jackson and edie.

[Will Reiter] Past midnight. Streetlight falling like frost and ochre, the streets paved with gold. Reach for it and you'll find yourself wanting. In the pallid glare of sodium lamps, a youth sits on a stoop. Around him, wrought iron railings flank concrete steps. The brick tenements that rear behind him are at least a hundred years old, the pipings faulty, the heating system either broiling or nonexistent. Two hundred families crammed into four impoverished stories of space, one apartment cheek to jowl with another: cooking, watching TV, talking, vacuuming, eating, shitting, fighting, fucking, breathing. The whole thing hums with human activity, day and night.

Small wonder Will looks for a little peace and calm. Out on the stoop, the temperature's just past freezing. His breath comes out in plumes of white. He blows on his bare hands to keep warm and doesn't bother looking up. You can't see the stars from the inner city.

[Edie Larson] Edie stands out in the neighrborhood, painfully so... Blonde and white, what a target she makes. When, then, is she here? Circumstance, same as anyone else that lives there. She's dressed so as not to draw any more attention to herself than she already does- her hair is up in a loose bun held by a pencil, and the knit duster that hangs to her knees does well to hide most of her figure. She walks with her head down, her arms folded over to chest to keep in warmth... But from time to time one arm has to break away to bring the clover cigarette to her lips for a little extra warmth.

[Will Reiter] On a deserted street, Edie shines like a beacon. It's in her hair, her skin ... and more than that, that which lies beneath her skin. In those bones, that recall her ancestors; in that face, that blood, that stems back a thousand years or more, to when the norsemen rode the seas and waged war on the world.

Purity of breeding. It's there. It can't be ignored. It brings the youth's head up. He looks at her from where he sits, knees drawn up, elbows laid across -- he looks at her, steadily, curiously, and when she's close enough Will gets to his feet.

"Those things'll kill you," he hails her. A nod at her cigarette. It's an ironic thing to say; she can smell cigarette smoke on him, a faint trace of it.

He's taller than you'd think. Something over six feet, but lean, skinny, thin as a pole. His shoulders are narrow, his coat already too small for him. His wrists stick out his sleeves, the fine points of them sharp as mountain peaks. Clear-boned, too, his face; a delicate jawline, fine features.

[Will Reiter] (sorry about that. my girl called me. i'll be quicker now.)

PMed to: Edie Larson
[Edie Larson] ((.... fucking thing deleted my post, what the hell?))

PMed to: Will Reiter
[Edie Larson] "Lots of things will," she says coldly. Not to be witty, but because she's definitely heard that too many times before. And, just to make her point, she takes a long drag off the clove. If she senses anything about him, she hides it well.

[Will Reiter] Will's mouth moves, one corner quirking up. Without a word, he holds out his hand -- fingers half-curled, palm up, requesting a drag. Left hand.

[Will Reiter] (np. how old's she look to be?)

PMed to: Edie Larson
[Edie Larson] ((Early 20's))

PMed to: Will Reiter
[Edie Larson] And, with great reluctance, she hands over the clove. The black paper crackles interestingly with each drag, and there's a faintly sweet taste to it- or maybe that's just the bit of lipgloss on the filter from Edie herself.

[Will Reiter] He's a few years younger than her. Three, at least. Maybe as much as five or six; though, his remarkable beauty tends to shave a few years off the estimate. A prettyboy, to put it bluntly -- and yet with a certain solemn gravity to his form. He stands straight as a young tree, keenly aware of himself, balanced. A late-teenager speaking to an attractive young woman: and yet there's no awkwardness or discomfort in his manner.

His eyes are steady. Calm and pale. He watches her while he takes a drag of his own. His eyes narrow on the inhale, but don't shy away. There's a sense that he sees all there is to see about her in that one moment. His eyelashes are long and dark, his hair short and dark. The former sweep down over his pale irises as he breaks the gaze, lowers the cigarette. Deftly, he turns it around in his fingers before he hands it back, butt-first. His nod is polite.

"Good shit. I'll be walkin' you home, alright?" And he tucks his chin to his chest, looking down to button his jacket.

[Edie Larson] "There's nothing in it," she says, voice full of disdain. "I'll be fine on my own, anyway." She takes a drag to steady herself. Maybe it's his good looks, or maybe it's just she's that prideful.

[Will Reiter] "'Course. But I'll be walkin' you home," Will repeats. This time, it's not even masked as a question. It is. He finishes buttoning up his coat, which is old brown leather, but cut well to his form. A beat; then a curious comment. "You're family."

[Edie Larson] ((he's black? sorry, shoulda asked sooner))

PMed to: Will Reiter
[Will Reiter] no, he's quite white, and while he looks low-income and has a trace of street accent, he still doesn't fit in by a long shot. shoulda mentioned sooner *grin*

PMed to: Edie Larson
[Edie Larson] She eyes him, her eyes flashing and her fingers curling a little tighter around her clove, like it was all the weapon she needed. "Wish I could pick you people out so easy," she mutters, turning and starting to walk. She still keeps her arms crossed, but she holds her head up this time. She takes faster puffs off the clove, no more savoring the flavor.

[Will Reiter] His mobile mouth flits into a quick grin, there and gone. "Why? Won't make us any easier to avoid. Might as well not know." He falls into step beside her, half a foot or more taller, thin as a rail. It's with practiced casualness that he glances over his shoulder, then scans the area. If she watches him -- which she seems hellbent not to -- she'll notice he repeats this every few moments. It's habit, as instinctive as breathing.

"I'm Will Reiter." He pats down his pockets as he walks. Eventually, he finds what he's looking for. Raisins. A small plastic bag of them. As he walks, he eats them one by one. "Just got here, lookin' for family. You know of any others like me in the area?"

[Edie Larson] "One," she says, exhales twin plumes of smoke through her nostrils. She glances over, narrows her eyes at his odd, repeditive movements, and picks up her pace just a little. For a girl who smokes like she's rarely without one she manages to do it without losing much breath. Beyond that there's no telling what her physique is like under that long, heavy coat, the tails of which swish around her legs as she walks... The left side, not quite so much, as something in the pocket weighs it down, even knocks against her leg from time to time.

"Name's Edie," she says after maybe half a block. "Mine is, I mean." No last name, she hates the added recognition that could go with it. "His name is Jackson."

[Will Reiter] At the end of the block, the crosswalk sign glares red. There's no traffic. Will punches the to-cross button anyway. They're already halfway across the crosswalk when it finally turns to WALK. In the deserted intersection, one set of lights turn yellow, then red, while another goes to green. These colors clash and contrast on his face. An open brow, a nose as fine and straight as a razor, a sculpted mouth, the upper lip a touch fuller than the lower. There's nothing about him that isn't well-formed. One would believe him for a Silver Fang. One would believe him for a fuckin' pussyboy model.

But then, those eyes of his, cool and steady as marble, set in the deep hollow of his brow. Perceptive. Hard. Weary. He's seen so much already, and he's only just begun.

And now they turn on her. "Edie what?" he prompts, and holds out the bag of raisins in offering. Every motion is smooth and measured. "He's your man?"

[Edie Larson] "Edie Larson," she snaps, as though he should be so happy she gave him that much. She keeps stealing glances, which always end with her shaking her head and taking another drag off the clove. She exhales a cloud of smoke in a huff, and is silent for quite some time she says. "No. I don't know. I'm not looking for anything right now. I can't..." she snaps her mouth close, pulls back whatever was about to fall past her lips.

Another, longer drag off the clove, filling her mouth with the sweet smoke instead, holding it until it starts to burn and those blue eyes water, making them gleam even more in what light the street has to offer. Steady... She exhales it in a sigh and Continues on towards home, which while still in West Philly isn't in that bad a location.

[Edie Larson] ((silent for some time before she says,... Agh, nevermind))

[Will Reiter] (whoops, my bad. i went and made a midnight snack *rushes to post*)

[Edie Larson] ((Heh, no problem, and no rush))

[Will Reiter] "Relax. I wasn't makin' a pass," Will replies. His amusement is like his beauty: cool as water. There's a faint trace of city accent in his voice. The stylized talk of today's youth. A hand comes up, rubs behind his neck. Both are long. One day, ten years from now, he might be imposing. Or maybe he'll stay as he is, whip-lean and graceful, like a sable in the snow. "Just wondering. It's my line to remind you of your sacred duty now. But the way you reared on me just now, I figure you already know."

He takes his raisins back. Aren't many left, so he pours the remainder out into his palm and stuffs the bag into a passing dumpster. "Good to meet you, Edie Larson." And after a pause, he circles back, "You can't what?"

[Edie Larson] "You ask too many questions," she says.

Her building isn't far from the dumpster, which happens to be off some quaint little ghetto restaurant that's closed for the night. It's a loft apartment, ressurected from the ashes of an abandoned warehouse but yet still showing signs of wear on the facade. The entrance itself and the call box next to it is recessed.

[Jackson Ball] Edie's domicile is one of those warehouses converted to loft-style apartments. Real popular with the trendy crowd when they're in parts of town that can support avant-gard yuppie commuters. This neighborhood didn't fit the bill, and the intent fell short of reality's crummy pit.

Tonight it picked up an added acoutrement; a gargoyle guardian in the form of one Jackson Ball. He's half-sitting, half-perched upon the flat cement stoop on one side of the walk-way to the main entrance. First glance he's just another black youth with a sullen stare marked by a lifetime of poverty and lack of esteem - covered in thug-chic; baggy cargo denim pants, woolen hoodie underneath a canvas jacket, and a knit cap covering his scalp. All that covers a frame of iron thews, and whipcord bulges.

Next glance is closer, and that ain't quite the truth.

A telltale glint upon half-lidded eyes that gleam a little too intense, too bright. A tingle on the back of ones neck; a wuff of ozone. The unfurling of dragon's coils; black as hate. Tears down the facade, lays him bare for the Monster pressed down in man-skin, all vaccum sealed like a fuckin' coffee can.

Right foot's on the steps. Ass is on the cement. Left foot's on the cement he's sitting on, with thick forearm laying languid over bent knee. That hand dangles a cigar that ain't a cigar; scent of marijuana's in the air mingled with the thick odor of Rage. There's something about this hard-visaged black guy that doesn't fit. Like it should be carried on the countenence of someone white, blond, blue-eyed; purity of blood. But it ain't pretty - least that part fits. Ain't of kings. It's of blood-thirsty berserkers on crimson-stained snow. Dark eyes are chipped granite as they slide slow and easy from Edie to the man she's walking with. Weighing, measuring, judging, sizing him up.

"Hey, Edie," rolls out from him like the larynx of a large beast; a deep liquid rumble, "Got a friend," question and statement, all at once.

[Jackson Ball] ooc: word vomit. I know. I had all night.. waiting at that damn door. sorry.

PMed to: Edie Larson, Will Reiter
[Edie Larson] "He followed me home," she says. And while she digs her keys out of her pocket she says, "Jackson, Will. Will, Jackson."

She's still agitated (and still for no discernable reason), thus why she fumbles with the keys on the ring in classic fashion before she manages to find the right one.

[Will Reiter] His laugh stays in his thin chest, as if it was too cold to let it out. For such a skinny thing, Will has a surprisingly low voice, with a rumble of bass that promises to expand -- if he ever raised his voice (which he doesn't) or if his skeleton ever broadened. "Good. It's my job to find answers."

He looks up, then, standing at the foot of the stairs up to her apartment building. He'd said he'd walk her home, and he has. True to his word: that's one way to describe Will. The big man on the steps he figures out before Edie bothers to introduce them. Upon the introduction, though, Will sticks his hand out. The bones are long and thin, and there's hardly any flesh. Seems like Jackson could squeeze and pull his arm right off.

"Jackson. I'm Will Reiter." Such calm, collected confidence. "You gotta place we can talk? It's important."

[Jackson Ball] Edie he keeps in his periphery, as it wasn't her he needed to keep an eye on. Helped that it made her less of a distraction to those nostrils that flared at the approach of the newcomer, instinctivelly taking in scent like he was some primal country-born wolf. Truth was, he ain't never been out of the city.

Will enunciates well and proper, and the Modi accepts the hand with a calloused hand fit with knobby knuckles - murderer's mits - and a firm, socially acceptable grip, "Jackson," that part was unnecessary, "Ball," added the bit Edie negleted. His bass voice ran the letters together with a ghetto slur.

A pause, considering the white youth for a long moment, before his eyes slid behind those slitted lids to Edie, "Mind we use yo' place," he gravels it out, waiting on her word to go within. His territory, but her apartment.

[Edie Larson] "Whatever," she says, walking in ahead of them to call the elevator. It's descent is marked by quite a bit of loud grumbling, about as much as can be expected from such a place. Her hand goes to her left pocket as she waits for it- seemingly oblivious to the two once she's inside.

The ground floor appears to be disused, but if nothing else there's no signs that it was recently home to squatters. The faded graffiti on the walls says it might have once been. It also says 'DJ + HK 4 Eva' and other, more interestingly lew things here and there.

[Will Reiter] Those eyes miss nothing. Pale as ice, they skim between Edie and Jackson, reading the overt, the body language, and the language beneath the body language. If the space between them were a scroll, he'd read it already.

He asks. She agrees. Will follows them in, one hand reaching out to hold the door open for himself, and shut it behind.

The elevator squeaks and clatters and grumbles its way down. While he waits, Will looks at the graffiti on the walls, reaches out to touch the carving of eternal love. That couple's long since broke up now. HK had a baby. DJ couldn't take the responsibility. DJ left for NYC looking for fame and fortune. He got stabbed to death his second week there -- random mugging. HK's on welfare. She never had a clue. Such is life, and none of them here can see its pattern.

The elevator arrives. Its doors grate open. The three of them file in. Here, in these close confines, the concentration of rage becomes appreciable. Choking. It's startling, how much of it comes off the quiet young Forseti.

(I am a killer. I am a lawman.)
How do you reconcile that?

Ding: Edie's floor. Will is the first out, looking this way and that. "Nicer than my place," he comments, though this is small enough consolation. His place practically crawled with rats. "You been here a while?" He follows them to Edie's door, where, polite, he waits for her to open the lock.

[Jackson Ball] Girl after his own heart. Talks about as much as he. Makes the sound of air being sucked through teeth. It's absent, reflexive. Slides his gaze down, watching the embers go out as he carefully stubs out his blunt upon already stained cement slab. Pockets it.

His stance is just a subtle shift of weight. From ass to that foot on the step. The other one falls in place. His stride was a wolf's lope. Big, rounded shoulders rolling with each step, chin tucked like a boxer in the ring, or a wolf nosing the ground.

The elevators grinds and jerky halting movement might have seemed less than safe. But that wasn't it. Lack of safety was the occupants. Wolves in a tightly closed cage; agitated, restless in their close proximity. The Modi's inner fury was a palpable, cloying thing. It blasted outward like an octopus, crashing into the walls, pressing against all occupants. Tension.

The doors opening were like a release of pent up pressure, an orgasm of movement.

Inside, Will makes small talk, and he doesn't say nothing. Wipes that knit cap off. Then the jacket with a shrug of his powerful shoulders. A ripping motion and the hoody's gone. All of it balled up and sent to a chair. Underneath's a white, thermal long-sleeved shirt; it's a second skin hugging those powerful sculpted lines of his athletic build.

Finally, he turns, gives a glance to Edie, before finding Will, letting him have his say, before he interjects, "Who is you," blunt as a hammer.

[Edie Larson] Edie's only reaction to all that Rage is to press herself in the corner of the elevator for the duration of the ride and keep smoking. No trembling, no nervous glances, her eyes are fixed on the car's grate as it rumbles upwards. Somehow, in the face of all that, she's still sullen and standoffish- if anything more so in the vicious cycle it sparks in her. There is fear, of course there is, especially with the combined output from both of them in close quarters, but she makes do with channeling that into anger and... She takes another long drag of the cigarette, and before whatever was at work can carry through the elevator shudders to a halt and she's pulling the grate back.

She walks down the hall, not looking back at them, as if it were that easy to ignore their presence. At the door her hand is steadier with the keys, and she manages to recall what little manners she has to allow them in first. The first floor, the elevator, the hall, that's all very discouraging... She's managing, in slow steps, to turn the space beyond the door into something nice and homey. Nevermind the scratched hardwood floor and the kitchenette thrown in as an afterthought. Beyond that main room, once the main storage space, there's an actual hall to... they were probably once offices, sure, but she's yet to let anyone else back to see what she's done with that area.

Statues are all over, now mostly arrayed on or around shelves on the walls or tables around the living room area. That's the only real decoration beyond the furniture, not counting her little collection over the TV. The lighters and matchbooks have the position of prominence, the statues are just there because she either couldn't or wouldn't sell them.

The subjects of the statues vary wildly, from birds in flight to a woman with her knees drawn to her chest, looking pensive; same goes for sizes, from the size of a paper weight to the size of a person. They're surprisingly good, the details of each carefully, lovingly rendered, the overall work good enough for books or exhibits. And in the midst of all this is the living room- nice furniture and a plasma screen TV, all of which looks and smells like it might have been bought very recently.

And in the far corner is her workspace, a dressing screen arrayed around a pedestal bearing something covered in several layers of cloth. On the screen are dozens of polaroid pictures of a grim looking man with a large, hawkish noses, taken at all angles, close-up and from a distance with some post-its arrayed around them containing notes with arrows. There are almost as many post-it notes as pictures now.... And a kitchen knife that has been stabbed through the wrapping and into whatever is underneath. Sculptor's block.

[Will Reiter] If there's irritation in the glance he flicks Jackson, it's quickly gone, quickly subsumed.

He could so easily give into it. His rage. That pounding chronic headache; that rush, that addictive abandonment of all his senses. Christ. Don't think he doesn't know it. Don't think he doesn't know how easy it would be, how good it could be, to give in, to give out. To burn, and burn out, and reduce himself to ashes, bitter in the mouth, like victory taken by trickery.

But then there'd be nothing of him left. Will Reiter, whom his mother raised to be a polite boy, a good kid, good grades, good manners. There'd be nothing left.

"I'm Kaldrthvari." A furrow crosses his brow when he says his name; a flicker that might be sorrow. "The Cold Arrow. Shot into icy death, deflected by the hand of Great Fenris -- his weapon, his tool." His smile is wan, humorless. "Back for round two. I'm a Forseti out of the Sept of the Storm Hammer."

His look upon Jackson is steady. Not many could boast that. After a moment of quiet, adds to Jackson's not-mate, "That lock isn't much good though. Anyone could break it down. There's a shop off Trent. Reasonable prices. Solid locks. I'll give you a number later."

And he returns his cool, calm gaze to Jackson, waiting.

[Dave says] Edie Larson has been logged out for inactivity

[Edie Larson] She almosts laughs at the abrupt turn from interesting introductions to plugging lock services, but she bites her tongue, shrugs, and moves on to the living room after closing the door behind them. No sense hovering.

[Jackson Ball] He notes it. That spark of tension was flash-paper, Rage begging to well to the fore and quickly quelched. Ain't the first time his boorish 'charm' didn't win him any popularity contests and wouldn't be the last.

His own inner fury didn't spark. It couldn't. Was already there, roiling beneath the surface. Says it in his face. The way the youth's hidden beneath layers of hardened edges. His full lips are a tight grimace, his brow knitted low over slitted eyes red-rimmed with THC - just to blunt the edge. Not for long, and never enough.

The furrow that crosses Will's brow when he states his own name, is answered by Jackson's, but likely for different reasons. Screws his face up with an incredulous expression. Doesn't understand it. There's a slight ebb; a tiny relaxation as the Forseti moves on with his name. Finally, he gets a nod for saying all he wanted to hear.

"Wreckin' Ball," slurs out his own deedname with none of that eloquence, all ghetto apathy, "Modi o' tha' Get o' Fenris. Rumble, pack o' Earthquake. This our turf," rumbles it out with that low voice that's felt in the bones as much as heard.

"Y'ain' been ta see no one have ya?" Could tell by his affiliation claimed to his old sept. Likely that's why he wanted to talk to Jackson.

[Will Reiter] "There ain't been no one to see." If he's mocking Jackson's way of speech, he does it naturally, the ungrammatical contraction rolling off his tongue. Him and his brother Alaric are hardly peas in a pod. Wherever Will grew up, it ain't north europe. "That's what I'm here to talk about. I been walking these streets two days, and you're the first Garou I've seen who's put down roots. First Get. We don't have a Jarl, do we?"

[Jackson Ball] We don't have a Jarl, do we?

Will asks, and gets an instant, albeit slow, reaction. The modi's face tightens, lip curls lopsided, showing the teeth on one side. Gaze slides away, and that cloud of hate's palpable. Tingles. Hands ball into fists in the live-wire tension.

Nostrils flare, breathing in.. finally releases it. All of it. In a wuff of air. Fists go slack, lazy again, "Not no more," slurs it out. Closes his mouth, slides his eyes to will, seems like he's considering him for a long moment. Mouth opens to speak. Never does. Just hangs there. Finally shakes his head, lips becoming a tight line. Notes Edie, and decides 'not here'.

"S'long story. Ain' good, and not gon' tell it here," Gives him a nod, "Gimmie a number. I'll pass it on ta someone kin get ya in," No way was he going to flippantly give out the caern's location to someone who didn't already know. Didn't work like that.

[Will Reiter] Will palms a stub of paper out his back pocket. It's a receipt: coke 6-pack, hot dog buns, franks. He scribbles a number on the back. Hands it to Jackson.

"I heard the story. 'S why me and my brother came here. I meant, we still don't have a Jarl, do we." It's no longer a question. "Thanks for the hand, Wreckin' Ball-yuf. Can I find you easily, in this part of town?"

[Edie Larson] And Edie keeps her distance, busies herself with rearranging the placement of the lighters on the shelf while the boys talk shelf. A few of them she looks over for a little two long- fond memories, future plans, or it could be she's just admiring the designs or antique quality, depending on which lighter it is. She's fine now, perfectly calm, and a considerably and safe distance from the two.

Heh, safe.

[Jackson Ball] His answering nod is slow, making the light gleam off that shaven scalp like polished mahogany. Thick, blunted fingers grasp the receipt, eyes downcast a little too long. Public school? Worse. He quit. Lips purse, hardened, stuffing the thing in the pocket of his jeans. And finally that glance lifts.

"Ya heard," flat, neither incredulous, nor questioning. Just a self-affirmation. Chin juts out, "Good," that he'd come, likely, "An' naw. We don'," head slowly slides side to side in his negatory gesture. Never occured to him to claim it. Not once.

"Yeh. Down offa Pine. North 'a Market," The place the cops didn't even patrol. Not far from here, and he slurs out some numbers that must be his address. More cavalier with his own resting place than Gaia's sacred one.

[Edie Larson] ((I'm about to drop, so I think I'd better call it quits))

[Jackson Ball] ooc: My bed is starting to sound nice too *g*

[Will Reiter] "We oughta. Someone has to run at the front of the pack, or we're all lost in the snow. Y'know?" Will's smile is faint, crooked. "More pain than glory in the job, though."

It's reasonably warm in Edie's apartment (one hopes), but Will hasn't bothered to undo his coat. He stands barely a few feet from the door, his bearing centered but self-contained. Jackson's a city boy. Jackson's still a Garou, though, and a Garou knew how to read the body. Will's posture shouts that he wasn't staying long.

Still, the warmth slowly flushes his windchilled cheeks, sets points of red beneath the high, slanting cheekbones that carve arches beneath his fine, clear skin. He's still a year or three shy of his twentieth birthday, and it shows. But boys like him -- men like him -- Garou like him, they didn't hope to ever see the far side of it.

Last question: "And the others of Great Fenris? Do you know where to find them?"

[Will Reiter] (yup, i'm about to close up *grin*)

[Edie Larson] ((soirry to duck out without postin out, losing coherent thought and all))

[Will Reiter] ('sall good. thanks for the RP!)

[Jackson Ball] Nods slow like before, "Yeh, mostly 'round tha Sept," Which put him back full circle. To passing that information along. Ben was a Guardian, and he might as well might not have his own place. Sam was much the same. And the others? Dead.

Answers the last first, and the first last. Those shoulders roll in a slow lazy shrug, "Prolly happen at tha moot,"

[Will Reiter] Will shakes his head. Firmly: "Tribe business stays within the tribe. We'll get ourselves together and do it quiet. Can't just fight it out in front of the Sept like Shadow Lords squabblin' for the top. When we come out we come out as one, like five claws on Fenris' paw. I'll be in touch," and he puts out his hand to clasp the Modi's.

[Jackson Ball] Gaze stays on him like before, half-lidded, languid, apathetic. Answers with that sound of air through teeth, followed by a deep-toned grunt. Seen this kind before. Fire-brand speakers. They weren't just for Silver Fangs, the Fenrir had them in spades. Their speeches were just a little more furious.. a little bloodier.

Just wasn't his style. The politics. The proprieties. Instead, his job? Break shit.

That hand is accepted by that thick, calloused grip. Grasp, clasp, release. "Later,"