This cabin is mid-sized, spreading itself some fifteen feet in almost any direction. Centered on the far wall is a grand hearth of hand-laid stone equipped with wrought-iron essentials. The craftsmanship of the woodworking in both the open beamed ceiling and the polished parquet floor is astounding.
Against one wall stands an overstuffed four-poster bed covered in throw pillows of emerald and eggshell colors, all shapes and sizes. A nightstand is placed at its side, holding a small but thriving potted rose bush with tiny red flowers. The remainder of the furniture is all of plain wood, stained and lovingly polished - including the dresser bearing a TV and VCR, these angled so that the screen is visible from anywhere in the room.
Doors on one wall open into the cramped kitchen and small bathroom - but are usually kept shut. Framed images and plaques adorn the windowless walls; all the light comes from the fireplace and lamps.
He's a tall young man, probably just reaching adulthood -- decently built, but with the lankiness of youth not yet finished filling out his approximately six foot frame -- and reasonably handsome, with lively sky blue eyes, full lips, and well-balanced, expressive features. These are not, however, the things most people notice first. Dark hair, near black by nature or design, is savagely gelled into spikes multiple inches tall, the tips dyed a flamingly bright shade of red found nowhere in nature; his eyebrow, ears, tongue, and the skin beneath his lower lip are all pierced, and his arms, at the least, bear tattoos. There's a spiked black leather collar about his neck and pyramid studded bands on each wrist; his nails are painted black, and the first and middle finger of his left hand are cloaked in articulated steel finger armor, with wickedly pointed tips. His black t-shirt stretches slightly across the chest, where "lick my nuts" is scrawled in messy white letters, with "(you know you want to)" rather smaller a couple inches below, and the sleeves have been ripped off, leaving a ragged edge at each shoulder. Faded black jeans, close fitting, are tucked into heavy, knee-high black leather boots fastened with far more buckles than strictly necessary.
At a glance, this tall, broad man is somewhere in his forties. The impression is lent testimony by the faint network of lines around his sky blue eyes. His dark hair is cropped short, with a scattering of gray throughout, rendered mostly silver at his temples. His expressive face might be handsome, but his features betray a dourness that places years upon him. The dark curves of his eyebrows are given easily to severity and otherwise full lips tighten too readily into a frown. However, on those rare occasions when he does smile, those grim features are utterly transformed, seized by mirth and made warm and alive. After a glimpse of the kinetic banter of moods on his face, the rest of him is almost an afterthought. The black t-shirt he wears doesn't quite hide the pale jagged scar curving a crescent into his throat nor the fainter scar cutting into his left arm from elbow to wrist. White lettering across the front of the shirt reads: "Overcompensating". Faded cut-off jeans and battered high-tops flesh out the rest of his clothing. His legs are well-toned, but marred by nasty scars from cuts and burns alike. On the ring finger of his left hand is a gold band of intricately woven smaller bands.
Gerald opens the door, hungover and grumbling. "What," he glowers, then pauses as he sees who it is. He doesn't perk up, per se, but he stops scowling. "Oh, hey, come in. Do you drink coffee?" He has a cuppa, and he sips from it.
Adrian is leaning against the doorframe again when the door opens, and he straightens up lazily. "Mornin'. Hey. Yeah, coffee's good. 'less you got leftover beer. Seem to recall you owe me 'least one..." He makes to enter, giving the interior of the cabin a rather curious look as it comes into his view.
Gerald closes the door behind Adrian, regarding him with a somewhat pained expression as he says, "Uh, yeah. There's beer in the fridge. Help yourself." He stays near the door, watching the young man, studying him. "So I didn't really get to find out that much about you."
Adrian discovers the fridge. It isn't deeply hidden. He opens it, glances inside, snags a beer, and pours himself a mug of coffee while he's at it. "Two great tastes that taste great together," he proclaims, helping himself to a seat where he can set both drinks down and get comfortable. His natural resting state appears to be a fairly insouciant slouch. "I didn't get t' find out that much 'bout you, either. Where d'you wanna start?"
There is also pie and leftover cake in the fridge. It's a veritable feast of things that aren't all that good for anyone. Jerry ventures closer to lean on the buttress separating the kitchen from the living room and sips at his coffee ponderously. "Well, okay. I guess the first question is: how do I know you're my kid? I mean, no offense, but a guy's gotta wonder."
Adrian looks around at the cabin, more obviously, this time, as he opens the beer, then gestures with it. "You secretly a millionaire with lots of money and no one to inherit it? I mean, is there some reason people'd wanna pretend to be your kid? 'cause if so... well, actually, if so, kickass." He takes a good drink of the beer before continuing, "I dunno. I guess you could do that DNA thing or something. All I know for sure is I got a bunch of letters from your brother my mom saved, sayin' not to tell either of us you're my dad."
Gerald arches a brow quizzically. "Mm, sorry. You're out of luck on the fame and fortune. Good point about why anyone would -want- to be my son, but I never said you were a potentially intelligent imposter. You've got the Hazeldine look about you. I wouldn't doubt that. I just wonder why mine? Why not Marty's?"
Adrian arches a brow in return, sipping the beer -- and then the coffee, sort of as an afterthought. "Well, I wasn't =there= at the time," he remarks a little dryly, "but presumably 'cause you're the one she fucked."
Gerald considers this, then says, "I guess it's possible. I mean, we used to talk about it sometimes, if I'd ever try it. We used to get -really- drunk and stoned. God, so many nights from those days are nothing but a blur." He pauses, then eyes Adrian sidelong as he asks, "So what did these letters say? Marty knew? He never told me. What the fuck did he never tell me?"
Adrian smirks slightly, taking another sip of each of his drinks. Apparently he =does= think they taste great together, or at least acceptable. "Sounds like good times. ...wait, if you'd ever try what? Having a kid?"
Gerald lifts his gaze to the ceiling. "Something like that," he says dismissively. "Actually, no. I didn't plan on having any children, but I guess it's not such a bad thing." He regards Adrian thoughtfully, then adds, "And that's not a resounding endorsement either. Okay, so let's say you're actually my kid. I'm going to need to get used to this. Tell me about yourself."
Adrian tilts his head and replies in a slightly high voice, "My name's Adrian, I'm from the midwest, I'm an Aquarius and I like music, beer, and long fucks on the beach..." He drops the silliness, and shrugs a little. "What d'you wanna know? Shoot." A beat, as he remembers the original greeting. "Figur'tively."
Gerald scowls promptly. "And you're a smartass. Great! Good for all of us. Did your mother raise you with the proper education and traditions of your people?" He takes another swig of coffee, then adds, "Don't make me picture you fucking anything."
"Hey, I can't control your mental images." Adrian has another drink, and eyes Gerald consideringly. "Depends which of my people you mean, prolly. I don't play bagpipes. ...prolly could, but I don't."
Gerald adds, "Let us not play bagpipes, either. I mean the traditions of our people." He regards Adrian sternly. "I knew your mother. Biblically, apparently, but that's beside the point. She was very proud of her family's traditions."
Adrian sips again -- coffee, this time. It's getting cold. "Well, judging from the letters," he remarks, studying Gerald, "I take after you." Which isn't exactly an answer to the question asked.
Gerald nods slowly, then says, "So you're an alcoholic misanthrope with bad hair and a lousy attitude, but it's a bad idea to get you mad. Right?" He ambles over to the coffee pot to warm his cup, offering with a vague gesture to do the same for Adrian.
Adrian offers the mug over for warming. "Hey, nothin' wrong with my hair, an' I'm not a lush or nothin'," maintains the boy who just had beer and coffee for breakfast, "...but otherwise, close enough. 'cept I dunno what a misanthrope is."
Gerald can't really criticize breakfast, is the thing. So he puts the pot back where it belongs and leans against the counter. "Means you hate people," he clarifies. "The important thing is the anger management or lack thereof. Look, if I'm asking about your family's traditions, don't you kind of think I'd already know what they are?"
Adrian shrugs. "Probably, but if you're gonna be sideways about things, it's kinda habit to do the same thing back. Anyway, yeah, 'You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry'. Better?"
Gerald says irritably, "I'm being sideways about it because you're being sideways about it. Frankly, I could probably still kick your ass when you're angry, but only because you wouldn't like me pissed off much better."
Adrian half-smiles, an expression that has quite likely garnered him detention more than once in the past, and looks Gerald over appraisingly. It's not challenging in and of itself, but it strongly implies a general willingness to discover the truth of this sort of assertion by empirical experimentation. "Could be," he allows, with a slight shrug. "...so, what d'you want, the official?"
Gerald nods curtly. "Yeah, give me the official." His eyes narrow, like he's thinking of ways to relive the detention experience for the youth. Alas, he's too old for grounding. "Might as well get it out in the open. I'd like to know what to tell the others."
Adrian whips off a light mock salute, two fingers to the forehead and away. "Adrian Quixwood, Weedkiller, Cliath Galliard of the Fianna, atcher service." He finishes off the beer.
Gerald's eyes widen, and he shakes his head, blinking a few times. "What are you talking about?" he asks, looking genuinely confused. "I'm an insurance salesman..." He cracks a smile, then, and sips at his coffee, then grimaces. "Ah, crap. Fianna?"
Adrian rolls his eyes at the dissemblance, though there's briefly a flash of startlement before the bravado wins out again. "Don't worry, I've been thoroughly trained in the ancient traditions of insurance sales, I swear. Yeah, Fianna. What'd you expect, Wendigo?"
Gerald sighs heavily. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, if your mama raised you that is. It's just that..." He grimaces again. "Fianna." Like the name pains him. He begins pacing. "Aw, man. Did she even mention your father's tribe in passing?"
"Number of times Mom mentioned I =had= a father, I could be the second coming," Adrian answers, lifting the empty beer and giving it a little jiggle to check for any missed liquid. None, dammit. He sets it down again, and grins, suddenly. "Wouldn't =that= shit in a lotta people's Sugar Smacks."
Gerald sets his coffee cup down as he heads toward the fridge, getting two beers, and then taking out the leftover birthday cake to divide up two hearty slices. "Thank Gaia that's bullshit," he says gravely, then points out, "Well, the blood of the Fenris wolf runs in your veins, unless you're horribly mistaken and you're looking for some other Jerry Hazeldine."
"...who knew my Mom," Adrian further qualifies. "...yeah, I'm not thinkin' they're giving encouraging odds on that one. Huh." His brow wrinkles as he mulls this new information over. "So I'm, like... half Get. That's..." he hesitates, deciding what it, in fact, is. "...fuckin' weird. Huh."
Gerald nods agreeably as he sets cake and beer before the underaged offspring. "More or less, and yeah. It's pretty fuckin' weird, but it gets weirder. Eat up. Breakfast of champions. So I'm Gerald Hazeldine, better known as, ironically, Walks On Water, born under the new moon, a Cliath of the Get of Fenris."
Adrian laughs. "Man. At this rate I =will= turn out to be the saviour of mankind or some shit," he remarks, accepting the beer and cake with, predictably, no complaint. "Thanks," he manages to remember to murmur before digging in. Then he's too busy eating to talk, for a little, though the somewhat thoughtful look's returned. Strange new information to digest; that was one he hadn't quite expected.