Mess waiting for Cassidy when she gets in. Starts in the garage. Back bumper of the trunk streaked in dark, congealed liquid. Drips and drops of it all over the floor. Streaks where some great heavy leaking thing was dragged into the house, across the pale hardwood floors, out the back.
Couple cinderblocks out there stacked up to make a chopping block. Stains everywhere. Atop the cinderblocks, around the cinderblocks; sprayed ten feet in every direction. Chunk of something in the grass, too. Probably invisible in the darkness. Squishy, raw, and wet in the daylight.
No sign of the wolf when Cassidy lets herself in. Master bedroom door is closed, though, which probably means he's in and asleep. No sign of whatever it was that was so messily disposed of, either. Small blessings.
--
Few hours later and there's stirring upstairs. Thump of feet on the ground. Water rushing through pipes, shower turning on. Not long after, upstairs door opens.
Cassidy[Per+alert: Where the fuck did all of this shit go?!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )
Rafaël[into garbage bags. AND AWAY.]
Cassidy[sta+crafts? clean this shit up?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 4, 9, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
CassidyCassidy parked close. It's one of the things that she figured was fair, she wasn't going to walk around with the contents of her trunk everywhere.
Cassidy walked into the living room, followed the streaks of Gaia-knew-what into the garage. She then promptly went back to her car to retrieve bleach and a flashlight. First came out the Wal Mart bags. Little things, convenient things. Flashlight in one hand she carefully walked the perimeter of the lawn in lines instead of a spiral because she had a fucking problem with walking in some dizzying maddening swirl while she was hunting down chunks of dead thing in the front. She had to make sure it wasn't visible. That chunks of squishy and raw and wet didn't draw anyone's attention because that woudl get the cops called, would lead to an investigation, would lead to people poking their noses in places that they didn't belong.
She also found three bottle caps and a label off of an Ozarka water bottle. Litterbugs would not be tolerated.
---
Cinderblocks were moved to the garage. Or to somewhereelse in the garage. One at a time.
---
She washed her hands and moved the furniture. There was a lot of stuff that she had to move, things to inspect, portions of the floor to investigate because the hard wood was light and she didn't know if she was going to have to strip anything just yet and resand. She wasn't qualified to resand the floor, but Cassidy figured that, maybe, she might know a guy. Or know a guy who knows a guy.
It doesn't matter.
The upstairs door opens and she isn't done yet. She's made a lot of progress towards it being done. The garage is almost presentable, except for the stuff on the ceiling. The floor looks pretty decent. Cassidy smells like she's been courting Mr. Clean and he's left evidence of his amorous intent all over her hair and on her skin and on a nearby coffee table there's a receipt for an eight foot ladder. And more bleach. And pizza rolls, but she's only highlighted the ladder.
Rafaël"Ughh."
First thing out of her ungrateful employer's mouth. Standing up at the top of the stairs, hand clapped over his nose. Apparently didn't mind the stink of squishy raw wet chunks of mystery meat, but all that chemical cleaner scent was objectionable. Reaches back with his free hand. Shuts the bedroom door.
Comes down the stairs, then. Classy modern place; stairs are a tight spiral, all stainless steel and floating steps. Wolf's in pajama pants. Wolf's also in bandages, the better part of a shoulder and arm wrapped up like a mummy.
Housekeeper's still cleaning. Scrubbing away at the mess. Wolf has the good grace to look a little abashed, at least. Stops by the coffee table and checks out the receipt, then moves it over to the breakfast bar. Has a glass bowl there with his keys and wallet inside. Gets the wallet out, counts out some reimbursement money. Puts it under the receipt.
"Was gonna clean that when I woke up," he says. Fridge door sucks open. Bottles clink. Wolf comes up with a bottle of milk, whole, glass bottle. Old school. Hell knows where his chef finds this sort of thing, but then: they're in Denver. Health-conscious, hipster, liberal-leaning Denver. "You need help?"
Cassidy"I still have to clean the ceiling in the garage," she told him, "I could use the company in case I fall off the ladder."
Since she was going to be using it in a non-OSHA approved fashion. She was pretty sure OSHA had regulations against sitting on top of ladders to clean dead thing goo off of your employer's ceiling. It's her biggest concern there, cracking her head open on a floor that might still have chunks of Something in it.
Also: let it be said that Cassidy acquired a non-expensive ladder. As though such a thing existed, she wasn't sure about its structural integrity. We digress.
"It's no big deal, you hired me to clean your house. How you get it dirty is just a fact of the job."
Rafaël"Yeah, sure." Wolf takes a swig of milk. Sets the bottle aside, goes back to the fridge for a carton of eggs. Slab of bacon. "Lemme just fry up some breakfast. You eat yet?"
--
Smell of bacon grease mingles with smell of Mr. Clean before long. Door to the garage opens while Cassidy's setting up the ladder. Wolf has a plate for himself. One for her too if she wanted it. And that bottle of milk, tucked under his arm, transferred to the top of the shoe rack.
Wolf flicks the overhead lights on. Broad, clear fluorescents. Car's looking much better, and so is the floor. Ceiling's still got specks and smears of blood, though. Or whatever that was. Wolf's looking up at his handiwork, mildly impressed with himself.
"Don't even know how I got that up there," he comments. Eats his eggs and bacon.
Cassidy"I could go for breakfast."
---
She's not sitting on the ladder. At least, not on the top of it. Not straddled like she had originally anticipated having to do, which is fortunate because it was going to be a pain to store since she just managed to acquire a ladder for the boss man. Wolves in Crinos could be upward of seven and a half feet tall, reaching the ceiling was not a problem for them. she wondered if warriors in crinos changed lightbulbs.
We digress.
"You gotta hit something with a lot of force to make it splatter the way it did up there, normally, you just see the after bits of hitting something. Little bloody flecks everywhere. Or occasionally artful-arteral-fuck-arterial spray. and that-" she said as she gestured with a piece of bacon- "is not arterial spray."
She ascended the ladder with a rather jolly looking little sponge and an unlabeled squirt bottle.
"This is really good bacon."
Squirt squirt scrub.
Rafaël"All-organic." Wolf stays where he says, two feet on solid ground. Watches maid go up the ladder. "Sustainably farmed. Fair trade. Blah blah.
"You're right." Swallows a gulp of milk. "It's not arterial. Thing was dead already. Was just juicy. Had poppable bits."
Lifts the plate. Shovels the rest of the eggs in him mouth, fork scraping ceramic. Picks up the last couple pieces of bacon with his hands, eats them like candy bars.
"Seem to know a lot about splatter patterns."
Cassidy[Don't you dare laugh]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 4, 5, 10) ( success x 1 )
CassidyThe sound she made sounded similar to the sound one would make if they were trying to hack up phlegm or suppress a laugh. Maybe it was a little of both.
Scrubby scrubby don't think about evil wyrm grapes scrubby scrubby.
"Yeah," she said non-chalantly, "a lot of what kept be from being convicted of manslaughter was blood splatter evidence. Defense proved I'm not physically capable of leaving chunks of fine red fomor mist everywhere so I ended up just getting pegged with obstruction of justice."
Rafaël"Obstruction of justice." Wolf repeats it like he's mulling the words over. "That why there was that bit about prison in that file?"
Cassidy"Yeah," she said, "depending on what you're obstructing you can end up serving upwards of ten years. I got off pretty lucky just doing three."
Scrubscrub- she made a face for a minute, looking at a stain before starting on down the ladder to get something else. She looked again at the spots on the ceiling.
RafaëlWolf moves a little. Lets her get whatever supplies she needs. Moves the rest closer, where he can hand them up to her. Might as well make himself useful.
"So what were you obstructing?"
Cassidy"Kid had his first change while he was on his Mormon trip? Boyfriend and I came across the kid freaking the fuck out after he reduced some creeper to pieces. Mac dragged him off to the nearest safe place we knew about and I stayed back to try and clean up the mess so there wasn't any DNA or anything to trace back. So, I'm rendering a crime scene useless and it turns out someone called the cops."
She grabs another bottle and ascends the ladder once more. Blood and ichor are stubborn things.
Rafaël"And there went three years of your life." Another slug out of the milk bottle. Beats drinking booze at this hour, one supposes. "Was it worth it?"
Cassidy"It's not three years," she said, "it's the rest of your life. One way or another, you're always paying for it, the only thing is that when you get out you get some of your freedom back."
She shrugged, "but yeah, I think it was worth it. It had some benefits, a fuck ton of drawbacks, but it wasn't all shit."
Rafaël[empathy: is she being honest about it being worth it!]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 7) ( success x 2 )
CassidyYes and no!
Would she do it all again? Yes. Does she think that this is what she's supposed to do? Certainly.
Is she even remotely happy about the fact that she royally fucked up her life for the good of the tribe? Not even a little.
RafaëlEarns her a long look, that. Long and speculative and assessing. Wolf's got green eyes. Sharp, wolfish color. Sharp, wolfish eyes.
"Huh." Regard ends suddenly as it began. Whatever he may or may not have seen, wolf's keeping it to himself. Picks up his emptied plate now. And hers. Nevermind that technically it's her job to do the picking-up. "Hope the kid said thanks."
Cassidy"Full moons bulk up over a short time, man," she said with no small amount of wonder. She doesn't flinch when she's assessed. Doesn't shy away, doesn't behave like this is anything uncomfortable, because why would it be uncomfortable. She's just being watched by something feral- let it be said that she does know how to behave in polite society, but polite society doesn't mean crap when you're scrubbing gunk off the ceiling.
"He was a little scrawny thing when I left and three years later? The guy has biceps the size of my head. He sends me Christmas cards."
RafaëlFirst line out of her mouth puts a frown on wolf's face. Doesn't know where the fuck that came from. Thinks it's some sort of comment about him. Pretty sure he hasn't bulked up or down substantially since the last time they talked.
Maid goes on. Wolf gets it. Frown smooths. "Nice of him." Just a little sardonic, that. "Three years and you get some Christmas cards. And a nice reference from his folks. So now you can clean crap off some other wolf's ceiling."
Cassidy[Manip+sub, I am totally okay with life.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 4 )
Cassidy"We might have to paint it," she said once her feet are on the ground. Eyes narrow like the junk on the ceiling is taunting her, or where it's supported to be anyway, "I can't tell if it's gone or if it's just burned into my retina after staring at it for so long."
And now she can clean crap off some other wolf's ceiling, a fair point. She holds herself like she's comfortable in her space. Comfortable in her skin. Confident in where she is and what she has.
"Some people never figure out how to say thank you, figure that you don't thank people for doing their job."
A beat.
"It is what it is. Work's work, and it isn't shameful."
RafaëlWork's work.
Isn't shameful.
Something about that sets the wolf back a step. Makes him pause, look away, flatten his mouth. Eyes come back to her a moment later, level.
"You're right. It's not. Just trying to get a rise out of you." Wolf shrugs. Ahrouns and their bulk: shoulders big as stones roll and settle. "Sorry. Just bothers me how okay you are with it. Three years of my life, I'd be pissed as fuck."
Cassidy"I haven't figured out when you're joking or not," she said, "and a couple years ago? I was pissed as fuck. I had to get used to peeing with the door shut again, do you know how weird that is? That is seriously something you take for granted. And, like, dozens of other little things- I never wanted to vote until someone told me I wasn't allowed to vote and then all-of-a-sudden I had opinions about property taxes."
RafaëlBlank stare. "I'm never joking.
"Almost never. Sucks, anyway." Statement of dubious sympathy sounds about as offhand as his 'sorry' a moment before. "Taking these dishes in. Stop scrubbing at that shit. I'll get the hose from the backyard."
CassidyHe was putting the dishes away, doing whatever it was, and for that moment she was fairly pleased that she didn't have to worry about being on the ladder any longer. Cassidy meandered over and started to cleaning up her part of things, moving the various cleaning supplies and implements of dirt destruction out of the way.
She called back, "If the hose doesn't do it I can just go to Lowes and get some paint."
RafaëlDishwasher open. Dishes clanking in. Wolf's head pops up, incredulous. "You kidding me? You can't paint over that shit. That's disgusting."
Cassidy"What about patching the drywall?"
RafaëlRack of dishes goes clattering into the dishwasher. Wolf straightens up, aims a stare at Cassidy.
"Work's work. Not shameful. So do it. I'm getting the hose."
CassidyShe gave the wolf a thumbs up and got back to staring at the ceiling.
"Is it getting bigger?"
DevonSnowed all day.
Snowed all damn day. Roads are a mess, but at least the snow has stopped.
A car can be heard going past outside, and then one slows. And then the garage door begins to rattle upward. Franklin still has the lights on, though. Shines on Cassidy, shines on Rafael, shines on the ladder.
RafaëlWolf doesn't answer. Just shuts the dishwasher and starts it. Then heads out back.
Turns out the reel is bolted to the wall. Good thing he's got a long hose. Hurr. Soon enough maid hears him coming back, dragging the hose through the length of the house. Pulls the garage door open, wedges it wide with some old sneaker off the shoerack. Hands her the hose.
"Gonna go turn it on." Doesn't get around to it. Garage door opens.
Wolf's standing in the doorway. Cassidy's under a ladder. Because there's a ladder in the middle of the garage. Also cleaning supplies. Also, a large, darkish, congealed splash of something on the ceiling.
Car stops. Idles in the driveway. Franklin doesn't even look surprised anymore. Wolf stops shading his eyes with his hand, uses both to gesture to his driver. Out, out. Franklin's good at keeping a straight face, but Devon can hear him sigh under his breath. Puts the car in reverse. Backs out onto the driveway. Parks there.
"You meet my driver yet?" Barefoot, wolf starts across the freshly-cleaned garage floor. "And my housemate."
CassidyThere is a face that people make when they are in the headlights of another car. There is the initial squinting. The lifting of one's hand to half cover your eyes and the obligatory head tilt like tilting your head would make the fact that there was a car pulling in make any more sense than it did. She ran her tongue over her teeth and her eyes went from the stain (oh jeez, it probably is growing) to the people who were beyond gestured ever-so-emphatically out of the driveway.
Out out.
wavewave. Hello without words, and with a polite smile.
The free hand takes the hose and her attentions focus for a second. She tests the water pressure against her hand and concludes that it is adequate.
"I haven't met either of them," she said.
DevonThe lights are cut. Franklin sitting in the front, driver's side. Face begins to come forward from the back seat: long face, narrow, oval-shaped. Pale. She sees Rafael and someone she hasn't met yet; they reverse and the door slides closed again per Franklin's hand tapping a button.
Outside, the car stops and turns off, and doors open and shut, and then the front door of the house opens. They go in that way. Franklin goes... wherever he goes. The young woman they saw in the car, for her part, sheds outerwear and boots before walking across the plan of the house to the door that is, at the moment, propped open.
With one of her shoes. A grungy Converse that was once a dark blue. It's seen better days. She notices it is used as a doorstop. Shakes her head. But stands there in that doorway, dressed in a pair of leggings that are covered in some sort of map. A mountain range goes up her right left. The word mirkwood goes down her left leg. Her sweater is tunic-cut, wide and boxy and black. It's covered in holes. Tears, rips, runs like a stocking. Beneath it there's a bright pink tank top. Her eyes are smoky, a trifle smudged, with tiny wings on her eyeliner. Lips are pale, hinting at gold above the pink.
She leans against the doorframe, barefooted now.
"What's up?"
RafaëlWolf sees girl in the car. Figures; that would be why he hasn't seen her in the house. Or his driver. Or his car.
Flicker of an expression. Barely there. Might be a smile, quirking at the edge of his mouth. But then Franklin parks and kills the engine and the two of them start going through the front, so he hits the button. Garage door starts coming back down, rumbling.
Turns to maid. "Franklin. And Devon." Great; now she has to guess which of those unisex names is which.
Then girl comes up from behind. Has to sidestep the garden hose snaking through the whole house. Garage door's open and back door's open and all the heat's escaping. And here the three of them are, dressed for the heated indoors. Girl's barefoot and so is the wolf. Cassidy's probably wise enough not to be.
"Made a mess last night," wolf explains. "Cleaning it up. This is Cassidy. New maid. Took your advice, fired a bunch of the old people."
Cassidy[manip+sub: hide your panic!]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 6, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )
CassidyNooooo, of course she knows exactly which one is Devon and which one is Franklin. That much is obvious! Can't you tell by her calm demeanor and pleasant smile and generally calm ever so calm perfectly calm calmness? And thus she ran a hand through her fake blonde-colored ponytail. She's dressed like she's ready to run, or clean things. Probably both. Her tennis shoes were the special brand of too expensive shoes that people in the service industry wear because you're less likely to fall on your butt in a wet and slippery situation.
They weren't shoes for crew, because those were expensive. More like a knockoff but just as useful. She doesn't have any tattoos, doesn't have any visible scars.
"Just cleaning crap off the ceiling," she said with a smile, "oh, speaking of-" she addressed the general direction of Franklin and Devon (whichever one was which, she didn't know which of them lived there but she figured it was the one who wasn't driving) "- is there anything in particular either of you prefer to see changed? A horrible version to bleach or anything like that?"
DevonHer eyebrows slip upward for a moment, a dry little look. 'Made a mess'. He says he took her advice. And her eyes move over to the blonde. Looks her over. Looks up at the ceiling, which is a longer look than she gave Rafael and longer still than the one she gave Cassidy.
Lowers her gaze only slowly and shrugs. "It's his house."
Rafaël"Everything's fine as it is." Touch of impatience there. "Come on, hose is dripping. Just blast that shit off. I'll get a swiffer and scrub or something."
CassidyHe's getting impatient, says things are fine the way they are and, for her part, she shuts her mouth, pulls the little hand trigger, and braces for the inevitable kick back of makeshift power washing a ceiling.
"If you have a crappy broom that'll work better than a swiffer."
Half drowned out by the pshhhhhhhh sound a hose at high power makes.
Rafaël"See what I can find," over his shoulder, walking into the house. Leaves girl and maid alone for a while.
Comes back couple minutes later; has a bigass floor brush in his hand. "Here." Grips it in both hands like some sort of spear, braced and upraised. Starts scrubbing at the ceiling, furiously, back and forth, back and forth. "Spray where I'm scrubbing. No, here. Here. Okay."
Water dripping down from the ceiling by now. Running down the shaft of the brush, too, splattering off wolf's knuckles, elbows, end of the brush. It's a fucking mess.
DevonDevon hears the impatience. Glances at him, then at the ceiling. Cassidy blasts it with the hose and Devon steps back, out of the spray. She turns sideways as he comes closer, passes by her. She doesn't speak to the maid, washing the ceiling. She doesn't offer to help. She just watches.
Is still out of the way, when Rafael comes back. Arms still crossed. Still unhelpful. She watches Rafael help clean the gore, watches him and Cassidy scrub, and after a bit she goes inside.
--
They get the ceiling clean. More or less. Something about the Ichor of the Adversary: it's nasty, nasty stuff, and it clings, and it stains. They come indoors, both of them rather messy, and Devon is in the kitchen, crushing rosemary between her fingers, rubbing it off the stem, sprinkling it into a large pot on the stove that is bubbling away. She has a wooden spoon she's idly stirring with, clockwise. Glances up as they enter, but says nothing.
Cassidy is a stranger.
CassidyShe feels disgusting.
Not any different than she usually does when she's finished cleaning sometihng, but this was different because it mixed with chemicals and she was still pretty sure she was going to have to paint the ceiling. They could deal with mold later. Mostly, she just felt cold. Didn't say anything because cold didn't necessarily mean bad.
She stood at the garage, checking her shoes to make sure she wasn't going to track anything in that was more caustic than water.
"Thanks for helping," she tells Rafael, because she is grateful, because it was easier when done as a two man job. Beat the Hell out of cutting out the drywall, or at least preserved some of the property value. She does what she was here to do, moved furniture back to where she had originally found it, continued a brief inspection to be sure that nothing was terribly dusty or particularly disgusting.
"I'm gonna go change clothes and then get back on this," she says, like it matters, but she's in the process of going to the front door to find her keys.
RafaëlWolf seems to care a lot less what he is or isn't tracking into the house. Then again: he doesn't have to clean it up. Mostly.
So there he goes. Into the house with those big strides, leaving wet footprints, drops from his fingertips. Is peeling off that thoroughly sodden bandage as he goes; gets it most of the way when he gets thanked.
Turns. In the open-plan living room now. Can smell girl cooking up her herbs. Cassidy's probably smelled it too. First time she's meeting girl, but there must've been traces prior to this. Herbs in the garbage, or drying on some windowsill. Faint undefinable scent of some brew or other in the air.
"No problem." Uncomfortable pause. "Thanks for cleaning my house."
DevonThe only one of them who isn't gross right now is Devon. But Devon doesn't own this house. Devon didn't make that mess. Devon isn't paid to keep this house clear of messes. Devon's presence near Wyrm-tainted blood and guts and goo didn't make Rafael tense up, so it's safe to bet that Devon is a part of the nation. But clearly feels no great duty to it, to aid her comrades-in-the-war, et cetera.
She stirs the mixture on the stove. It smell warm and lemony, botanical, like a wet forest or -- somehow -- a familiar hand waking you from sleep. She looks up at them, watching Cassidy explain what she's going to do -- more work to be done, it seems.
Watches Rafael, who is not used to caring about anything he owns or in fact owning anything at all, dripping dirty water on the floor. Watches the two of them thank each other. Awkwardly. Snorts softly, shaking her head in quiet amusement, and does not apologize for having barely said two or three words to Cassidy. Watches her though, blue eyes staring through the steam.
Rafaël"Might as well change in one of the bathrooms if you've got an extra outfit in the car," wolf adds after a moment.
Maid takes her car keys and she goes outside. Comes back in or doesn't. For his part, wolf glances over the breakfast bar. Sees girl watching the goings-on with those witchy, cut-gem eyes of hers. "She's Glass Walker kin," he says, filling in some blank or other. "Gonna go shower. Rewrap this."
And off he goes too. Footsteps receding up those stylish spiral stairs.
CassidyPop the trunk, select a bag. Any bag. She has a bag full of work clothes, a bag full of non work clothes. A bag with documentation and emergency funds just in case she needs to find a place that isn't Denver to reside in for the foreseeable future. That bag is a work in progress, but she keeps raiding it for things like batteries and change for toll booths because she never has correct change but she does have two rolls of quarters for some unknown reason.
She comes back, changes, brings herself back tot hat open concept room in a pair of capri pants and tennis shoes and a tee shirt with a bleach stain on the bottom hem that probably got that way when she was a little heavier. Cassidy isn't a thin girl. She's not large or bulky, but she doesn't seem to have the wast to hip ratio that people are looking for. she's woman shaped, if only because all women are woman shaped, and to imply anything else would be to deny that there was a particular standard of womanhood that she needed to conform to.
The tennis shoes are obnoxious though. Something fluorescent and technicolor crayons and likely the result of being purchased with a gift card to some running store called the Quick Red Fox or something else that sounded suspiciously like a typing drill. Those shoes weren't for cleaning, but the other shoes that were for cleaning weren't necessarily going to get worn on account of being waterlogged.
Cassidy plopped a boring motel 6 towel on the floor and made her way to mopping up the water on the walkway.
"That smells fantastic," she remarked.
DevonRafael tells her about Cassidy.
"Figures," she says, though more about the 'kin' part than the 'Glass Walker' part. Her eyes flick to his shoulder. Skim over him. And then she looks away, and says nothing. He goes upstairs. She stirs. She adds a couple of fresh bay leaves.
--
Some time goes by, and Cassidy comes back in with a bag. Cassidy starts mopping. And then, unsettlingly, Cassidy begins speaking to her. Devon looks up, and over, and says nothing for a moment.
"Thanks," she says, tightly.
MorganThunk. Thunk. THUNK.
That would be the van der Valk front door being thoroughly disrespected by a fist. You know, one moment you're having an entirely normal, civilized evening for one entertained inside a Silver Fang Ahroun's residence (one supposes tainted water dripping out from under a garage door folds itself neatly into the normal, civilized checkbox but we shan't dwell too long on that) and the next there's some impolite asshole at your door in the (not quite) deep, dark depth of the night demanding attention as if each thunk against the wood were an exclamation mark popping into tangibility over their heads.
Outside -- if there's a camera, it swivels on a figure at the door holding something inside a closed fist as it hammers again on the door -- stands one Morgan Roche. Firebrand, to some. An Ahroun of no exceptional rank or circumstance but that she's a small hurricane in a lanky frame with all the usual graces of a teenage girl. There's a denim jacket that's been tugged over one side of her body and a suspiciously dark patch seeping through it; dripping small amounts of what could only be blood mixed with something unnaturally sticky onto Rafael's doormat.
Assuming, of course, he has one. Otherwise, that poor Glasswalker's attempts at cleaning are about to be unceremoniously tested. You see, Morgan has a Questing Stone. She (sort of) knows the Silver Fang who owns this apartment and she's in a rather exhausted come desperate need to find a place out of clear and present sight while whatever she's been wrestling with's handiwork heals.
So, to resume: there's someone at the door. Impatient knocking re-commences.
Rafaël[...poor cassidy, man. *LOL*]
RafaëlHouse Morgan's questing stone led her to is a nice one, in a nice, central part of town. Freestanding and detached, but with a townhome's sensibilities and dimensions: tall, high-ceilinged, lots of open space. Modern angles. Lots of glass. Front door is hefty and solid. Thuds nicely under her knuckles.
Wolf isn't gone too long. Just showered this morning, after all. This afternoon. Whatever. Whenever it was that he woke up. Comes out of his bedroom less than ten minutes after he goes in. Is still wearing those lounge pants. Is in the process of rewrapping whatever hideous wound his shoulder bears when that hammering starts. Sets his nerves instantly on edge. Brings his eyes sharply to the door.
Then he comes down the stairs. Jogging, lighter-of-foot than anyone his size has any right to be. Hits the ground floor and goes to the front door, muttering -- fucking kidding me? -- throws back the bolt and yanks it open without bothering to check the peephole.
Full-moon standing outside. Another full-moon. Female, redhaired. Passingly familiar. Beat goes by and then wolf recognizes her. That's right: EnerJam. That woman he tore in half. And those two fomori. Now they meet again: wolf with a bigass bandage on his shoulder and arm, and wyrmish water seeping out from his garage. She-wolf with fresh blood somewhere on her. He can smell it.
Stares a moment. Then steps aside silently, jerks his head to nod her in. Door shuts behind her.
"Fuck happened to you?"
CassidyThanks, Devon/Franklin (?) says, all tight.
And, saved from having to make a quiet getaway from that conversation, there is a knock on the door. A knock like someone who was an authority figure. Cassidy picked up the towel and threw it over her arm before going to the front door and peering through... well.. whatever there was to peer through. If it was a peephole, she might have had to stand up a little straighter. If it were a window, she inconspicuously pulled the blinds back just enough to look. Otherwise, there was a brief flash of bottled blonde hair and looking out at the lanky frame and hurricane countenance of one Fianna ahroun.
This was about the time that there was the sound of someone coming down the stairs. There was only one other person in the house, which sent the Glass Walker sprawling away from the door and off to retrieve, well, another towel. There was a bloody person at the door and there she was, inconspicuous. Once Morgan made it in, a fresh towel was offered. Grant you, it was a crappy Motel 6 towel, but it was offered.
DevonDevon was not here last night. Devon was not here this morning. Devon was not here most of the day. She's here now, in yesterday's clothes and that slightly smudged makeup, cooking something. Making something. Stirring slowly, rhythmically. It bubbles. It begins to smell richer, thicker than before. Strangely mouth-watering.
Rafael comes back down, someone starts knocking. And the door is opened and Devon remains where she is. Stands very straight of back, her shoulders square. Watches in silence, as though she were as much a servant as Cassidy is. But there's a fainty regal bearing about her that has nothing to do with queenship.
The master of the house demands; the maid assists. The young woman in the kitchen stays where she is, in her fashionably torn-up sweater and her map-of-middle-earth leggings, watching them all in dead silence.
MorganIt's nearly her moon. Nearly his, too, one way or another. Big, round moon will be up soon, maybe already is the timing of the when isn't nearly as important to one of Morgan or Rafael's ilk as the what and how many. It could be he doesn't remember her from a bar of soap -- turns out, he does, sort of -- she's at the very least a familiarly scented one.
Smells of rolling, verdant hills and, at least right now, a little like copper and whatever had been leaking out from under his garage door. He stares at her; she weaves a little where she stands, pockets the stone after a moment of staring back and shoulders through his door when he offers her space to do so.
Dripping on through to the other side, is Morgan.
She's not a small, fragile looking flower, this Fiann. She's tall; full figured and her hair is long and, when there's time for it; well managed. It doesn't look so well managed at the present. She's got a cut lip; flyaway strands at every angle and she's favoring her left; cupping her right as blood oozes between her fingers. Bright blue eyes scope out the scene in approximately one second: girl; scent of another girl; Rafael asking what happened.
Blood on his floor; painting her sneaker laces.
She feels like replying with something baity; snappish and foolish and talking right at the moon it nearly is outside. Instead, there's a firm-mouthed: "Go' ambushed. Took out a somethin' gross in an alleyway. Tasted like a septic tank." She flourishes her jacket back; there's a deep gouge in her side; it's not pretty. Green ooze dripping from four claw marks.
"Got m'side. Needed to get outta sight." There's a small pool of blood and slime gathering where she's standing. "You were closest." A blonde woman passes her a towel; Morgan takes it and puts it against her side; it rapidly turns deep red.
Cassidy gets the benefit of a scouring; considering; wounded Ahroun's regard for that. "Ta."
RafaëlFirebrand shows. Wolf looks. Grabs the edge of her jacket and pulls it back. Ugly wound. Green ooze. Wolf frowns, lets the coat flap back into place.
"Go get cleaned up. Shower's in my room, upstairs and to the left. Got bandages out on the counter if you need them. You know how to cleanse, don't you? Might wanna cleanse yourself."
Two wounded wolves under the same roof. Rough night for Gaia's warriors. Victorious, apparently. But rough.
CassidyGarou buy good trashbags.
It's a little known, less cared about fact, but when you are potentially hauling the bits of your enemies to various places to be burned or otherwise disposed of, you tend to want to buy something that is going to be able to handle piles of grossness. That is, if you were going to take your fight to an urban setting. Maybe some people did buy bad trash bags, but she smiled, something reassuring even though the full moon Fianna didn't need any reassurance, and she bounded off to the kitchen to go get something to start hauling soiled gear into. Things that were bloody, but salvagable. Things that were beyond repair.
"Do you need anything to wear?" because it bore asking. Not that anything that would fit Cassidy would fit Morgan. Cassidy was probably a good four inches shorter than the female.
DevonTwo wounded wolves. Devon snorts to herself. She notices the bloody woman, the one with the red hair, and she could make some guesses about that. For her part, the skinny young woman in the kitchen doesn't appear to have much red in her hair at all -- at least not in this light. Black Irish, they might have once said, but her eyes aren't dark and her skin isn't dusky. Fair enough to have freckles. Eyes are faceted blue. She wonders a bit about Morgan, but doesn't speak up at all.
Lots of fighting going on tonight, she thinks. Lots of things to kill. She notes how Rafael sends people to his bathroom, not his houseguest's. He doesn't call her a houseguest, though.
She announces, out of nowhere:
"Stew'll be ready soon."
MorganFor a girl accustomed to cheap motels across town and a tiny apartment shared with two other of her tribe one can imagine the idea of there being an upstairs to anything seems imposing. She's hurt, but the fact that she is seems provoking of irritation more than any real anguish or agony. She's seen worse, he's seen worse.
Hell, she watched the wolf in front of her eat the face off their enemy not so long ago for blowing a whistle instead of talking. Still -- the wound irritates. It's jagged and pinching and Morgan begins to drip a little trail as she squelches off in the direction of this Silver Fang's pristine bathroom.
"Yeah, can do tha'," she offers as she goes, stripping off her jacket and bundling it. The claw marks are a little more visible like this; clear through her side; her bare shoulders fair and freckled; there's a scar that slopes under the short sleeve; some old wound. Something that felled her long ago. Didn't keep her down though, this girl who can't be much more than eighteen or nineteen and feels like she's smothering the room by lieu of existing.
That crackle of Rage is ... challenging, with one Ahroun. When they gather, when there's a plural sense of it -- it cannot feel anything close to comfortable.
The unknown blonde smiles; Morgan responds to it with something that might have been an attempt at friendly but -- her teeth are stained pink and when she tries; her mouth moves the cut; drags it wider; makes her look a little more like this wild, feral thing wrapped in girl parts and set tottering off. Still -- points for effort, Roche. She's on her way when the Kin asks if she needs something to change into.
Pause; twist at the foot of the stairs. A glance down. "If y'have something that you don't mind gettin' a bit bloody, sure. Otherwise, I'm not standin' on social graces to flash my midriff." There's a flicker of something to that -- tribal humor; self deprecating reflection.
The other one; she calls out from where something smells appealing; makes her belly rumble. She looks at Devon for just a moment. Just a quick head to foot you know. The perusal of a stranger to another but she looks so -- "Tha' smells fantastic by the way." This, called eventually, when she resumes squelching her way up the stairs and leaves a sneaker printed trace behind.
Rafaël"No, fuck's sake, just grab sweats out of my closet," wolf calls after his fellow-moon.
Spiral stairs up to the second floor. Hallway's open to the double-height living room, and runs almost the length of the house. Connects a bedroom in the front to two in the back. One of the back ones is the wolf's. She can tell because she can smell him there. And also because he pointed her that way.
Nice place. Lights are bright and steady. Downstairs is hardwood and granite and stainless steel, accent walls and light, sleek furniture. Upstairs is thick carpeting and bay windows in the master bedroom. Big ass bed in there, probably soft as clouds by the looks of it. Bathroom's got a mirror stretching over the sinks, separate shower and garden tub.
Curious thing, though. Not much in the way of personal touches. No photos, no knickknacks. It's the wolf's den -- obviously so -- but he leaves little of himself around. Even the closet, enormous, walk-in, filled with all manner of finery, doesn't feel quite like his own. Everything's so neat and put-away.
Except for that rack in the closet, close to the door. That's the one that holds sweats and jeans and t-shirts and other shitty clothing. Those look lived-in. Feel lived-in.
--
Shower comes on upstairs. Downstairs, wolf looks at the fresh bloodstains, disgruntled. Poor fucking maid. This time he doesn't help clean up. Goes in the kitchen instead, standing by the girl, looking in the pot.
"Didn't realize you were cooking," he says. Sniffs at the concoction. "What is it?"
A beat. And also:
"She's one of Stag's too." There's a certain measured offhandedness to that. "Full Moon. Name's Firebrand."
DevonIt does smell fantastic. Smells homey and familiar. Mouth-watering. And Devon just stirs, slowly, letting the broth -- and the red wine -- cook down. She looks at Rafael for a while, then away, tucking a loose wavy lock of dark hair behind one ear. He walks himself over, peering over her shoulder.
"Stew," she says, with an air of again.
The redhead is also a Fiann. "All right," Devon says simply, in that way she has, the words round and full in her mouth, hinting at an accent he's only rarely heard. She stirs. Looks at the concoction: chunks of beef, little bay leaves, flecks of rosemary, hunks of potato, floating peas, carrots. "Get some bread out, would you?" she says, offhand, not as measured or careful as his own.
Pauses a moment after saying that, without quite thinking about it. Flicks her eyes at Cassidy. Flicks her eyes at Rafael.
CassidyThey disperse. People go their separate ways and she's left with the mess and a finite amount of time to actually clean things before blood soaks in to whatever happens to be there and light wooded and shit shit shit this is dirty.
This wasn't usual. Normally, this was an easy job. The guy paid for her apartment, or at least offered a subsidy for her apartment, which happened to be inhabited by two other Glass Walkers she met on the 'net and an Uktena who did a very good job of keeping to herself and not causing a major headache. And being a generally upright citizen. We digress. The point is, working for this particular Fang had a lot of perks, and feverishly cleaning up blood from various random nooks and whatnot wasn't a particularly big deal.
And there was stew.
RafaëlWhatever the fuck the flicking eyes was supposed to mean, wolf misses it. Hell, maybe she was just looking around.
"When the hell did you learn to cook stew?"
Cupboards open and shut. Wolf gets spoons out. Crusty bread from the breadbox. Takes down bowls. Big sturdy earthenware ones that'll keep the stew arm. Four of them. Eating with the help. His silver-blooded ancestors would have fucking meltdowns. James would've had a fucking meltdown, uppity little shit.
"Leave it for later, Cass. Eat."
MorganMorgan goes up. Takes the stench and the squelch of blood with her as she does. Showers off the worst of it; mends her side; tapes it up at the very least. Borrows sweats that require a little rolling up at the ankle; folding and tucking in.
It takes a while, all told. Not as long as it might for some women, but then Morgan Roche isn't the sort of girl who fusses overly much about looking pale and drawn after a shower. She re-appears at some point when the bowls and bread have been taken out; cut; hearty serves of Devon's stew ladled out, perhaps. A slim girl with wet hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
She's pale beneath that fiery hair; she should be, considering she lost a chunk of her side not so long ago. Hops down the final step and carefully weaves a path across to where the others are gathered; picking at the hem of the borrowed shirt a moment; eyes ticking over the gathered as if just realizing how deeply she's imposing on people she doesn't know.
She'd killed stuff beside one of them, but it was a different world: then to now. Put her on a battlefield and instinct took over, make her act to social norms: the inner girl in the wolf emerges. She hovers for a minute; chews her lower lip. Lifts her chin eventually.
"Thanks for the clothes." She sets her eyes on the food, then. Almost comically brightens. "Y'made real stew." As if there's a difference. As if one could make a realer stew than others. "My mother made a great one. Nothin' out of a can at all." Pride, at that. Hinted in Morgan's voice as she overrides the hesitation and inches closer.
DevonShe snorts a laugh through her nostrils. "Many years training with monks in the Himalayas," she tells him. Because stew is so hard. She stops stirring for a moment. Reaches down and gets a spoon, tastes the stew, then adds more of the kosher salt she has beside her.
"Wine," Devon also says, and it could be to Rafael, or it could be to Cassidy, who at least knows where the pantry is and where the wine is kept. Could even be to Morgan, coming back down. Might just be a reminder. But in due time she flicks off the burners on the stove and sets down the wooden spoon in the sink, replacing it with a ladle that sinks into the pot. She gets a couple of pot holders and carries the tall, heavy-bottomed pan to the table, rather than the counter where she might have otherwise expected to eat.
Doesn't ask questions about Morgan or Cassidy. Not even the polite small-talk ones. There is bread, and perhaps wine or beer coming out. She does glance at Morgan at the y'all, but only because Rafael and Cassidy didn't help. Tips her head a bit, setting the pot on a trivet and tossing aside the pot holders.
"Should be enough," is all she says, spooning some into one of the bowls Rafael got out. Not to hand to a guest, or to the owner of the house. No: she gets herself a bowl of stew and then settles into a chair, ripping a hunk of bread from the loaf and digging in without another word to anyone. It isn't that she isn't curious, or even that her hunger overtakes her. If Rafael himself were more of a gracious host he'd keep them all going with lively conversation.
That's not his style, either.
RafaëlWolf can't remember the last time he actually sat and ate at this table. Most times he eats at the breakfast bar. Or on his recliner in front of the TV. Feels strange, four of them sitting around a table. Pot of stew there in the middle. Bowls, bread. Wine, if someone got a bottle. Feels strange, but not entirely unpleasant.
No lively conversation out of him, though. Just sits there eating. Elbows on the table. Using his hands and the crust of his bread more than his spoon. Occasionally slurps. Chews on potatoes, beef, bread dipped in hearty broth.
"Could call me next time."
That, out of nowhere. Wolf's looking at his bowl so can't even tell who he's addressing. Not until he dips the last of his bread, eats it, looks across the table at the other full-moon.
"Next time you get in a fight," he clarifies. "If you want some backup."
CassidyStew was up, someone else got bread, and she made a brief pit stop by the nearest sink to wash her hands on account of not knowing exactly what it was she may or may not have come into contact with. She scrubs, makes sure everything is spotless and two happy birthdays later she is looking around for a towel, settles on wiping her hands off on her shirt- because the shirt was clean- and it was time to get in line for whatever they were doing in terms of eating.
She doesn't eat first. Not because she isn't hungry, but rather, because this isn't her house and this isn't the meal she made and once it's done she's got to go get blood out of the grooves in the hardwood. She dishes out food last if she can get away with it, settles in with surprisingly good posture. she doesn't seem like the type who would have good posture. She seems more the type that would hover over her food and hold a spoon like a weapon and devour food as quickly as it was sat in front of her but there were niceties to be had and there was conversation to be had.
"I did not come from a cooking household," she told Morgan, "We were raised almost entirely on Chinese take out. Which, depending on who you ask, is like the official Jersey Glass Walker tribal food," She said with a grin.
She does, however, go on with eating food and listening to conversation.
MorganThe last few occasions Morgan has had to share meals with others had been perched on the arm of a worn sofa while she discussed potential threats to Denver's safety with a Kinsman of her tribe and several open beers in front of them. She eats with the quiet ferocity of a creature who isn't quite sure how soon her bowl will be snatched out from under her.
Truth be told, the Glass Walker probably has the nicest social graces of the four of them. Morgan doesn't dribble the stew down her chin, that being said. Her elbows aren't so much on the table as they're cocked out in a strange display as if she were a bird about to take flight. It's a little awkward; but so is the way she drops half a piece of bread into her bowl and mops up buckets of the liquid before devouring it in a single gulp.
Could call me next time, the Silver Fang says and her eyes tick across to him from beneath that wet hair; licking the edge of her mouth. It's such an animalistic gesture; she reminds of a she-wolf hovering over her kill; weighing up the benefits of snapping her teeth at a pack mate. She doesn't, of course. Just resumes chewing after a beat of stillness and swallows, then --
"Could. If y'want." Another beat; the edge of a quicksilver grin. "Don't usually get taken by surprise like tonight, though. But - " Sit back; sniff. The flick to and away across to him. "Guess it wouldn't hurt t'have some extra teeth." Cassidy gets Morgan's attention then, mostly because she names her tribe. There's a fraction of a second there when the Fianna looks her over. The tighter scrutiny perhaps, knowing she's inside a Silver Fang's home. The lines of affiliation and loyalty, they do get so smeared in these last days.
"Glass Walker, huh?" She wipes at the edge of her mouth with a hand. "I knew some back in Portland. Got us free wifi." Another spoonful of stew. "I've only met one or two since I've been here."
RafaëlFirebrand insists she doesn't usually get taken by surprise. Look on wolf's face is -- doubting. Least he has the good grace not to say it out loud. Over dinner. With an audience.
He's thinking it though. She can tell. Hell, they can all tell. It's the look. It's the silence. And then the laconic shrug of those enormous shoulders. One bandaged.
"Like I said. Just call me." Picks up his bowl, then, and dumps the rest into his mouth. Stands up. First one finished, like there's some sort of a prize to be had. "Crash on the couch if you want. Gonna go write my number down for you."
Cassidy"I haven't either, the only others I've met in town live with me," Four people packed into a two bedroom apartment. Kinda like cockroaches. Matt and Anna weren't particularly good for much except paying their part of the rent. And occasionally seeing to tribal matters. This is what happens when you acquire room mates on the Glass Walker equivalent of Craigslist, "but I just got here, so there's that. I'm probably not an accurate gauge for tribal presence."
DevonDevon eats hunched over her bowl. Wields her spoon like a weapon. Flicks her eyes around hither and yon, watching the others but not engaging. Rafael speaks but Devon doesn't join in. She pays quiet attention to what people say, and how they behave. The way the Ahrouns eat like Devon eats. The way the new maid sits up straight and eats politely.
She sees that Rafael is done and there's a shimmer of something that goes through her eyes. She waits til he looks at the table and then gives him a STARE.
Rafaël[WHAT ON EARTH DOES THAT MEAN]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )
Devon[DUDE I DON'T KNOW THESE PEOPLE AND YOU'RE LEAVING :[ NO BE DO]
MorganRafael looks dubious. Morgan looks ... unrepentant, to put it mildly. Confident in her assurance that she is not one of these Garou who get taken by surprise by an ambush. Put it down to her blood; she's born of the tribe who were renown, amongst other claims to infamy; for being full of outlandish stories. Bards and talespinners; those great sons and daughters of Stag and Morgan is no less one for her youth and impatience.
All the more so, in actuality.
The Silver Fang shrugs; the Fianna offers one of her own in reply. Offhand; casual. He's leaving to go write down his number for her. Morgan's clear eyes track him for a minute and then tick back to the Glass Walker Kin. Devon is quiet; Morgan doesn't seem overly concerned by her reticence but then, that was Firebrand for you. She was the sort of creature to take a first impression for what it was but not seek to run away with wondering what lay beneath. To unravel and toy with the layers.
You were what you were, a simple sentiment enough.
"I know t'ones at the Sept in t'city a little. They seem alright." Morgan finishes up her meal; carefully sets the spoon in the bowl to keep her mess contained in an action quite endearing for its total redundancy after spreading so much mess around the apartment. "Met a Fenrir Kin and one of his," a thumb jerk toward Rafael, wherever he's standing. "On t'way to the last Moot. Said he has a Cub here." Something like empathy touches the edges of the smile that memory evokes.
"There's a lot of us going it alone." She may include herself in that, who knew.
RafaëlMinor miracle that the wolf even understands that look. He does, though. Takes his bowl into the kitchen. Brings back a post-it pad, scribbles his number on it. Peels the top note off and tacks it to the tabletop next to Firebrand. Her elbow, at least.
Catches the last of what she's saying. Going it alone. Seems like something he ought to comment on. Or at least acknowledge.
Doesn't. Pulls a chair out. Different one this time. Next to girl. Sits back down. Gives her a look back, frowning. Then smirking. Then listening to his guests. Well. His maid and his guest. First dinner party he's ever thrown, really.
CassidyThere's a lot of us going it alone, Morgan says.
"That's got to be hard," she said, and she continues on with her food. She seems to have a good pace of being able to eat at a reasonable, non-fevered pace and being able to engage in conversation. She keys in, interested and engaged. She doesn't dawdle, though, because the longer she sits here the longer she recognizes that it's going to take for her to clean up the rest of the house and get the blood out of things.
MorganHere's the strange thing about life, even in the World of Darkness.
It stitches people together; out of necessity; out of kinship; in love; in lust; in battle. There's a certain poetry whether you consider it profound or crude that has two Ahrouns from starkly different worlds breaking (literal) bread together. Prepared by the blood of one; sheltered by another with the ancestry of Kings and joined by those who for so long have been considered the traitors. The Urrah, the Weaver Wolves and their urban Kin.
One, the fiery redhead who'd shown up at Rafael's door, speaks of isolation; of the inevitability of the war; of finding oneself battling on without brothers; without sisters or pack to speak of. It's a stark reminder of their reality; a harsher one by far in many respects than the sight of Morgan Roche; bloodied at his door. That so many wolves will fall; fated to perhaps or the unlucky found in the wrong place at the right time for the Wyrm. The others listen; their voices rise and fall; join in perhaps now and then.
At one point the Fianna Ahroun takes the number given to her and stows it away; at another the Glass Walker busies herself with the mundane tasks she's given herself in association with this place; with these people. Eventually, they all drift; untether themselves and arrange around the apartment as they ought. As they would.
Firebrand doesn't leave. She curls up on Rafael's sofa. Sleeps there; long and deep until hours wear down.
When Devon or the man himself re-emerge; there's little sign of the Ahroun who'd crashed their dwelling but for a hasty scribbled note of thanks left pinned to the table underneath a salt shaker.
No comments:
Post a Comment