The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 68 degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the west at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.11 and steady, and the relative humidity is 40 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501
Compact is the word for him: wiry, maybe 5'6" in his beat-up black combat boots, with a sense of compressed energy and imminence like a coiled spring -- or a cocked gun. Never quite still for long, balance flowing through the balls of his feet. There's a striking intensity to his narrow blue-green eyes, the colour contrasting with his fair skin and spiky copper hair; just below the left is what at first appears to be a faint mole, but closer inspection reveals as a small, long-healed scar. His features are appealing, with high cheekbones and a good jawline, but it's the confident mien and roguish smile that most often seem to draw people in.
He's in a well-worn biker jacket of the traditional sort, all fairly closely fit black leather and silvery zippers and snaps. Beneath it, he's got old black jeans with a rip in one knee and the cuffs half walked off, with a faded black band t-shirt ('Anarchy Burger - Hold the Government', parodying the In-N-Out sign) under an open dark red hawaiian shirt. There's a couple leather-and-bead bracelets on one wrist and a length of ball-chain disappearing beneath his collar; his nails were apparently painted black some time ago, since they're starting to show chips. Late teens, most likely, and when he speaks it's in a mellifluous, southern-accented baritone voice.
Shaggy brown hair and darker brown eyes frames this young boy's face. Justin has a slightly tanned complexion with a hint of Puerto Rican from his mother's side, Caucasian from his father's. He has a fairly lanky build that could use a bit of bulking upas he is built like a high school track runner. He wears loose fitted 'destroyed' blue jeans, simple tank tops, and worn down sneakers that are about five months in need of replacement, and during the cold, a thick green military jacket from his Grandpa. He looks like your average, ordinary American young teen that plays outside and is fairly active. Tall at five foot ten, he is a few inches higher than most his age for now.
His scars are the most striking thing about this man. A deep scar circumnavigates his head, cutting his visage into parts. His visage is far from flattering even without the scar, featuring an unevenly flattened nose, cauliflowered ears, and monobrow sheltering sunken eyes, and long, greasy hair bound in a tangle of a rat-tail. His hands demonstrate a history rich in manual labor, with stumpy, thick fingers and fingernails broken to the quick. His right arm is a massive length of scar tissue from shoulder to hand, with the weak muscling of a paraplegic, a strong contrast against the bulk and muscling of his body and other arm. The skin of his torso, usually covered up by a shirt but still appearing at his neck, consists of thick, red skin with peeling scales. Not much of the damage is visible as his long-sleeved, plaid shirt is buttoned up to the last button. His jeans are almost fashionable, being shredded through at the knees. He's wearing a black bomber jacket with a patch of a snake hissing on the back.
This young black teenager's skin is dark from a majority of his time being spent out in the sun. He has the look of a young athlete, constant in his activity. However, his lack of significant height betrays him from being much more than a casual baller. Thin lips and blue eyes betray some mixture with, potentially European, caucasians in the kid's ancestry.
He currently wears a white basketball jersey with "Wizards" emblazed across the front in blue and red lettering which matches the trim of the shirt, he also wears baggy and long red shorts, rolled up to the knees. On his feet are a pair of clean fire red Air Jordans with a black swoosh that were the best selling shoes back in 2000. Around the teen's neck is a stainless steel chain with a strange snake-like medallion resting on it (look Ron's Uktena Medallion for details).
This barely teenaged kid's first and most noticable feature is his pale, attractive and close to flawless face. He appears blessed with natural good looks and clear skin that do not require much effort to maintain. His eyes are a brilliant mixture of a rich blue and bright green, though they are often downcast and hidden in the shadow of his grey wool cap's brim. From the back of that cap his short-cut hair is dyed in streaks of dark blues and reds.
The kid's neutral expression, prone to a slight scowl that he constantly wears, might look rather unattractive and off-putting on another face; but on this one it just offers an out-of-place regal aire. Standing at around five feet and a half with a bit of a strong but sinewy build, he has some stature for his age but is not imposing. The kid's throat has some long thin scars across it, like he was in some kind of bad accident years before.
He currently also wears old faded blue jeans and a black short-sleeved sweater with thick red stripes from the neck down the tops of the arms. Some brown and dirty white vans, seeming large for the kid's size yet still fitting him well, kick around on his feet. A slightly over-sized dingy brown winter coat is worn over the ensemble. His hands are encased in thick black leather gloves.
Those hands... something is strange about them. It's difficult to be sure with the gloves, but the fingers just seem too long if you look at them for a moment.
The rumble of the baby blue Fastback GT makes it's way up the old driveway towards the house, then cuts off as Justin puts it into park. Giving the dashboard a gentle pat, he unbuckles himself and gives Felix a grin. "Here we are! Home of free food and hot showers."
"Hard to argue with free," Felix says, grinning back. Unless reminded, he probably didn't get around to buckling up, and just opens the door to slide out. "Ain't been in a car someone else was drivin' for I dunno how long. Feels kinda weird. Okay, but weird."
"How does it feel to be in a car that represents the most masculine of old school men? This car is famous if you didn't know." Justin says as he slides his hand along the hood as he rounds the car. "Was in the movie The Bullet, driven by Steve McQueen. You heard about him right?" He asks as he hops up to the porch and pushes the front door open.
"Well, I heard OF him, anyway," Felix says, strolling after. "He was in The Great Escape, right? With the motorcycle. Reckon it's a pretty good car to be in. I mean, it's no Caddy, but what is?" he teases, tone overly lofty and accepting of the unavoidable flaws of lesser beings.
"I have the world's greatest car. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll let you drive it one day. Long as you can prove you can handle the V12." Justin says with an amused laugh as he heads for the kitchen and looks over the shopping list, then opens up the fridge to dig out some meat and cheese. "So, no more pranking of this place. Gotta find something else to do. What a bummer."
Felix picks a clear spot of counter and pushes up on it with both hands, twisting to have a seat on the edge. "Eh, we can find other places to prank," he says, and gives the refrigerator a thoughtful look as Justin rummages in it. "Hey. Can you cook?"
"Yeah, I can cook decent I guess. Grandma taught me how. You want some bacon and eggs or something? I was just gonna make sammiches." Justin says as he flops the meat and cheeses down, then takes out some hoagie bread. "You got a better idea?"
"Well, I got =an= idea," Felix says, smirking. "Sammiches are fine for now. I was just thinkin', y'know, maybe we oughta send Briari a thank you gift. For all the trouble. I was thinkin' cookies. Chocolate chip, maybe." It's not his very best innocent tone; he's barely even trying. Quiet, though, pitched to stay within the room.
"I am not sending her shit nugget cookies. No way am I pranking someone on an individual basis. That kinda smells like revenge." Justin says as he peers over at his packmate with a grin on his face. "I think the better prank would be to send her normal cookies and an apology card. Then you put like a smily face on it. That would make her worry and second guess the cookies themselves."
Felix grins wider, all teeth. "That, my friend, is EXACTLY what I was thinkin'. Can't really get pissed at us for bein' nice without lookin' pretty shitty. But I reckon it oughta fuck with her mind some." He leans back a bit, shoulders against the cupboard behind him. "...anyway, if I =was= gonna actually fuck with cookies, I'd go traditional ex lax, an' just in some. Or pot. But those I'd kinda wanna keep. But yeah, that ain't where I was goin' with this one."
Whipping up a pair of sandwiches in an efficient manner, Justin slathers mayo on top of his, followed by some mustard. "I'm pretty boring. I never got high before. Just smoke cigs." Sliding the sandwich over to his friend, he takes a deep bite out of his. "You wanna see the Caern?"
"Oughta try it. It's pretty nice," Felix says, "Dunno if Lilah's got any left..." He accepts the sandwich, taking a pretty good bite himself and promptly talking with his mouth full, although at least he's pretty good at keeping it mostly-closed when he does. "Thanks. You make a good sammich. And yeah, sure. Anything in particular I oughta know an' keep in mind before we go, 'round here?"
'The guardians are all pure ones and they don't take any shit. No electronics on the bawn or Caern. Better if we go fuzzy out there, that way no one gives us guff about being dirty and hobo like. I'm almost betting they rather us walk around naked." Justin says as he takes another hearty bite.
"I ain't dirty," Felix shrugs, while digging in his pocket for the only electronics he's carrying, a cheap pre-paid phone, "Ain't like I mind bein' fuzzy, though, either way. Or naked, whatever. Where should I leave shit while we're gone, somewhere here?" The phone waits on the counter next to him for the moment, while he eats.
"We can throw it in the car." Justin says with a grin. "You don't mind being naked?" He says with a lift of his brow upwards.
Felix shrugs again, but grinning this time. "Nah. Why should I? Ain't got nothin' to be ashamed of. And some of my best times've been naked." The grin's wickeder with that, before he has another bite of sammich. "Hey, is there beer or somethin' hidin' in there? Could do with somethin' to drink."
Justin rolls his eyes upwards and to the side for a moment before he heads to the fridge and opens it up. "Then we'll head out there naked." He says with a grin once he pulls out a pair of beers and lobs one of the cans over to him.
Felix has to lean slightly precariously to snag the can with his sandwich-free hand, but luck is with him, and he does catch it. "Thanks," he says, setting what's left of his lunch down long enough to pop the top; there's a little overfizz from the throw, so he drinks that before taking a proper swallow and licking the bit he missed off the back of his hand. Justin's decision gets an easy enough nod, but no comment. He has sandwich still to eat, although not for much longer.
Cramming the last of the sandwich into his mouth, Justin chomps on it quickly, swallows, then lets out a loud belch. He takes another long swig of the beer. "So whatcha think of St. Claire so far? This your first time in a huge city like this?"
Felix polishes off his sandwich as well, washing it down with another good drink of the beer, and answers Justin's burp with one of his own. The latter question gets a snort of a laugh, and he shakes his head. "I grew up in Memphis," he says, "Reckon they're about of a size, more or less. Y'all got a lot more comfortable summers. And a shitload of white folk, it's fuckin' bizarre." He considers. "It ain't bad, as a city, so far. Learnin' a whole new place an' people's a pain, though."
"Yeah, that is a pain. So, am I your first latino best friend?" Justin asks with a grin on his face. "If you want, I can teach you Spanish. I'm teaching Watcher though he isn't picking up real well."
Felix and Justin are in the kitchen, currently drinking beers; Felix is sitting on one of the counters while he does so. He grins back at Justin, "Yeah, reckon so. Most everyone I knew was black or white, only got a couple latinos and asians here'n there. I wouldn't mind tryin' to learn Spanish, for speakin' anyway. Find out if I can pick it up any better'n a lupus or not."
Forgiver comes in through the front door, whistling and drinking what is clearly a fo'ty wrapped in a paperbag. His usually ever-present hat is in the Metis's other hand. He closes the door behind him, and leans back against it with a nice long swig. He is in a jolly mood, for sure.
Guzzling the last of the beer with a tip of his head backwards, Justin crinkles it, then spirals it into the garbage can with a thud. "Sure, let's do that later then. I'll teach you all the curse words first. Those stick better." At the sight of the Metis, he grins. "What's going on my brother?" He calls over with a wave.
"You got songs, those'd stick too," Felix suggests, finishing off his own beer at a bit more leisure, a couple drinks instead of just one. He eyes the trashcan Justin tossed his empty into, squishing his own and then sending it in the same direction. It hits the wall behind the can, instead, but then falls straight in; the Galliard leans back against the cabinet and grins as if that's exactly what he actually meant to do. Maybe it even is! The sound of the door gets a glance, and after Justin's greeting, he chips in a, "Hey," with a slight lift of the chin. "Like the hair."
Winter pushes away from the door with a bit of a flourish that is definitely not accidentally stumbling and catching himself. The Fostern gathers himself, takes another swig, and heads into the kitchen. "Oh this and that and the other things," he answers the question then towards Felix offers a, "Thanks. I did it myself. Unicorn tears and dragon scales." He offers this last bit rather deadpan, and doesn't give any indication of humor, though that is perhaps the joke. He finishes off his drink, walks over to the trash and holds the bottle hovering over, "We recycle around here?"
"Usually I pick through it later and pull the cans out and then I recycle it in the city for some scratch. Hey Winter, not sure if you met Felix. He's the new Coyote!" Justin says proudly as he puffs out his lanky chest a bit. "You still entertaining the idea of running with us since we need a top notch raggie?"
"I hear that's the best way," Felix replies just as seriously, before the grin escapes again. The boys are all in the kitchen, Winter near the trash and Felix sitting casually on one of the counters. "Nah, we ain't met yet," the latter says, "Felix T. Sinclair, Lets-Them-Eat-Cake, Cliath 'Gnawer Galliard, atcher service." He sweeps about as much of a flamboyant bow as is possible while sitting, before leaning back on the cabinet again.
Winter takes that answer to his question with a releasing of the bottle which makes a lovely loud noise when it hits the cans below. "Yeah? Congrats, Mr. Felix. I'm Winter. Metisy-metis of the Gnawery-Gnawers. A Ragga-B and somewhat kinda Fosternish. I challenged and everything!" He looks over at Justin for a moment and it takes a minute, apparently, for him to remember the question he was asked, "Oh! Yeah! Tactical Frivolity. I love your work. Really. Just, well, Coyote." He gives a vague general wave of vagueness in addition to his rather vague verbal dismissal.
"Yeah, coyote. Coyote who is /awesome/ because he doesn't let the man get him down. Who doesn't let a bad day get him down. Who is always up for a good laugh even in the face of death. He is wise, cunning and articulate." Justin points out as he gives himself a stretch upwards. "I'm gonna getcha, dude. I'm persistent."
The front door swings open to admit a hefty man, possibly the age of the three in the kitchen combined. Reggie marches in to the kitchen, beelining to the refrigerator and shoves in a package into its innermost depths, pushing half-empty bottles of condiment and someone's lunch leftovers to the side. He asks at large to the kitchen, not addressing anyone in particular, "Who's got a pen? Sharpie?"
"Nice meetin' you, Winter," Felix replies, "And thanks. Challenged and everythin', huh? Nice. Best natural organic source of somewhat kinda Fosternishness, rumour says." And then there's the door again, and he glances to check it out, watching the new arrival head in and to the fridge. He digs in a coat pocket experimentally, and actually finds a pen, which he offers in the vague direction of Justin, who's a lot closer to the fridge than he is. "It ain't a Sharpie, an' you might hafta scribble a bit to get it goin', but, pen." It's got a couple of those little silver balls on the end from the kind of chains they use to tether pens at banks, and indeed this one has a bank's name imprinted down the side.
Winter lets his face finally rest, his verion of a neutral mask tending towards a something a little on the edge of a scowl. He appears most likely to have had a good amount to drink already, this evening. He looks at the handoff and adds from before, "We'll see, Mr. Justin." Then at the big guy he says approvingly, "No offense mister, but I do reckon you could kick a whole metric fuckton of asses."
Justin reaches out and takes the pen from Felix, then hands it over to Reggie. "That's what I heard. That you're like a super ass kicker. Maybe one day you can teach us Coyotes how to be as bad ass as you?" He asks the older Ahroun with a wily grin upon his face. "You know, outside of fighting dirty."
Reggie takes the pen, tilts it towards Justin with "A+ for sucking up", then towards Winter with "Nearly as good". He tests the pen by scribbling across an old notice that's been left up on the front of the refrigerator for months. After the reluctant pen finally parts with some of its ink, he draws large block-letters, going over each line multiple times.
"Fft. Teacher's pet," Felix accuses his packmate casually, "Don't make me run you up the flagpole at recess." He shifts position, crossing his legs but letting his boots still hang off the edge of the counter, and watches Reggie work. "...so whatcha got in there? Gotta be interestin' if it needs it a label. Even if it's a touch this and I gut you kinda label."
Winter gives a soft, rather charming, huff of laughter at the light antics in the kitchen. He takes the moment as the big guy is writing his name down to offer his own, a bit more soberly than before, "Not to interupt your question, Felix, but I don't want to be rude. Winter Llewellyn. Metis and Ragabash of the Gnawers. Fostern now, but before I rited, ran under the Fenrir at the Hand of Tyr with Unchained." Those who know some recent general Garou history might recall that pack's name.
It seems that Justin would not know that general Garou history. "Pff. I'm pretty sure I'd be the one giving you the atomic wedgies." He grins in amusement, then peeks around Reggie to see what he is writing, curious as always.
Reggie finishes writing 'NOT YURS' [sic] on the notice, folds the notice in half, unfolds it so it forms a tent, and shuffles another bottle of condiment as he balances the notice atop his package. He hands the pen back to Justin. "Hate to write and run but there's another wildfire. It's small and I got it out, but I got to watch it to make sure it stays out."
"Yeah, plennya folks been pretty sure of that. Once." Felix grins back to Justin, and probably isn't getting A+s in Garou History either. Or even nearly as goods. He does say more seriously toward Winter, "Figured I didn't wanna interrupt the writin'," but now that the Fostern's introducing anyway and the label appears complete, he says to the older man, "Felix T. Sinclair, Lets-Them-Eat-Cake, Cliath Bone Gnawer Galliard. Nice meetin' you. This much, anyway, if you gotta run."
Justin has disconnected.
<OOC> Felix: I hope that baby didn't eat him. I hear they can be vicious.
Reggie tips his nonexistant hat towards Felix as he marches to the front door. "Pleestameetcha. Snakepatcher atcherservice", he hurries through his words, and his next phrase is decipherable, barely, as "Full moon Uktena of Winging It", then the front door slams behind him.
Winter grins, shrugs and heads to the other room and the stairs, speaking to Felix on the way out, "I. Need nap." On the Gnawer's way up the stairs, he's bumped into by a kid heading down, Ron. "Sorry," is all the kid says and heads over to the kitchen. To Felix he asks, "Did I just hear someone say Uktena?"
Felix tosses Winter a light salute as the Metis takes his leave, and greets the newest arrival with a grin. "'s a regular Grand Central Station in here," he remarks; Justin must have gone to the bathroom or something. "Yeah, you did, but you just missed him. Sorry, man. Left somethin' in the fridge, though, so I reckon he's comin' back sooner or later."
Ron looks disappointed, annoyed even. "Right," he shoots back, "of course."
"Somethin' about dealin' with a wildfire," Felix expands, "...said his name was Snakepatcher. Take it you're havin' trouble finding people? Or just someone in particular?" He unfolds his legs, pushing to drop down off the counter, and heads over to the fridge.
Ron moves in and takes Felix's place on the counter, hopping up then giving a shrug. "I'm a Uktena. Cub. Haven't seen one of my peeps since the night I was taken." A pause then, "Oh. Yeah. Ronald. Uh... Philodox."
Felix snags a beer, and eyes the package with the 'NOT YURS' label for just a second before closing the door and leaning back against it to pop open the can. "Felix T. Sinclair, Lets-Them-Eat-Cake, Cliath Bone Gnawer Galliard of Tactical Frivolity. Nice meetin' ya. So how long ago's the night you got taken, now?" He takes a drink. "I mean, we talkin' days or months, here?"
[...and then Ron lost connection and didn't make it back.]