You're un-thrown-out.
Sunday, 20 January 2013 16:15![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouThe tail end of the disagreement between Thomas Lee, and Riley.
20 January, 2013
The moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (59% full).
Offers a slow and steady shake of her head, "Not halfway young enough to listen to you feed me that line with a straight face. Wasn't the guardian spirits of a Pool Hall that had me shaking and puking my guts out not a couple minutes after leaving. Think I'd be more inclined to pin that on the man that cracked my jaw, then damn near ripped my dress off. Call it what you fuckin' want, but I guess you and me are alike. I hold grudges, too."
The stairwell door opens, letting Flint into the lobby, and then the cliath galliard startles a little bit, looking at the tension in the lobby. It almost looks like Flint can't quite decide who to be angry at, really, and he heads for the laundry room instead of getting near Riley, or Thomas.
Thomas does grin this time, and that unnerving quality has, for the moment at least, faded. "Well, who says guardian spirits can't also be crotchety old men on the near anniversaries of terrible memories? But I gotta be insistent; weren't disease you felt. Little touch've the Dark Umbra, which…" and the grin fades, and with it a large measure of the bravado, "wasn't meant for young, loud mouthed Ragabash, even if they were insulting the dead. I ain't terribly sorry you had a bad day for it, but it wasn't my finest moment. For that I can say I'm sorry."
Reed casts a glance in Flint's direction, but makes no move to follow the cliath. The… discussion between Riley and Thomas is much more interesting. Attention returned to the two, the cub slowly twists the cap of his water bottle open then closed again, not yet interested in drinking.
The turnabout and subsequent apology has Riley on her heels for a moment. She folds her arms, frowning in silence for a good long time. With a soft snort, she turns her head to the side, "…Wasn't," She agrees, still looking away, "And much as I stand by what I've said about your opinions, as well as Jacinta's, y'quoted a date at me, one I didn't recognize." She swipes her tongue briefly over her teeth, and takes a further sip of water, "…Might've chosen my words more carefully if you'd said the name, not the date." She grunts, irritated, "…not my best moment, either."
Flint returns from the laundry room with a mug of coffee clutched in his hands, one wrist and sweatshirt sleeve pushing his hair out of his face as he wanders—sleepily—into the lobby to try and figure out what's going on.
"Oh, I said it," Thomas replies. "Cankpe Opi Wakpala. I just cheated and didn't use the English term." He lifts an eyebrow, the other eye narrowing faintly. "See, thing is, Jacinta's opinions on that particular matter and mine ain't remotely the same. Foxes don't cull their kits, leastwise not unless it's absolutely impossible to keep 'em from falling instantly to the Wyrm, and I ain't never run into that theoretical scenario. The cost is too damned high to just throw 'em away like that. But, seeing as I've had plenty've firsthand experience at seeing everything the Wendigo care about systematically stolen from 'em, including cubs from time to time, it just ain't in me to say what's better for Jacinta. I ain't Wendigo, I ain't Garou, and much's I've shared in certain things…" he shrugs. "I'm too damned fortunate to claim growing up on the reservations as they exist these days. Call it a failing, I can't make that judgment. But it don't matter to reality, 'cause ain't anything I can do about it either way."
Reed looks at Flint when he returns, and offers the cliath a shrug. Explaining would take too long, and that small roll of his shoulders seems sufficient enough in summarizing the events.
The tension in Riley's shoulders gradually eases, and little by little, her head turns until she's back to looking at the fox again. She takes a long breath, and lets it out slow, letting her folded arms unfurl, her hands drifting down to settle on her hips. "…Finding myself less blindingly pissed off at you than I've been for the past week and a half." She lets her tongue briefly work against her incisors, "…Look, you want to yell at me, that's fine. Crackin' me one in the jaw's something everyone around here's wanted at some point, self included. But just… keep that Dark Umbra shit to yourself." The ragabash frowns, "…You're un-thrown-out."
"Fair deal," Thomas says, and he ambles away from the door now, back toward the seating area. "And, for the record, not that you need my permission, but if I'm throwing punches, throwing one back's perfectly acceptable and expected. Breaking out the claws, well, I'm like to go and show that whole Foxes don't mind being cowards proof. Gaia gave everyone else all the muscles."
Flint seems, once he's heard part of the conversation, to have a fair idea of what's going on, and his brows raise a bit. But at least the cliath no longer looks like he's going to be joining in the variously being angry.
Reed turns and takes a few steps toward the seating area. Not that he sits down right away, lingering out of the way, but standing, and watching Riley and Thomas still.
Glancing from her right arm to her left, which—though wired with thin, flexible muscle—look rather insubstantial, Riley gives an acknowledging little bob of her head. "Mmn. She did." Taking another pull from her bottle of water, Riley makes herself scarce. She's swallowed more of her pride than she's comfortable with, that much is clear. Up the stairs she goes.
Thomas tips his hat to Riley's departing back, but doesn't follow it up with any more conversation. Instead, he ambles over to one of the chairs and proceeds to claim it, floppily, for his own.
Reed takes a seat himself, dropping onto one end of a sofa. His water is finally opened and drunk from, while glancing at Flint first, then Thomas.
Thomas fishes out his tobacco tin, and one of the handrolled cigarettes. "Things are," he agrees. The cheap lighter comes next, and within a minute there's the fresh scent of smoke adding to the previous cloud in the lobby.
Flint sips the coffee and nods. "Good," Flint says. "I. I'm, glad that. Thank you for. Not letting, that, be… wholly in the way of. The. The help's appreciated," the cliath says to Thomas. Reed gets a glance from Flint, but not a terribly long one, more of a nod of acknowledgement than anything.
Thomas glances toward the stairs, and then quirks a grin toward Flint. "Oh, don't believe my bullshit. Ain't like I was gonna drop the vampire surveillance 'cause of a grudge with one member. Future cooperation, well. I ain't here to be a servant, but we all got bigger issues."
Reed briefly meets Flint's gaze, though his attention remains mostly on Thomas. A question starts, then stops itself when the man begins speaking. It's a good, whole beat before the cub tries again, complete with small, lingering frown. "Have you seen vampires here?"
"Draugr," Flint says, the word nearly venomous and entirely tense, before the teen digs through his pockets and comes up with a battered pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which he can't seem to get one out and light fast enough, though it does little to calm the tension. "Yes."
Thomas eyes Flint for a moment before replying to Reed. "Oh, vampires're all over the place when it comes to cities, and sometimes more'n that. They're like cockroaches, if you'll forgive the comparison, but they don't actually contribute anything meaningful or useful and spend most've their existence just trying to doublecross each other. The local and recent bunch've just taken to spying and making lots've baby vampires in record time."
Reed glances at Flint, but shrugs at the comparison. Doesn't seem to bother the cub any. "Why're they such a threat? What are they looking for and why're they making vampire babies?"
Flint glares at Thomas for a moment, clearly not forgiving the comparison, but neither getting worked up about it. "One've them likes to fuck with people," Flint says. "And even, if, they didn't. They're, against Gaia's order of things. They should be dead, properly."
Thomas regards the glare impassionately. "Calm down, cowboy," he remarks. "I just pointed out cockroaches are meaningful and useful. But both've adapted specifically to living with, and off of, humanity." He answers Reed. "Oh, one or two vampires ain't usually much've a threat to you folk at all. You're actually their boogeymen, more often than not, 'specially if they're young. Older vampires have nastier tricks up their sleeves, but still, generally if you get one one-on-one against you, he's fucked up and you're going to win. Don't take that for granted, but it's usually fact. No, real danger is they're so damn good at using humanity to their own ends, and so damn good at staying out of sight until it's too late, that you end up manipulated into something you wouldn't otherwise be part of, or dead due to some plot they've cooked up, or having your kinfolk ghouled or turned. They make most Shadow Lords look downright open'n'guileless. Now, the real problem is vampires, every last one've them, are doomed. Sooner or later, every vampire starts stinking of the Wyrm, and given long enough, every single one've them's gonna become a real monster that's got to be put down."
Flint eases a little. "Stir-crazy," he points out to Thomas, clearly self-commentary rather than anything else. "Ain't personal I promise." The cliath listens intently as Thomas speaks, and then shrugs his shoulders. "I should go, upstairs. Do stuff. Seeya."
Thomas tips his hat to Flint. "'Course."
20 January, 2013
The moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (59% full).
Offers a slow and steady shake of her head, "Not halfway young enough to listen to you feed me that line with a straight face. Wasn't the guardian spirits of a Pool Hall that had me shaking and puking my guts out not a couple minutes after leaving. Think I'd be more inclined to pin that on the man that cracked my jaw, then damn near ripped my dress off. Call it what you fuckin' want, but I guess you and me are alike. I hold grudges, too."
The stairwell door opens, letting Flint into the lobby, and then the cliath galliard startles a little bit, looking at the tension in the lobby. It almost looks like Flint can't quite decide who to be angry at, really, and he heads for the laundry room instead of getting near Riley, or Thomas.
Thomas does grin this time, and that unnerving quality has, for the moment at least, faded. "Well, who says guardian spirits can't also be crotchety old men on the near anniversaries of terrible memories? But I gotta be insistent; weren't disease you felt. Little touch've the Dark Umbra, which…" and the grin fades, and with it a large measure of the bravado, "wasn't meant for young, loud mouthed Ragabash, even if they were insulting the dead. I ain't terribly sorry you had a bad day for it, but it wasn't my finest moment. For that I can say I'm sorry."
Reed casts a glance in Flint's direction, but makes no move to follow the cliath. The… discussion between Riley and Thomas is much more interesting. Attention returned to the two, the cub slowly twists the cap of his water bottle open then closed again, not yet interested in drinking.
The turnabout and subsequent apology has Riley on her heels for a moment. She folds her arms, frowning in silence for a good long time. With a soft snort, she turns her head to the side, "…Wasn't," She agrees, still looking away, "And much as I stand by what I've said about your opinions, as well as Jacinta's, y'quoted a date at me, one I didn't recognize." She swipes her tongue briefly over her teeth, and takes a further sip of water, "…Might've chosen my words more carefully if you'd said the name, not the date." She grunts, irritated, "…not my best moment, either."
Flint returns from the laundry room with a mug of coffee clutched in his hands, one wrist and sweatshirt sleeve pushing his hair out of his face as he wanders—sleepily—into the lobby to try and figure out what's going on.
"Oh, I said it," Thomas replies. "Cankpe Opi Wakpala. I just cheated and didn't use the English term." He lifts an eyebrow, the other eye narrowing faintly. "See, thing is, Jacinta's opinions on that particular matter and mine ain't remotely the same. Foxes don't cull their kits, leastwise not unless it's absolutely impossible to keep 'em from falling instantly to the Wyrm, and I ain't never run into that theoretical scenario. The cost is too damned high to just throw 'em away like that. But, seeing as I've had plenty've firsthand experience at seeing everything the Wendigo care about systematically stolen from 'em, including cubs from time to time, it just ain't in me to say what's better for Jacinta. I ain't Wendigo, I ain't Garou, and much's I've shared in certain things…" he shrugs. "I'm too damned fortunate to claim growing up on the reservations as they exist these days. Call it a failing, I can't make that judgment. But it don't matter to reality, 'cause ain't anything I can do about it either way."
Reed looks at Flint when he returns, and offers the cliath a shrug. Explaining would take too long, and that small roll of his shoulders seems sufficient enough in summarizing the events.
The tension in Riley's shoulders gradually eases, and little by little, her head turns until she's back to looking at the fox again. She takes a long breath, and lets it out slow, letting her folded arms unfurl, her hands drifting down to settle on her hips. "…Finding myself less blindingly pissed off at you than I've been for the past week and a half." She lets her tongue briefly work against her incisors, "…Look, you want to yell at me, that's fine. Crackin' me one in the jaw's something everyone around here's wanted at some point, self included. But just… keep that Dark Umbra shit to yourself." The ragabash frowns, "…You're un-thrown-out."
"Fair deal," Thomas says, and he ambles away from the door now, back toward the seating area. "And, for the record, not that you need my permission, but if I'm throwing punches, throwing one back's perfectly acceptable and expected. Breaking out the claws, well, I'm like to go and show that whole Foxes don't mind being cowards proof. Gaia gave everyone else all the muscles."
Flint seems, once he's heard part of the conversation, to have a fair idea of what's going on, and his brows raise a bit. But at least the cliath no longer looks like he's going to be joining in the variously being angry.
Reed turns and takes a few steps toward the seating area. Not that he sits down right away, lingering out of the way, but standing, and watching Riley and Thomas still.
Glancing from her right arm to her left, which—though wired with thin, flexible muscle—look rather insubstantial, Riley gives an acknowledging little bob of her head. "Mmn. She did." Taking another pull from her bottle of water, Riley makes herself scarce. She's swallowed more of her pride than she's comfortable with, that much is clear. Up the stairs she goes.
Thomas tips his hat to Riley's departing back, but doesn't follow it up with any more conversation. Instead, he ambles over to one of the chairs and proceeds to claim it, floppily, for his own.
Reed takes a seat himself, dropping onto one end of a sofa. His water is finally opened and drunk from, while glancing at Flint first, then Thomas.
Thomas fishes out his tobacco tin, and one of the handrolled cigarettes. "Things are," he agrees. The cheap lighter comes next, and within a minute there's the fresh scent of smoke adding to the previous cloud in the lobby.
Flint sips the coffee and nods. "Good," Flint says. "I. I'm, glad that. Thank you for. Not letting, that, be… wholly in the way of. The. The help's appreciated," the cliath says to Thomas. Reed gets a glance from Flint, but not a terribly long one, more of a nod of acknowledgement than anything.
Thomas glances toward the stairs, and then quirks a grin toward Flint. "Oh, don't believe my bullshit. Ain't like I was gonna drop the vampire surveillance 'cause of a grudge with one member. Future cooperation, well. I ain't here to be a servant, but we all got bigger issues."
Reed briefly meets Flint's gaze, though his attention remains mostly on Thomas. A question starts, then stops itself when the man begins speaking. It's a good, whole beat before the cub tries again, complete with small, lingering frown. "Have you seen vampires here?"
"Draugr," Flint says, the word nearly venomous and entirely tense, before the teen digs through his pockets and comes up with a battered pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which he can't seem to get one out and light fast enough, though it does little to calm the tension. "Yes."
Thomas eyes Flint for a moment before replying to Reed. "Oh, vampires're all over the place when it comes to cities, and sometimes more'n that. They're like cockroaches, if you'll forgive the comparison, but they don't actually contribute anything meaningful or useful and spend most've their existence just trying to doublecross each other. The local and recent bunch've just taken to spying and making lots've baby vampires in record time."
Reed glances at Flint, but shrugs at the comparison. Doesn't seem to bother the cub any. "Why're they such a threat? What are they looking for and why're they making vampire babies?"
Flint glares at Thomas for a moment, clearly not forgiving the comparison, but neither getting worked up about it. "One've them likes to fuck with people," Flint says. "And even, if, they didn't. They're, against Gaia's order of things. They should be dead, properly."
Thomas regards the glare impassionately. "Calm down, cowboy," he remarks. "I just pointed out cockroaches are meaningful and useful. But both've adapted specifically to living with, and off of, humanity." He answers Reed. "Oh, one or two vampires ain't usually much've a threat to you folk at all. You're actually their boogeymen, more often than not, 'specially if they're young. Older vampires have nastier tricks up their sleeves, but still, generally if you get one one-on-one against you, he's fucked up and you're going to win. Don't take that for granted, but it's usually fact. No, real danger is they're so damn good at using humanity to their own ends, and so damn good at staying out of sight until it's too late, that you end up manipulated into something you wouldn't otherwise be part of, or dead due to some plot they've cooked up, or having your kinfolk ghouled or turned. They make most Shadow Lords look downright open'n'guileless. Now, the real problem is vampires, every last one've them, are doomed. Sooner or later, every vampire starts stinking of the Wyrm, and given long enough, every single one've them's gonna become a real monster that's got to be put down."
Flint eases a little. "Stir-crazy," he points out to Thomas, clearly self-commentary rather than anything else. "Ain't personal I promise." The cliath listens intently as Thomas speaks, and then shrugs his shoulders. "I should go, upstairs. Do stuff. Seeya."
Thomas tips his hat to Flint. "'Course."