Imogen
Billy McCann
Wed 06:40PM CST
Riverside: one beat-up pickup truck with liberal rust and peeling green paint. There's an actual bale of hay in the bed of the truck, and a huge silver tool box mounted on the bed just behind the cab. NASCAR bumper sticker and another with a skull and crossbones that's so old and bleached out it looks more like a grinning clown on a field of gray. The second eldest McCann is standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the truck. Elbows perched against the frame, a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag dangles from his left hand. Now and then, he takes a sip while watching the sky, clouds shifting across the bright blue sky, the late afternoon sun. The long shadows and squalor between him and it. Both and all of it, watchful.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 06:47PM CST
Hot weather that promises rain, and the radio promises thunderstorms. No one's seen it yet, and even the sky, only partly cloudy, seems to directly contradict both the droning voice of the weatherman and the heavy electric weight to the air.
When it rains now, she can feel it through the shoulder, sometimes almost to the neck, a dull ache that stiffens muscles, or perhaps only makes her think they are. She rubs it absently, as she comes 'round the corner, before extending the afflicted arm to throw a newspaper into a garbage can, the same hand lifting to run through her hair.
To talk about the things seen: would be to mention the red hair, pale porcelain skin. The slight height that still edges on almost lithe, even if she misses the loooong sultry length that would mostly be associated with such a word. The dark dark eyes, and the fact she wears a jacket, despite the fact that the heat is almost murder. Black slacks, as if she belongs in an office building, not in the dingy greyness that speaks of no money spent for decades and a degree of hopelessness that says that it the same money is not likely to come, any time soon.
Billy McCann
Wed 06:57PM CST
Billy lifts his bottle, takes a swing. Sets it back down tipped against the truck frame, not bothering to grimace at the rough taste of the cheap liquor. Can't afford no more, what with the price of rice in China. Don't care, so long's he can afford this much. Dropping his gaze from the sky to more mundane activity across the street, a trio of children running after a ball. Follows the children and the ball with just his gaze, not bothering to move much otherwise. Too hot to move. The sun feels to damn good.
Children and then a flash of something out the corner of his eyes a bit more innerestin' than children. His gaze falls on Imogen, and he finally thinks to move. Barely. Straightens just so, elbow sliding along the metal. Tips his blonde head like some sheriff in an ole western, with the some laconic grace, nevermind that he ain't wearin' a hat. Blonde hair, almost curly. Lean and tall, muscle and sinew and bone. Broadshouldered, and so damned sunburned that he's given up and turned brown, with just a wash of red to tell the tale of his colorin'. Highlights of sunburn beneath both eyes, brighter red.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 07:09PM CST
To talk about things unseen: the way blood speaks and has a history all its own. The way, even as her hand lifts to push back further strands of hair, stirred by the wind, there's some sort of echo, or memory in that motion, stirring stories that might not even be completely remembered.
It was, after all. Another country. Another continent. Another century. When the end-times were not quite so close, the heroes still dead, but alive for a little longer. More of an impression.
Children screech across the street and her head turns, briefly, steps half pausing as she follows the dash of boys and toys, roughhousing in their battle over the ball, before her gaze turns back to her path, which has led her into Billy's sight.
And maybe gaze has a weight, or she is simply perceptive as her gaze shifts slightly toward the reclining sunbrowned blonde.
Her gaze is a little direct, by human standards. To a Garou, it must be down-right challenging.
Billy McCann
Wed 07:21PM CST
He's just a lean old redneck with rusting old truck, but he returns the look with a lazy directness. Even if he can feel her stare coiling up in him like something hard and wrong, he watches her back. He watches her right back and makes sure she knows he watches her. His eyes are the pale blue of a late summer sky, the kind that's done got itself so scorched by heathaze its turned near white.
Billy stretches. Lifts the bottle again, but instead of taking another drink on it, he tips it toward Imogen like it was a bottle of something fine. An' don't say nothing or offer no expression beyond that. Naw: he just watches her, and watches her move.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 07:34PM CST
Her attention flicks toward the drink, downward to the sunbrowned hand wrapped around the cheap bottle. There is a moment where she pauses, but it's only to speak her response. Stillness presents itself briefly across her form, hands loose at her sides.
"Pass." Single word like that from an Indiana boy? Might leave the listener wondering about his origins. Hers is perhaps the same, except she does offer one assurance: she is not from the good old United States of America.
And then he has the pleasure of watching her move again, the sort of almost-grace of praticality, a motion not found in dancers (too elegant) or warriors (not elegant enough) as she starts to walk away.
Billy McCann
Wed 07:44PM CST
Pass. That's all, nothing else. That and her starin' and her hair and her grace are gettin' folded up inside him too. The threads are frayed and separate and don't make much sense when they's all wrapped up together, but he don't care. World don't hafta make no sense, it's just gotta keep spinnin' around. She responds with one word an' he don't say nothing. Just tips his head in her direction agin like he's watched about 27 too many Clint Eastwood movies, an' maybe that 'splains his near permanent squin an' the sunlight that's embedded itself in his eyes. Only when she's past him does his serious mein break open, dour face spliting into a lazy grin. If she turned around at just that moment, she might catch the last edge of the expression, for its swallowed back real quick until it seems about like it ain't never was.
Maybe she can feel his eyes on her as she walks away. On her shoulders, on the sunlight in her hair, on the sway of her hips. Maybe she cain't. It don't matter: it's there. Just settled there on her the whole rest of the time she's walking within his sightin' range. An' where her path leads out of his line of sight, well, his eyes'll still linger on the void where she was like he can prick out remnants of her shape from the hanging weight of the light and shadow and air.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 07:53PM CST
A strange little interaction. Later, should she find out his tribe, his type, she might scoff quietly, internally whipping herself for not noticing it sooner. That a Garou can react to her breeding the same way a man might react to her self, her slender form, extraordinary hair and blue eyes will forever throw her off.
No matter. She can feel his gaze weighted on her back, the way a prey might feel a predator (and later, if she finds out, if she knows, she might think of that, too) waiting to pounce as she walks, sliding her hands into her jacket pocket, and taking the next corner, taking her path out of his sight. And her, back to her job, or perhaps to home, or for food. And him, to his bottle and his truck and the lazy hot air of a night that promises storms unseen.
Wed 06:40PM CST
Riverside: one beat-up pickup truck with liberal rust and peeling green paint. There's an actual bale of hay in the bed of the truck, and a huge silver tool box mounted on the bed just behind the cab. NASCAR bumper sticker and another with a skull and crossbones that's so old and bleached out it looks more like a grinning clown on a field of gray. The second eldest McCann is standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the truck. Elbows perched against the frame, a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag dangles from his left hand. Now and then, he takes a sip while watching the sky, clouds shifting across the bright blue sky, the late afternoon sun. The long shadows and squalor between him and it. Both and all of it, watchful.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 06:47PM CST
Hot weather that promises rain, and the radio promises thunderstorms. No one's seen it yet, and even the sky, only partly cloudy, seems to directly contradict both the droning voice of the weatherman and the heavy electric weight to the air.
When it rains now, she can feel it through the shoulder, sometimes almost to the neck, a dull ache that stiffens muscles, or perhaps only makes her think they are. She rubs it absently, as she comes 'round the corner, before extending the afflicted arm to throw a newspaper into a garbage can, the same hand lifting to run through her hair.
To talk about the things seen: would be to mention the red hair, pale porcelain skin. The slight height that still edges on almost lithe, even if she misses the loooong sultry length that would mostly be associated with such a word. The dark dark eyes, and the fact she wears a jacket, despite the fact that the heat is almost murder. Black slacks, as if she belongs in an office building, not in the dingy greyness that speaks of no money spent for decades and a degree of hopelessness that says that it the same money is not likely to come, any time soon.
Billy McCann
Wed 06:57PM CST
Billy lifts his bottle, takes a swing. Sets it back down tipped against the truck frame, not bothering to grimace at the rough taste of the cheap liquor. Can't afford no more, what with the price of rice in China. Don't care, so long's he can afford this much. Dropping his gaze from the sky to more mundane activity across the street, a trio of children running after a ball. Follows the children and the ball with just his gaze, not bothering to move much otherwise. Too hot to move. The sun feels to damn good.
Children and then a flash of something out the corner of his eyes a bit more innerestin' than children. His gaze falls on Imogen, and he finally thinks to move. Barely. Straightens just so, elbow sliding along the metal. Tips his blonde head like some sheriff in an ole western, with the some laconic grace, nevermind that he ain't wearin' a hat. Blonde hair, almost curly. Lean and tall, muscle and sinew and bone. Broadshouldered, and so damned sunburned that he's given up and turned brown, with just a wash of red to tell the tale of his colorin'. Highlights of sunburn beneath both eyes, brighter red.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 07:09PM CST
To talk about things unseen: the way blood speaks and has a history all its own. The way, even as her hand lifts to push back further strands of hair, stirred by the wind, there's some sort of echo, or memory in that motion, stirring stories that might not even be completely remembered.
It was, after all. Another country. Another continent. Another century. When the end-times were not quite so close, the heroes still dead, but alive for a little longer. More of an impression.
Children screech across the street and her head turns, briefly, steps half pausing as she follows the dash of boys and toys, roughhousing in their battle over the ball, before her gaze turns back to her path, which has led her into Billy's sight.
And maybe gaze has a weight, or she is simply perceptive as her gaze shifts slightly toward the reclining sunbrowned blonde.
Her gaze is a little direct, by human standards. To a Garou, it must be down-right challenging.
Billy McCann
Wed 07:21PM CST
He's just a lean old redneck with rusting old truck, but he returns the look with a lazy directness. Even if he can feel her stare coiling up in him like something hard and wrong, he watches her back. He watches her right back and makes sure she knows he watches her. His eyes are the pale blue of a late summer sky, the kind that's done got itself so scorched by heathaze its turned near white.
Billy stretches. Lifts the bottle again, but instead of taking another drink on it, he tips it toward Imogen like it was a bottle of something fine. An' don't say nothing or offer no expression beyond that. Naw: he just watches her, and watches her move.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 07:34PM CST
Her attention flicks toward the drink, downward to the sunbrowned hand wrapped around the cheap bottle. There is a moment where she pauses, but it's only to speak her response. Stillness presents itself briefly across her form, hands loose at her sides.
"Pass." Single word like that from an Indiana boy? Might leave the listener wondering about his origins. Hers is perhaps the same, except she does offer one assurance: she is not from the good old United States of America.
And then he has the pleasure of watching her move again, the sort of almost-grace of praticality, a motion not found in dancers (too elegant) or warriors (not elegant enough) as she starts to walk away.
Billy McCann
Wed 07:44PM CST
Pass. That's all, nothing else. That and her starin' and her hair and her grace are gettin' folded up inside him too. The threads are frayed and separate and don't make much sense when they's all wrapped up together, but he don't care. World don't hafta make no sense, it's just gotta keep spinnin' around. She responds with one word an' he don't say nothing. Just tips his head in her direction agin like he's watched about 27 too many Clint Eastwood movies, an' maybe that 'splains his near permanent squin an' the sunlight that's embedded itself in his eyes. Only when she's past him does his serious mein break open, dour face spliting into a lazy grin. If she turned around at just that moment, she might catch the last edge of the expression, for its swallowed back real quick until it seems about like it ain't never was.
Maybe she can feel his eyes on her as she walks away. On her shoulders, on the sunlight in her hair, on the sway of her hips. Maybe she cain't. It don't matter: it's there. Just settled there on her the whole rest of the time she's walking within his sightin' range. An' where her path leads out of his line of sight, well, his eyes'll still linger on the void where she was like he can prick out remnants of her shape from the hanging weight of the light and shadow and air.
Imogen Slaughter
Wed 07:53PM CST
A strange little interaction. Later, should she find out his tribe, his type, she might scoff quietly, internally whipping herself for not noticing it sooner. That a Garou can react to her breeding the same way a man might react to her self, her slender form, extraordinary hair and blue eyes will forever throw her off.
No matter. She can feel his gaze weighted on her back, the way a prey might feel a predator (and later, if she finds out, if she knows, she might think of that, too) waiting to pounce as she walks, sliding her hands into her jacket pocket, and taking the next corner, taking her path out of his sight. And her, back to her job, or perhaps to home, or for food. And him, to his bottle and his truck and the lazy hot air of a night that promises storms unseen.
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