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flint_garouSometimes they come along with you.
26 October, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (75% full).
The sound of footsteps on the stairs heralds Flint's coming up onto the fifth floor and the breakroom. The teen's footsteps alone betray grumpiness, and he swings around the doorframe into the breakroom and heads towards the kitchen, first for the sink. Flint's dressed in workclothes, which are covered in sawdust and glue and wood stain.
Kevin is slumped in front of the big breakroom television set, flicking idly through channels and fidgeting in his chair as if he can't get comfortable. He looks over at the door as Flint comes in. "Yo, dude." He seems glad of the distraction.
Flint nods to the adren, though he does head for the sink first, washing his hands, then his forearms, then his face. "Hi Kevin-rhya," Flint offers, before simply leaning on the counter a moment. Flint grabs a soda from the fridge, then, and moves back out to the main part of the room, sitting not on one of the dining chairs—of which there are seven as of yesterday—but on the table itself. Which barely budges for the jostling.
Kevin doesn't fail to observe the sturdiness of the table. He turns sideways in his chair to regard Flint. "Whassup, sonny boy?"
"Not much," Flint responds, cracking the soda open and taking a long sip, swinging his legs from the table. "Just, passing the time." Flint's free hand trails fingers along the carved detail at the edge of the table idly. "What're you watching?" Noticeably absent, though, is the usual stutter and hesitation in the boy's speech, though it's replaced by a slow carefulness that's not always entirely certain.
"The television," Kevin deadpans back. "I wanted some excuse to get out of my room… Things are on my mind that I wish weren't." The British garou looks solemn and irascible.
Flint nods slowly, and takes another sip of the soda, before setting it on the table. On a coaster. "Uh-huh," the teen agrees. "Yeah. I've been… holed up down in the workshop, but."
"But?" prompts Kevin. "But what?"
"But it was starting to feel same as holing up in my room," Flint finishes. "Figured I'd come up and get lunch. Or something." The teen scrunches his eyes shut a moment, and shoulders fall, the posture one of frustration more than anything else.
Kevin nods a couple of times. "Yeah. You can't always shake the blues off by going from one place to another. Sometimes they come along with you." He sighs. "Flint, how's your pack faring?"
Flint purses his lips. "We're doing pretty— alright," the teen responds, though there's a moment where he has to think about it. "Ky's busy with— with the gang stuff, for the most part. We found territory, out at the edge of the city, the forest off the highway, the area near the toll bridge, then into the city a bit from there. Were hoping to go and do an Umbral quest, for Bigwing. But we don't want to go, what with—" which brings a sudden cut-off, frustrated tension driving Flint to his feet to pace.
Kevin tilts his head on one side and raises one eyebrow in silent encouragement for Flint to continue with the story.
Flint shakes his head, though actually does continue. "The Caern," is the anticlimactic finish to the statement. "We'll go after everything. Not now, or before the mission Norman-rhya mentioned at Moot."
"Sounds like you're at least ticking over, then," Kevin summarises. He looks away from Flint. "My pack broke up."
Flint purses his lips, goes quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry," he offers, though by the tone he's more than aware that words aren't the most adequate, and there's a fair moment where the cliath looks distant, attention perhaps reassuringly on the mental link with his pack.
"Happens," Kevin says curtly. "I was hoping to either start up another pack, or else get into someone else's. But Silvertip is starting a pack and he's bound to hoover up anyone who's any good, being sept alpha and all. I'm trying to psych myself to talk to him, but I don't think he'll want me. He thinks I'm a Wyrmcomer. Plus I didn't tell Nik to get stuffed when he challenged me, which probably means I'm second only to Nik now in his list of enemies."
Flint rolls his eyes, showing exactly how much he thinks of, well. Something. Whether that's Nik, or Silvertip, is pretty hard to tell, and then Flint paces over to the table again and sits on it, again. "I know that there were a few other packs tentatively forming," Flint says, "though— apparently— not enough to. To." Flint pauses, shakes his head. "Devon, and Nieve-rhya, and I don't know who else. And another one, but I don't know the details, I wasn't. Exactly much, paying. Attention to, details, for a while."
Kevin nods, understandingly. "I know about Devon and Nieve," he says. "There are… reasons I don't think I'd be a good fit in that one. Then again, maybe beggars can't be choosers." He frowns again, and fiddles with the remote control distractedly.
Flint nods in response, and then looks at the ragabash, studyingly for a moment before his gaze drops to the floor, entirely uncertain. Then the galliard purses his lips more, and takes up the silence with a sip of soda.
Kevin subsides back into his chair and starts flicking channels again.
Flint leaves it at that, whatever it was unimportant, and eventually wanders back off to the workshop.
26 October, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (75% full).
The sound of footsteps on the stairs heralds Flint's coming up onto the fifth floor and the breakroom. The teen's footsteps alone betray grumpiness, and he swings around the doorframe into the breakroom and heads towards the kitchen, first for the sink. Flint's dressed in workclothes, which are covered in sawdust and glue and wood stain.
Kevin is slumped in front of the big breakroom television set, flicking idly through channels and fidgeting in his chair as if he can't get comfortable. He looks over at the door as Flint comes in. "Yo, dude." He seems glad of the distraction.
Flint nods to the adren, though he does head for the sink first, washing his hands, then his forearms, then his face. "Hi Kevin-rhya," Flint offers, before simply leaning on the counter a moment. Flint grabs a soda from the fridge, then, and moves back out to the main part of the room, sitting not on one of the dining chairs—of which there are seven as of yesterday—but on the table itself. Which barely budges for the jostling.
Kevin doesn't fail to observe the sturdiness of the table. He turns sideways in his chair to regard Flint. "Whassup, sonny boy?"
"Not much," Flint responds, cracking the soda open and taking a long sip, swinging his legs from the table. "Just, passing the time." Flint's free hand trails fingers along the carved detail at the edge of the table idly. "What're you watching?" Noticeably absent, though, is the usual stutter and hesitation in the boy's speech, though it's replaced by a slow carefulness that's not always entirely certain.
"The television," Kevin deadpans back. "I wanted some excuse to get out of my room… Things are on my mind that I wish weren't." The British garou looks solemn and irascible.
Flint nods slowly, and takes another sip of the soda, before setting it on the table. On a coaster. "Uh-huh," the teen agrees. "Yeah. I've been… holed up down in the workshop, but."
"But?" prompts Kevin. "But what?"
"But it was starting to feel same as holing up in my room," Flint finishes. "Figured I'd come up and get lunch. Or something." The teen scrunches his eyes shut a moment, and shoulders fall, the posture one of frustration more than anything else.
Kevin nods a couple of times. "Yeah. You can't always shake the blues off by going from one place to another. Sometimes they come along with you." He sighs. "Flint, how's your pack faring?"
Flint purses his lips. "We're doing pretty— alright," the teen responds, though there's a moment where he has to think about it. "Ky's busy with— with the gang stuff, for the most part. We found territory, out at the edge of the city, the forest off the highway, the area near the toll bridge, then into the city a bit from there. Were hoping to go and do an Umbral quest, for Bigwing. But we don't want to go, what with—" which brings a sudden cut-off, frustrated tension driving Flint to his feet to pace.
Kevin tilts his head on one side and raises one eyebrow in silent encouragement for Flint to continue with the story.
Flint shakes his head, though actually does continue. "The Caern," is the anticlimactic finish to the statement. "We'll go after everything. Not now, or before the mission Norman-rhya mentioned at Moot."
"Sounds like you're at least ticking over, then," Kevin summarises. He looks away from Flint. "My pack broke up."
Flint purses his lips, goes quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry," he offers, though by the tone he's more than aware that words aren't the most adequate, and there's a fair moment where the cliath looks distant, attention perhaps reassuringly on the mental link with his pack.
"Happens," Kevin says curtly. "I was hoping to either start up another pack, or else get into someone else's. But Silvertip is starting a pack and he's bound to hoover up anyone who's any good, being sept alpha and all. I'm trying to psych myself to talk to him, but I don't think he'll want me. He thinks I'm a Wyrmcomer. Plus I didn't tell Nik to get stuffed when he challenged me, which probably means I'm second only to Nik now in his list of enemies."
Flint rolls his eyes, showing exactly how much he thinks of, well. Something. Whether that's Nik, or Silvertip, is pretty hard to tell, and then Flint paces over to the table again and sits on it, again. "I know that there were a few other packs tentatively forming," Flint says, "though— apparently— not enough to. To." Flint pauses, shakes his head. "Devon, and Nieve-rhya, and I don't know who else. And another one, but I don't know the details, I wasn't. Exactly much, paying. Attention to, details, for a while."
Kevin nods, understandingly. "I know about Devon and Nieve," he says. "There are… reasons I don't think I'd be a good fit in that one. Then again, maybe beggars can't be choosers." He frowns again, and fiddles with the remote control distractedly.
Flint nods in response, and then looks at the ragabash, studyingly for a moment before his gaze drops to the floor, entirely uncertain. Then the galliard purses his lips more, and takes up the silence with a sip of soda.
Kevin subsides back into his chair and starts flicking channels again.
Flint leaves it at that, whatever it was unimportant, and eventually wanders back off to the workshop.