Minefield.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013 18:30![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouFlint meets Wrong John.
8 January, 2012
The moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (22% full).
At first glance, the lobby might appear to be empty. And the lobby of the tenement building is, but the door to the office is open. Flint's sitting in there on monitor duty, which means that the young Walker has headphones on, a book in his lap, and has curled into the office chair such that he can see the screens and a tablet of some sort that he occasionally taps at. And humming. He's humming along to Metallica, and that at least carries throughout the lobby lending it a slightly less deserted feel.
John winces at the sound the front door makes. It is not often someone slinks into a building like a thief carrying things they intend to leave, but this is precisely what the young ahroun does. He is unsurpassed in his complete lack of stealth. Metallica in the air? John considers which track it is. Garou seem to favor Of Wolf And Man, but John's preference has always been Welcome Home.
It's Nothing Else Matters, and it cuts off pretty abruptly after Flint's dealt with the buzzer for the door, because the Glass Walker is moving over and across the lobby. "Um, hi…?" he greets, just about staring at the Silver Fang. "Do you… um? I. I. Saw you on the tapes but, I. You are?" The teen's clearly making an attempt to speak, but it's still disjointed, and a bit odd.
John's head bows, and he seems alarmingly chipper for someone skulking like the world's stupidest thief. "Wrong John. I-uh. Staying with Sue for a little while, I'm doing him a favor." John hesitates, glancing toward the ceiling. "Because nobody should live without a decent rabbit stew."
Flint continues to stare at the Silver Fang for a little bit, but at this point it's just dazzle. Because that does happen. "Flint," the Walker eventually manages. "C-Carves the Requiem for Cockroach's Children, called Requiem, cliath galliard o-of the Glass Walkers. Also Beta of Unfettered a-and. Child of Merlin. Nicetomeetyou." The last comes out as alloneword.
John blinks hard, and hesitates. Finally, he bows awkwardly. "No particular sept just now. Just Wrong John, cliath ahroun of. Erm." This feels very redundant. "Silver Fangs. I'd rather not talk about my parentage if you don't mind."
There's a nod, easy enough even if Flint seems like he's really, really strung out and tense. "Why would it… why would it. be important in the first place? It. It…" Flint just shakes his head and doesn't even attempt to finish the sentence.
John hesitates. "Well you started with the full introductions. Can I…? I have a few cans of spritzers, they should still be cold. Would you like a drink?"
Flint continues to watch the Silver Fang, and eases. "I. I just, really meant with the. To. Whether you were, and auspice and such not full like full like forever on. I'm, there's not. It's. We're not. That formal around here," Flint offers, perhaps in apology, then tacks on. "I don' even, really know who my Garou parent was and the rest don' matter."
John coughs briefly. "I apologize." He sets down his bags anyway to dig for the cans. "Um. I hope you don't mind boysenberry? But they're rather the only ones worth drinking in my opinion." The can is cool, and it is hard to tell if the wetness is condensation or weather. "I'm new in town. Learning the lay of the land. I walk a lot."
The Glass Walker winces at something, even though he's taken the offered can, cracked it open. It appears to be something that John said, and Flint looks down at the floor, away from the cliath. "It. It's nice. Some of the city can. Can be confusing, but it's. Nice." He sounds wistful, though, and glances at the door. "I don't… get out much."
John winces sympathetically. The drink isn't particularly sweet. Half juice, half carbonated water, and no sugar to make up for the gap. "Oh. I'm sorry." The rangy Fang tilts his head thoughtfully. "Can I get you anything? I mean. Hardly anybody even knows I'm here, I'm free to act as a messenger or errand-boy."
"I just, miss air. Miss running. It's. It's okay, it'll be over. But until, the. This vampire is, killed, I. I can't." Flint stammers his way through the sentence and glances to the other cliath, before taking a sip of the soda.
John scowls slightly, checking his bags briefly. Still cold. "Vampires are bad news."
Flint nods emphatically. "There's. One, in the city. It changes its face. It plays, plays. Mind tricks. And, makes, baby vampires, apparently. Be. Be careful, out there?" Flint says, half-requests, then turns away again, starts to pace, as if even admitting that he got tangled up in the vampire thing is difficult, and there's a wary glance at the other cliath.
John nods emphatically. "I'll watch my arse." He means it, too. "I'm not so stupid I'll tangle with one." Then John pauses, glancing skyward again. "Shouldn't that only really be a problem at night?"
The Walker bites his lower lip. Not just chews on it, but outright bites it to the degree that he's drawing blood, and then fidgets, looping his free hand around his free wrist like he'd tug at his sleeves. Except that Flint's wearing short sleeves. "There were things. It. It's only at night, but. It made, people, too. So, and. Things." Things which Flint doesn't feel like discussing, so he jerks his head at the can. "This is good. Better than, than. Than sodas are."
John's hands dart behind his back the moment he realizes he's made a mistake. The pinch to his own wrist is subtle, and he leaps on the change of subject like a hungry rat. "They're simple enough at home. Half juice, best with pure juice. Half seltzer. A shot of vodka if you're feeling decadent. But it's hard to find boysenberry juice. Thus, the cans. Their cherry is also very good."
Flint pauses and sucks his lip so that there's no blood. Or at least, not much, a bit is on Flint's face like he's just gotten into a fight. With himself. "Neat. I. I'll, probably ask Mr. Dalton to, pick up some stuff at the store, probably." The mention of vodka gets another slight wince, this time better hidden behind a mask of polite conversation. "We have juice but. Not seltzer, I don't think."
John sighs quietly, wondering just how many mines are in this field. Too late now, he's in up to his ass and the only way out is through more mines. "What is it you do?"
Flint glances at John, and actually brightens a little. "Art, mostly? And. Patrols and monitor duty and that things, but I. I make things, and. And do schoolwork type. Type of things. I'm studying the, all the online journals I can, on engineering right now."
John grins. A harmless topic. It MUST be. "I don't know much about the arts. I know I've seen many… Unique things." That didn't even sound like a euphemism for "bad art", the way he said it. "I've always admired those that create."
The galliard's sweatshirt is tied around his waist, and he twists a bit to get to a pocket, bringing out an iPhone, and taps at it. The device is clearly older but in good condition, and eventually Flint offers it tilted towards John. "See, things," Flint says, with all the eruditeness he can muster at the moment. The picture there, however, speaks for itself, a picture of a carved wooden box with a woodburned pirate skull and crossbones and delicate leaves on the lid. "Other things, too. Cutting boards, boxes. I. I made a, a dining table. After I. Broke the table." Flint glances up at the ceiling, a brief flash of guilt on his face.
John can't help but grin. "Ah, it's fantastic though. I don't make… Things. I mean there's food, but that's entirely different." The little ahroun shakes his head, laughing quietly. "I love the detail. Recycled or new materials?"
Flint flicks through a few more pictures, including several boxes with various designs, a checkerboard cutting board and one with diagonal stripes, and a much different one, a more abstract sculpture of a city that is affixed to a wall, almost organically growing from the wood. "Reclaimed if, I can get them," Flint says. "Some new, but, junkyards, wood shops, doors that people leave on the. On the curb, anything I can get. I, there's a store, one of our kin found, I. Sell some of the things, there. And, thanks. It. I. I like the things, they're. Simpler than people." A galliard with few social skills, it seems.
John's lips draw back in clear sympathy. "I don't know how to deal with people. I've read a lot of books, but all the people I've known were insane. Follow the rules, you don't get hurt as bad." He shakes his head. "But I'm not expected to."
The nod from the Galliard speaks of at least some understanding and then Flint glances at John again, gestures to the couch. "I. I'm… still learning, people skills, and such." A pause. "If you. Don't need to go, go make rabbit stew too, too soon, we could. Sit down."
John gestures to his bags. "Can I tuck these where they won't get warm? Most of it doesn't matter, but the butter…" He can't help but laugh at himself. "We are terrible examples of our auspice, aren't we?"
Flint points at the laundry room as he heads over to the couch, pausing to go type something on a small monitor station, before the security monitors flick to life there. "Fridge, in there." A pause. "Yes," Flint agrees, actually chuckling a little. "It. It, it'd be boring if we all were, perfect match the. The galliard in my head wants me to. Be."
John nods, shoving the more delicate contents of his bags into the indicated fridge. "I mean I can fight. But…" He shakes his head quietly.
"I can sing," Flint says, matter-of-fact and statement-like, then looks down at his lap and nods. "But yeah. I'm. Sometimes, I. Kind of wonder why, why." The boy looks down and takes a deep breath, and a long pause, and when he speaks it's even slower and more deliberately, but a full sentence. "Why Gaia made me a galliard when it takes so much for me to, and I'd rather read than go out and like. Galliard things."
John sits heavily, arms on his knees. His eyes drift shut as he fights for words. "There's more than one way to tell a tale, don't you think?"
Flint nods quietly. "Yeah. Some people don't see that so well. All they see is broken words," Flint says, speaking quietly and deliberately. "Sometimes that really sucks."
8 January, 2012
The moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (22% full).
At first glance, the lobby might appear to be empty. And the lobby of the tenement building is, but the door to the office is open. Flint's sitting in there on monitor duty, which means that the young Walker has headphones on, a book in his lap, and has curled into the office chair such that he can see the screens and a tablet of some sort that he occasionally taps at. And humming. He's humming along to Metallica, and that at least carries throughout the lobby lending it a slightly less deserted feel.
John winces at the sound the front door makes. It is not often someone slinks into a building like a thief carrying things they intend to leave, but this is precisely what the young ahroun does. He is unsurpassed in his complete lack of stealth. Metallica in the air? John considers which track it is. Garou seem to favor Of Wolf And Man, but John's preference has always been Welcome Home.
It's Nothing Else Matters, and it cuts off pretty abruptly after Flint's dealt with the buzzer for the door, because the Glass Walker is moving over and across the lobby. "Um, hi…?" he greets, just about staring at the Silver Fang. "Do you… um? I. I. Saw you on the tapes but, I. You are?" The teen's clearly making an attempt to speak, but it's still disjointed, and a bit odd.
John's head bows, and he seems alarmingly chipper for someone skulking like the world's stupidest thief. "Wrong John. I-uh. Staying with Sue for a little while, I'm doing him a favor." John hesitates, glancing toward the ceiling. "Because nobody should live without a decent rabbit stew."
Flint continues to stare at the Silver Fang for a little bit, but at this point it's just dazzle. Because that does happen. "Flint," the Walker eventually manages. "C-Carves the Requiem for Cockroach's Children, called Requiem, cliath galliard o-of the Glass Walkers. Also Beta of Unfettered a-and. Child of Merlin. Nicetomeetyou." The last comes out as alloneword.
John blinks hard, and hesitates. Finally, he bows awkwardly. "No particular sept just now. Just Wrong John, cliath ahroun of. Erm." This feels very redundant. "Silver Fangs. I'd rather not talk about my parentage if you don't mind."
There's a nod, easy enough even if Flint seems like he's really, really strung out and tense. "Why would it… why would it. be important in the first place? It. It…" Flint just shakes his head and doesn't even attempt to finish the sentence.
John hesitates. "Well you started with the full introductions. Can I…? I have a few cans of spritzers, they should still be cold. Would you like a drink?"
Flint continues to watch the Silver Fang, and eases. "I. I just, really meant with the. To. Whether you were, and auspice and such not full like full like forever on. I'm, there's not. It's. We're not. That formal around here," Flint offers, perhaps in apology, then tacks on. "I don' even, really know who my Garou parent was and the rest don' matter."
John coughs briefly. "I apologize." He sets down his bags anyway to dig for the cans. "Um. I hope you don't mind boysenberry? But they're rather the only ones worth drinking in my opinion." The can is cool, and it is hard to tell if the wetness is condensation or weather. "I'm new in town. Learning the lay of the land. I walk a lot."
The Glass Walker winces at something, even though he's taken the offered can, cracked it open. It appears to be something that John said, and Flint looks down at the floor, away from the cliath. "It. It's nice. Some of the city can. Can be confusing, but it's. Nice." He sounds wistful, though, and glances at the door. "I don't… get out much."
John winces sympathetically. The drink isn't particularly sweet. Half juice, half carbonated water, and no sugar to make up for the gap. "Oh. I'm sorry." The rangy Fang tilts his head thoughtfully. "Can I get you anything? I mean. Hardly anybody even knows I'm here, I'm free to act as a messenger or errand-boy."
"I just, miss air. Miss running. It's. It's okay, it'll be over. But until, the. This vampire is, killed, I. I can't." Flint stammers his way through the sentence and glances to the other cliath, before taking a sip of the soda.
John scowls slightly, checking his bags briefly. Still cold. "Vampires are bad news."
Flint nods emphatically. "There's. One, in the city. It changes its face. It plays, plays. Mind tricks. And, makes, baby vampires, apparently. Be. Be careful, out there?" Flint says, half-requests, then turns away again, starts to pace, as if even admitting that he got tangled up in the vampire thing is difficult, and there's a wary glance at the other cliath.
John nods emphatically. "I'll watch my arse." He means it, too. "I'm not so stupid I'll tangle with one." Then John pauses, glancing skyward again. "Shouldn't that only really be a problem at night?"
The Walker bites his lower lip. Not just chews on it, but outright bites it to the degree that he's drawing blood, and then fidgets, looping his free hand around his free wrist like he'd tug at his sleeves. Except that Flint's wearing short sleeves. "There were things. It. It's only at night, but. It made, people, too. So, and. Things." Things which Flint doesn't feel like discussing, so he jerks his head at the can. "This is good. Better than, than. Than sodas are."
John's hands dart behind his back the moment he realizes he's made a mistake. The pinch to his own wrist is subtle, and he leaps on the change of subject like a hungry rat. "They're simple enough at home. Half juice, best with pure juice. Half seltzer. A shot of vodka if you're feeling decadent. But it's hard to find boysenberry juice. Thus, the cans. Their cherry is also very good."
Flint pauses and sucks his lip so that there's no blood. Or at least, not much, a bit is on Flint's face like he's just gotten into a fight. With himself. "Neat. I. I'll, probably ask Mr. Dalton to, pick up some stuff at the store, probably." The mention of vodka gets another slight wince, this time better hidden behind a mask of polite conversation. "We have juice but. Not seltzer, I don't think."
John sighs quietly, wondering just how many mines are in this field. Too late now, he's in up to his ass and the only way out is through more mines. "What is it you do?"
Flint glances at John, and actually brightens a little. "Art, mostly? And. Patrols and monitor duty and that things, but I. I make things, and. And do schoolwork type. Type of things. I'm studying the, all the online journals I can, on engineering right now."
John grins. A harmless topic. It MUST be. "I don't know much about the arts. I know I've seen many… Unique things." That didn't even sound like a euphemism for "bad art", the way he said it. "I've always admired those that create."
The galliard's sweatshirt is tied around his waist, and he twists a bit to get to a pocket, bringing out an iPhone, and taps at it. The device is clearly older but in good condition, and eventually Flint offers it tilted towards John. "See, things," Flint says, with all the eruditeness he can muster at the moment. The picture there, however, speaks for itself, a picture of a carved wooden box with a woodburned pirate skull and crossbones and delicate leaves on the lid. "Other things, too. Cutting boards, boxes. I. I made a, a dining table. After I. Broke the table." Flint glances up at the ceiling, a brief flash of guilt on his face.
John can't help but grin. "Ah, it's fantastic though. I don't make… Things. I mean there's food, but that's entirely different." The little ahroun shakes his head, laughing quietly. "I love the detail. Recycled or new materials?"
Flint flicks through a few more pictures, including several boxes with various designs, a checkerboard cutting board and one with diagonal stripes, and a much different one, a more abstract sculpture of a city that is affixed to a wall, almost organically growing from the wood. "Reclaimed if, I can get them," Flint says. "Some new, but, junkyards, wood shops, doors that people leave on the. On the curb, anything I can get. I, there's a store, one of our kin found, I. Sell some of the things, there. And, thanks. It. I. I like the things, they're. Simpler than people." A galliard with few social skills, it seems.
John's lips draw back in clear sympathy. "I don't know how to deal with people. I've read a lot of books, but all the people I've known were insane. Follow the rules, you don't get hurt as bad." He shakes his head. "But I'm not expected to."
The nod from the Galliard speaks of at least some understanding and then Flint glances at John again, gestures to the couch. "I. I'm… still learning, people skills, and such." A pause. "If you. Don't need to go, go make rabbit stew too, too soon, we could. Sit down."
John gestures to his bags. "Can I tuck these where they won't get warm? Most of it doesn't matter, but the butter…" He can't help but laugh at himself. "We are terrible examples of our auspice, aren't we?"
Flint points at the laundry room as he heads over to the couch, pausing to go type something on a small monitor station, before the security monitors flick to life there. "Fridge, in there." A pause. "Yes," Flint agrees, actually chuckling a little. "It. It, it'd be boring if we all were, perfect match the. The galliard in my head wants me to. Be."
John nods, shoving the more delicate contents of his bags into the indicated fridge. "I mean I can fight. But…" He shakes his head quietly.
"I can sing," Flint says, matter-of-fact and statement-like, then looks down at his lap and nods. "But yeah. I'm. Sometimes, I. Kind of wonder why, why." The boy looks down and takes a deep breath, and a long pause, and when he speaks it's even slower and more deliberately, but a full sentence. "Why Gaia made me a galliard when it takes so much for me to, and I'd rather read than go out and like. Galliard things."
John sits heavily, arms on his knees. His eyes drift shut as he fights for words. "There's more than one way to tell a tale, don't you think?"
Flint nods quietly. "Yeah. Some people don't see that so well. All they see is broken words," Flint says, speaking quietly and deliberately. "Sometimes that really sucks."