometimes very helpful instead of angry and distracting," the mage claims, again finding the bright side of things. "Bigwing. Is that that raven spirit that was around earlier?" He eyeballs the room, making sure it's not lurking around anyplace or quietly up to no good.
The moment that the kin gets into the description of the ancestor spirit thing, Flint kinda gives him a bit of an odd look, then grins. "Theurge-talk," Flint points out. "No. Hraidar is, Norman-rhya's friend. Still comes by, occasionally." Flint pauses. "I could ask Bigwing if she could, come. If you want to meet her, at some point." he offers. "Not until the, moon is bigger a little, though. And it would be easier, out at, at Edgewood. She. She's a Merlin spirit."
"A wizard spirit?" Nick inquires, looking a little perplexed and hesitant about this prospective future meeting.
The galliard laughs. It's rare for Flint, and perhaps surprising, and he shakes his head. "Not, the. Historical character. Merlin is a bird, a small hawk," Flint explains to Nicodemus.
Nicodemus looks properly chagrined. "Oh! A bird. I don't know much about birds," he claims, making excuses for his ignorance. "I… I don't know. On one hand, I'm curious. On the other hand, they're weird and make me a little nervous. What all does this merlin spirit actually do? How does it help you, Alexandra, and Ky out? Does it have any special powers or abilities?" There definitely a mix of curiosity tempered by wariness in Nick's tone, body language, and words.
Flint looks at Nicodemus for a moment, brows ticking downwards a few notches. "Bigwing would never, hurt, a kin, or anything," he points out, as though that should allay the man's concerns. "She. She helps us. In the Umbra, she'll be with us, or sometimes, guide us. And. She helps us, when we fight things that are bigger." This, he explains, and then furrows his brow. "I, don't know if Bigwing actually can, come to this side, like Hraidar can."
Nicodemus lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head, clearly contemplating the wisdom, merits, and risks involved in potentially going to see a spirit that is supposedly harmless to kin. He does, indeed, take time to consider this prospect. "I guess it couldn't hurt, could it? And I am dreadfully curious."
The boy grins. "Sometime, then. I. It can't hurt, for, to ask." Then Flint flips the page of his sketchbook, scrawling another note to himself along the top portion. His handwriting is horrible, truly. "And, that's— that's another thing. Unlike Hraidar, Flint, Alexandra, and I, we can all talk, to Bigwing. Even though none of us are, theurges, and none of u-us can, talk to spirits otherwise, unless the spirit, knows Mother's Tongue, or English, a-and. Chooses to use it. And spirits may not, even if they, if they know. They often don't, it's. More polite to talk to them in the spirit tongue, overall. That's what, how Norman-rhya explained it to me." There's a pause and a shrug. "But, most Garou who aren't theurge, can't learn the spirit tongue."
Nicodemus attempts to parse what the galliard is attempting to communicate. "So Bigwing understands kind of like the Biblical speaking in tongues? Or you can telepathically speak to her"—he's catching on—"like that one gift some garou have that lets them communicate with you in your head, and vice versa?" Seems like Nick might have been exposed to some Mindspeak use in the past.
Flint chews his lower lip a moment. "It's. Kinda simpler than that. Bigwing talks, but we understand, even if it's the spirit tongue. And, she understands, even if we are, talking Mother's Tongue, or talking, English." There's a bit of a brow quirked at mention of telepathy, but that at least, Flint keeps to himself. "It's not like Mindspeak, not. Not really."
"Val pulled that telepathy thing—Mindspeak—on me a few times. Freaked me out the first time she did it," Nick admits somewhat reluctantly. "But I can see how it'd be useful, especially if you were sneaking about or needed to coordinate or time something." He then inquires, "Do you know it? It might come in handy if you were having difficulty communicating with someone."
The Walker cliath shakes his head. "Kaz-rhya knows it, was. Maybe to, going to teach it to me, but I. She's not here, right now," Flint says, quietly. "And, it. Doesn't, make the biggest difference, I. It's not always, speaking. I've, Kaz-rhya showed me, what Mindspeak was like, and it was. The same, speaking, as otherwise." There's a shrug, and once more, Flint is a little wistful. "I'd, still like to learn it. Maybe, when, the Caern is. Back."
Nicodemus hmms, thoughtful and a little disappointed that Mindspeech doesn't seem to be a means of bypassing the galliard's impediment. He brightens slightly at the mention of the caern. "I saw it the other night!" And then that brightness utterly vaporizes in an instant. "It was inside a giant wasp nest. Giant wasps everywhere. They ripped apart an ant that was the size of a dog when it started touching one of the eggs." His lips tighten and his pupils dialate a little as he recalls the next bit. "Mouse told everyone to be still, be quiet, and not… But Mitzi didn't. She…" He starts to go a little pale, then he swallows hard. "Oh, god. It was horrific." Another pause as he regains control and composure. "I've seen plenty of murdered people after working as a homicide detective for the SCPD for several years. It's… I've seen the end. Not the actual act. And it was so. damn. brutal."
Flint squints his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. "Mitzi was, like that," Flint says quietly. "I met her, twice. Once, when I was, cub. Once after I'd passed my rite. It. Was like that." Then, Flint's voice smooths, a slight and gentle overtone to it. "It sucks, but it's… not okay, but okay. Mitzi was, troubled by her ancestors, even more than, I am. Magnitude, much more than, I am," he says, glancing to Nicodemus and making brief, brief eye contact. "It… might be better for her. The next time. We, get reborn, after all."
Nicodemus leans back and away as Flint begins to suggest it might be better for her to be reborn, which is also about the time Flint begin using Persuasion on the mage. (Perhaps he's a little mortified at the morbidity of it all?) He raises a hand, then slowly lowers it. It's a subdued, placating, dismissive gesture. Nick sighs deeply, seeming to relax once more. Color starts coming back to his face. "I guess… that's one way of looking at it that makes death easier to stomach," he says begrudgingly.
The Walker takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out, the very sounds the same calming tones. And then Flint lets go of the use of the gift, but does offer, "She'll, be remembered," and then lets the whole topic go, with another bit of a shrug, and a wary glance towards the kin. The cub's death perhaps bothers Flint, but the bother, like other things, is hidden in the boy's usual quietness, and he pulls the pencil from the sketchbook wire binding to doodle a cross-hatched pattern across one section of otherwise empty page.
Then, Flint very easily changes the topic, looking at Nicodemus. "For, a. First few pieces, to have, for. If, where you find, for, things. I, think, maybe, some small boxes, chests? And, some cutting boards, and. A coffee table, or, something, similar." Flint pauses, and then grins slightly. "I. When, if. I make enough, and, after I make my bookshelf, I. Want to make a new, dining table. For the breakroom. Sturdy, not, as fancy. But, because. Devon and I've, a few times, fought, and, damaged it, and all. And." Then Flint pauses, and taps the eraser against the page. "And, I. I want to, build new, cabinets, for. My apartment, but. Cabinetry, hanging cabinets, are. Beyond, my, level. I'll. That, I'll need help, installing them, at least. The, lower cabinets are, still good but I'm going to, new fronts."
Nicodemus manages to shake off the cub's death, leaving it behind him—for now at least. He leans in a little to examine the sketches and listen to what Flint says. "I think the Gnawers, in their condemned library, have a better table than we've got in our breakroom these days. Replacing it? That'd be a good idea. But we're going to need the cargo van to haul that kind of lumber around. Or someone who already has a truck, but no one who owns a truck is springing to mind. But it's getting a little late, and I need to go run an errand before I call it quits for the night."
Flint chuckles, quietly. "I, the. Van will, be good," Flint agrees, and then nods to Nicodemus. "I, we could, I'm sure. Buying a table, but. I'd like to make one, anyway. It'd. Be nicer. Oak, white oak probably," he muses. And then the boy nods to the man, "Seeya around?" he half-asks, mostly a parting greeting.
Nicodemus stands, his nearly floor-length greatcoat falling in behind him and enveloping his figure like some medieval cloak, and makes his way towards the exit. "Definitely. You take care, Flint." And he heads out the door and into the city's electric-fueled night.
16 September, 2012
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (6% full).
Looking absolutely no worse for the wear today, Flint sits on the couch, with the security monitor and stuff set up within easy line of sight. Short sleeves, loose cotton pants, socks but no shoes, and two sketchbooks. There's no new scarring on his arms despite all effort perhaps to the contrary only a few days before. One sketchbook, the original, older and well-loved, is set to the side, and the second, the newer (although the smaller size of the ones that he's got) is opened in his lap. The mechanical pencil is being used, and Flint's currently copying out some information from one to the first few pages of the new. iPhone is set next to him as well, one earphone in and the other loosely over his shoulder.
Nicodemus appears on the monitor for out front and shortly thereafter lets himself in through the front door. He steps into the lobby, spies Flint, and announces, "It's practically a heat wave out there. Seventy-five degrees in mid-September. Can you believe it?" He moves into the room, then casually leans against the wall. "Any excitement around here today, or all quiet on the western front?"
Flint looks up, and with the hand with the pencil in it, gives the kin a bit of a wave. "Not too much, you. You, heard about, Dark-Fur, and, firsted?" Flint pauses then answers his own question, "Of course, you, you did. That, was yesterday, that's pretty much, it, that. Today's been pretty quiet and I've." The galliard pauses and takes a breath. "Gotten a lot, done while my shift, and earlier. Redid my wall, and the drawings, there, so that, if I. The… did I show you?" Flint pauses and answers his own question again. "The bookshelf I, showed you. I. Want to build it, in between, things. Project, you know? I, looked stuff up and priced, lumber, today."
"Sounds like a job for a cargo van to haul back here. I'd offer to help shuffle the raw materials, but unless you want nothing bigger than about 2 feet wide and 5 feet long, it won't fit in my two-seater." Nicodemus pushes off the wall and heads over to you, stops, and reaches into his pocket. "Check it out," he says, pulling forth a stack of $100 bills wrapped in a bank band that declares there to be $10,000 in the stack. He holds the wad of money out for Flint to hold. "Ever hold ten grand before? That's the cash Mouse gave me to buy a used van with."
Flint bobs his head in acknowledgement. "Ishmael-rhya helped, get, arrange, when I got wood for the memorial. But most of those pieces were, three to four feet long, max, and. Some of them, I paid the, lumberyard to deliver a block away and, hauled myself, on the hand truck," Flint says. He eyes the money for a moment, takes it, running one finger to flip the edges of the bills, then hands it back to Nicodemus, quite almost nervously "The, never held more than two hundred or so at a time… ever, in my life." Even if he's on the more verbal side, the boy still speaks quite quietly, and what's noticeable now that isn't often because he's quiet, is that his voice is breaking, the deepening of puberty. "The, memorial ended up costing, just under five hundred. Everything else has been, boxes, cutting boards, little things that." Another shrug follows.
Nicodemus slips the money back into an interior pocket—you'd never know he had that much on him—and nods. "I think we'll have the van either next weekend or the week after. We can do a hardware store run or go to a lumberyard if you want something more specific. Uh. I don't suppose we've got a woodshop around here or anything?" He looks askance at you. "Plus side to being a werewolf? Not a big deal if you cut a finger off in shop class, eh?" It's meant as a joke apparently, as he raises his eyebrows just a bit.
The galliard tilts his head to the side and looks up and over at Nicodemus. "There's… you, there's the workshop on the fourth floor. Have you seen it yet? It's, Ishmael's mostly, but I use it, and Ishmael-rhya mostly is working over at facilities at, Terminus and all. But it has, a lot of things. It." Flint nods and grins. "I'd, appreciate that. I've called, the two lumber yards, and I can, they. Remember me, from when I bought earlier. So they'll have, what I need ready, when we get there. I…" there's another pause, and Flint takes a deep breath. "If, you'd like… I could. I could make something, a piece, or something, for you. So that, to repay you, for, buying the stuff for me." The boy sounds quite serious about this offer.
"Really? I had no idea that there was a shop on the 4th floor. That's kind of neat. Do we have someone that can do auto and body repair, too? That would be useful in fussing around with the cargo van." Nick then asks a somewhat related question. "Does working on crafts help you focus better? Take the place of…?" He gesture with his right hand towards his left forearm. "You mentioned having that mural project helped earlier, so I was curious."
Flint manages a small, faint grin. "It helps," he agrees. "Like art does, but moreso. It, if I work on it long enough, focus enough, I… lose myself for a bit. The rest of, the world can go by, and n— n-not bother me." Flint glances down now, and draws a line through one sentence on the sketchbook in his lap." There's a bit of a shrug, and brow furrowed in thought. "I don't think that, we as a, as a tribe, have someone who does, auto work. I know that Alexandra, Nik-rhya was teaching her a bit, about working on cars. They. The Shadow Lords, have an auto shop. But. I don't think it's a body shop?" The boy doesn't sound so clear on the difference.
Nicodemus settles onto the arm of a neighboring chair, wrapping the tail of his greatcoat off to his left side. "I thought as much. You're a pretty smart kid," he claims, pausing there for a moment to let that sink in. "And I suspect there are times when your mind is racing so fast, by the time you're forming the words, your head has already moved on. And that creates, like, a distortion between what you're thinking and what you're saying. Couple that with distracting voices from ancestors, and it's even more difficult. Lots of assumptions here," he reiterates.
"But if doing art projects helps you out, then maybe we need to just make sure you've got lots of art projects to work on. Maybe look at opportunities to monetize the output, too. If you're interested, I could cast about for a place that might be interested in selling hand-crafted wood furniture. Sales could go towards funding more projects. Turn a self destructive impulse into a more positive one. And I think a little stability will actually go a long way in the long term." His voice is calm, soothing, and non-judgemental. He shifts in his seat, repositioning himself before bringing up the next subject.
"I'm not so sure about Nik and his shop. I've heard, through the grapevine, that he has what looks like an interrogation room or a torture chamber over there. And, frankly, the one time I met Nik, he was a bit of a jerk to a friend of mine." Nicodemus idly scratches at the bridge of his nose. "I think I'd rather just take it to a body shop rather than associate with him. I don't think we'd get along. And as is, I'd rather spend a little more elsewhere than deal with him again and come in further under budget for this project."
Flint is quiet as Nicodemus speaks, occasionally nodding. Then, he grins a bit at the last part from the kin, though it seems more wry than anything else. "I… Nik-rhya's Fostern, and he's my packmates' elder and all, but. I. I, don't have to, like him, otherwise," the cliath points out. "Shadow Lords work, different than the rest of, the tribes. I trust Lex, and Ky? But I wouldn't trust, any others." Then he shrugs, and changes the subject, seemingly not keen on talking about it too long. Instead, Flint returns to the first subject brought up.
"It, words, yeah. I know what, what I'm saying. But then, if, not slowed down enough, then other people…" Flint purses his lips, shrugs, and looks down at his sketchbook some more. "Ancestors are, hard. Not always distracting, sometimes, they. Say things, that, useful, helpful. Sometimes, both of them are—" Flint glances at Nicodemus, then down again. "Both are, very angry. One is a galliard. One is, I think, ahroun." He pauses, doodling a glyph in the middle of the blank space of the page, one that he hasn't yet taught Nicodemus. "I'd, like that," he tells Nicodemus. "Furniture, and. Small things, too. Cutting boards, boxes, book-ends. Things in-between. It would be, really good if I had, more reason to. Crafts, spend time in the workshop."
"I try not to associate with people who think torture is, you know, an okay thing to do. As a rule. Not an actual written-down rule, because it ought to be common sense with that sort of thing." Nick manages to punctuate this minor ramble with a brief, disapproving frown. "Dark Side." He then moves on to discuss woodworking. "I don't think it'd be too difficult to find a market for your stuff, though I doubt you'll make much money off it. Not in this economy, and not with all the cheap Chinese stuff available in WalMart. You know that Mr. Lee does wood and bone carving, right? I've only seen him do more Native America stuff, but it might be interesting to learn how to make a bow and arrows, flutes, and other things." Nick pauses, considering what he just said. "A galliard who can hand-craft fine musical instruments?" He raises his eyebrows, intrigued at the concept. "How does that strike you?"
Flint raises his brows and cants his head to one side. "He does?" Flint questions. His tone is careful, neutral in mention of the Uktena kin. "I. That would be neat. It's, always good to learn about, different ways. Different places that, carving came from. I'm… I can carry a tune, and sing things that someone else has, has taught me, but I don't, know so much about music, otherwise," the cliath explains. "I don't, write songs, create music that, is original, or what. It. Being a galliard, for me, is about showing." Nonetheless the boy doesn't sound averse to the idea. "It, could be good, to learn, nonetheless. Norman-rhya and I've talked, about art some, about carving, about. Process. Anyway, it could be good, if." The 'if' isn't extrapolated on, and Flint looks to Nicodemus. "Some people are, always, willing, to. To pay for some things, regardless." The boy's grandparents come to mind, in fact. "It will, I. I think it will pay for, materials at least, and some for time, and. Some for pocket money, I'd. And I'd like that."
Nicodemus waves a hand dismissively. "I don't think you need to be able to actually play an instrument in order to make one. It'd be more like experimenting with how crafting the instrument affects the pitch, tone, an timber of final product. I'd wager that Stradivarius wasn't all that great of a violin player, but he certainly had an understanding of wood quality, shape, and how it affected musical resonances. All you'd really need to do would be able to play a single note at a time, and then just to see what it sounded like."
Flint nods again. "Makes, sense. Plus, always. Always worth, trying at least once, learning. Even if, it doesn't become a primary thing, or whatnot," the boy responds, falling silent in thought for a long moment, then continuing. "One would, have to know, some. The scales, and all of that." Another pause. "But, Kavi-rhya could, teach me that. Or Kaz-rhya if she, comes back in town at, anytime soon." Flint sounds a little wistful at mention of the Gnawer galliard.
Nicodemus nods encouragingly. "I'd start out with something fairly simple—not a violin or a guitar. Maybe a reed flute." He then shares an additional thought. "I'm not sure about how plausible this might be, but maybe you could cross over to the spirit world and have some kind of spirit—maybe a wood elemental or a tree spirit or a reed or wind spirit?—help you with learning and understanding the secrets and subtleties of tuning and producing a richer sound."
The teen listens to this and furrows his brows in thought, before digging around in the couch until he comes up with the pencil again, and turning his attention to scribbling in his sketchbook. "Dunno, but. I. I'll ask Norman-rhya, though. It." Flint pauses, and turns about a mood ring that's on the index finger of his left hand. "Might, be a bit, until after. We, already, made a Talen, recently, it. There's. Time, can't ask, too many things of, spirits at once, because." That's said, and then Flint just nods, rather than finishing the thought that he'd been on. "It, I'd. Like, learning more, about music, and in. General. It—" Another pause, and Flint sticks the pencil so that the clip clips to the wire binding of the sketchbooks. "It'd make, the galliard in my head, happy."
"You've got a singing, instrument-playing galliard in your head? Not a storyteller type?" Nick inquires curiously. "How do you know it's not just your subconscious playing tricks on you? Or an over-active imagination? This whole ancestor thing—it's a little unusual," the pseudo-kin admits frankly.
Flint rolls his eyes. "Songs," Flint responds to Nick. "Songs. I. Sometimes, I can learn the fragments of songs, that I hear, that." He pauses, then continues. "The, when I was a cub. I, Kavi-rhya started to, teach me the Litany. I knew it, bits, before he finished saying. Later, I. Knew songs. The Battle of Blue Ice Ravine. Except, Kavi-rhya never taught me that one. Other tunes, too, tunes that—" Flint pauses, and looks to the ceiling, then past Nicodemus at some empty point in space. "I couldn't, there's. No other way, than. I didn't grow up with, I'd never, heard of Garou until, Kavi-rhya and Mouse-rhya and Devon offered me, a, place, off the streets."
The cliath pauses a moment longer and then continues. "Plus, there. It, the ancestors, can. Sometimes, they help with more practical, things. When Alexandra and Ky and I went on our quest, to find our Totem, to be a pack, to. To find Bigwing," the boy says, "we. There was a lake, we were in the Umbra, near Lake Arthur. And I. I don't know how to swim. But I asked, and I trusted, and the. My ancestors, do. And, I knew how to swim, and climb, and better than I ever, otherwise."
Nicodemus listens closely, intently, curiously. And he apparently believes you. "Sounds kind of like you have a living, dynamic, psychic resonance with a few of your ancestors." He mulls that concept over in his head for a moment. "At least they're sometimes very helpful instead of angry and distracting," the mage claims, again finding the bright side of things. "Bigwing. Is that that raven spirit that was around earlier?" He eyeballs the room, making sure it's not lurking around anyplace or quietly up to no good.
The moment that the kin gets into the description of the ancestor spirit thing, Flint kinda gives him a bit of an odd look, then grins. "Theurge-talk," Flint points out. "No. Hraidar is, Norman-rhya's friend. Still comes by, occasionally." Flint pauses. "I could ask Bigwing if she could, come. If you want to meet her, at some point." he offers. "Not until the, moon is bigger a little, though. And it would be easier, out at, at Edgewood. She. She's a Merlin spirit."
"A wizard spirit?" Nick inquires, looking a little perplexed and hesitant about this prospective future meeting.
The galliard laughs. It's rare for Flint, and perhaps surprising, and he shakes his head. "Not, the. Historical character. Merlin is a bird, a small hawk," Flint explains to Nicodemus.
Nicodemus looks properly chagrined. "Oh! A bird. I don't know much about birds," he claims, making excuses for his ignorance. "I… I don't know. On one hand, I'm curious. On the other hand, they're weird and make me a little nervous. What all does this merlin spirit actually do? How does it help you, Alexandra, and Ky out? Does it have any special powers or abilities?" There definitely a mix of curiosity tempered by wariness in Nick's tone, body language, and words.
Flint looks at Nicodemus for a moment, brows ticking downwards a few notches. "Bigwing would never, hurt, a kin, or anything," he points out, as though that should allay the man's concerns. "She. She helps us. In the Umbra, she'll be with us, or sometimes, guide us. And. She helps us, when we fight things that are bigger." This, he explains, and then furrows his brow. "I, don't know if Bigwing actually can, come to this side, like Hraidar can."
Nicodemus lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head, clearly contemplating the wisdom, merits, and risks involved in potentially going to see a spirit that is supposedly harmless to kin. He does, indeed, take time to consider this prospect. "I guess it couldn't hurt, could it? And I am dreadfully curious."
The boy grins. "Sometime, then. I. It can't hurt, for, to ask." Then Flint flips the page of his sketchbook, scrawling another note to himself along the top portion. His handwriting is horrible, truly. "And, that's— that's another thing. Unlike Hraidar, Flint, Alexandra, and I, we can all talk, to Bigwing. Even though none of us are, theurges, and none of u-us can, talk to spirits otherwise, unless the spirit, knows Mother's Tongue, or English, a-and. Chooses to use it. And spirits may not, even if they, if they know. They often don't, it's. More polite to talk to them in the spirit tongue, overall. That's what, how Norman-rhya explained it to me." There's a pause and a shrug. "But, most Garou who aren't theurge, can't learn the spirit tongue."
Nicodemus attempts to parse what the galliard is attempting to communicate. "So Bigwing understands kind of like the Biblical speaking in tongues? Or you can telepathically speak to her"—he's catching on—"like that one gift some garou have that lets them communicate with you in your head, and vice versa?" Seems like Nick might have been exposed to some Mindspeak use in the past.
Flint chews his lower lip a moment. "It's. Kinda simpler than that. Bigwing talks, but we understand, even if it's the spirit tongue. And, she understands, even if we are, talking Mother's Tongue, or talking, English." There's a bit of a brow quirked at mention of telepathy, but that at least, Flint keeps to himself. "It's not like Mindspeak, not. Not really."
"Val pulled that telepathy thing—Mindspeak—on me a few times. Freaked me out the first time she did it," Nick admits somewhat reluctantly. "But I can see how it'd be useful, especially if you were sneaking about or needed to coordinate or time something." He then inquires, "Do you know it? It might come in handy if you were having difficulty communicating with someone."
The Walker cliath shakes his head. "Kaz-rhya knows it, was. Maybe to, going to teach it to me, but I. She's not here, right now," Flint says, quietly. "And, it. Doesn't, make the biggest difference, I. It's not always, speaking. I've, Kaz-rhya showed me, what Mindspeak was like, and it was. The same, speaking, as otherwise." There's a shrug, and once more, Flint is a little wistful. "I'd, still like to learn it. Maybe, when, the Caern is. Back."
Nicodemus hmms, thoughtful and a little disappointed that Mindspeech doesn't seem to be a means of bypassing the galliard's impediment. He brightens slightly at the mention of the caern. "I saw it the other night!" And then that brightness utterly vaporizes in an instant. "It was inside a giant wasp nest. Giant wasps everywhere. They ripped apart an ant that was the size of a dog when it started touching one of the eggs." His lips tighten and his pupils dialate a little as he recalls the next bit. "Mouse told everyone to be still, be quiet, and not… But Mitzi didn't. She…" He starts to go a little pale, then he swallows hard. "Oh, god. It was horrific." Another pause as he regains control and composure. "I've seen plenty of murdered people after working as a homicide detective for the SCPD for several years. It's… I've seen the end. Not the actual act. And it was so. damn. brutal."
Flint squints his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. "Mitzi was, like that," Flint says quietly. "I met her, twice. Once, when I was, cub. Once after I'd passed my rite. It. Was like that." Then, Flint's voice smooths, a slight and gentle overtone to it. "It sucks, but it's… not okay, but okay. Mitzi was, troubled by her ancestors, even more than, I am. Magnitude, much more than, I am," he says, glancing to Nicodemus and making brief, brief eye contact. "It… might be better for her. The next time. We, get reborn, after all."
Nicodemus leans back and away as Flint begins to suggest it might be better for her to be reborn, which is also about the time Flint begin using Persuasion on the mage. (Perhaps he's a little mortified at the morbidity of it all?) He raises a hand, then slowly lowers it. It's a subdued, placating, dismissive gesture. Nick sighs deeply, seeming to relax once more. Color starts coming back to his face. "I guess… that's one way of looking at it that makes death easier to stomach," he says begrudgingly.
The Walker takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out, the very sounds the same calming tones. And then Flint lets go of the use of the gift, but does offer, "She'll, be remembered," and then lets the whole topic go, with another bit of a shrug, and a wary glance towards the kin. The cub's death perhaps bothers Flint, but the bother, like other things, is hidden in the boy's usual quietness, and he pulls the pencil from the sketchbook wire binding to doodle a cross-hatched pattern across one section of otherwise empty page.
Then, Flint very easily changes the topic, looking at Nicodemus. "For, a. First few pieces, to have, for. If, where you find, for, things. I, think, maybe, some small boxes, chests? And, some cutting boards, and. A coffee table, or, something, similar." Flint pauses, and then grins slightly. "I. When, if. I make enough, and, after I make my bookshelf, I. Want to make a new, dining table. For the breakroom. Sturdy, not, as fancy. But, because. Devon and I've, a few times, fought, and, damaged it, and all. And." Then Flint pauses, and taps the eraser against the page. "And, I. I want to, build new, cabinets, for. My apartment, but. Cabinetry, hanging cabinets, are. Beyond, my, level. I'll. That, I'll need help, installing them, at least. The, lower cabinets are, still good but I'm going to, new fronts."
Nicodemus manages to shake off the cub's death, leaving it behind him—for now at least. He leans in a little to examine the sketches and listen to what Flint says. "I think the Gnawers, in their condemned library, have a better table than we've got in our breakroom these days. Replacing it? That'd be a good idea. But we're going to need the cargo van to haul that kind of lumber around. Or someone who already has a truck, but no one who owns a truck is springing to mind. But it's getting a little late, and I need to go run an errand before I call it quits for the night."
Flint chuckles, quietly. "I, the. Van will, be good," Flint agrees, and then nods to Nicodemus. "I, we could, I'm sure. Buying a table, but. I'd like to make one, anyway. It'd. Be nicer. Oak, white oak probably," he muses. And then the boy nods to the man, "Seeya around?" he half-asks, mostly a parting greeting.
Nicodemus stands, his nearly floor-length greatcoat falling in behind him and enveloping his figure like some medieval cloak, and makes his way towards the exit. "Definitely. You take care, Flint." And he heads out the door and into the city's electric-fueled night.