You scare me.
Monday, 13 January 2014 17:15![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeremiah_garouJanuary 13, 2014
The moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (84% full).
Far in a back corner of the lot is an enormous cardboard box, one of those boxes they put refrigerators in. A flap is cut in one end and a shopping cart stands just outside the "door." It shifts slightly every once in a while, indicating that it's occupied. A thin plume of smoke or steam drifts out of a small hole at the other end of the box.
It wasn't too hard for the Anruth Gnawer ahroun to find out where he needed to go to investigate. The moon is full in the sky, and Jeremiah doesn't quite boil rage, but no one's followed him, which is good, since he might not notice anyway. He's quieter as he enters the abandoned lot, picking his way across the dirt field from the street until he gets to where he can observe the box and the shopping cart. And then even then, backs away from it, nose wrinkling. So he does the next best thing, and picks up a stone, throwing it so it bounces with a gentle tinkling off of the metal of the cart.
The flap on the end of the box opens just a crack, enough for the occupant to be seen partially. Even the part that's visible is buried in a huge hooded sweatshirt. The light from the streetlights outside glints off of what might be an eye in the hood for a moment, then it's gone. The person in the box says nothing.
Jeremiah might have natural anger, but for the moment, he isn't outright hostile. In fact, there's a grimace and a grumble, and the tall homeless man reaches into the inside of his jacket, to pull out a plastic bag that's got some mostly-full containers of Chinese food, and he holds his breath, walks forward enough to set it down in front of the box, nudges it forward with one steel-booted toe until it's closer to the other, and then backs out a bit, nearly ten feet in fact. "Came to…" Jeremiah stops, because his voice, such as it is, is a Jackaled squeaky ruin nowhere suiting his frame. "Thought y' might like th' food. Still hot." And then there's an edge, as much to his expression and the set of his jaw, since he can't manage to make it to his voice. "Heard 'bout yous. New to town?"
Quoz's gloved hand waves slightly in gratitude and emerges to take the food. He reacts at the sound of the man's voice, drawing back a few inches. He nods at the question of his arrival. If the moon is affecting him, he's either keeping it down or is a very good actor, or both. He mutters something unintelligible and shrinks a bit more into his box.
The ahroun sighs, to himself, and his own mutter is unintelligible for probably the voice of the Jackal on him. He seems to truly be trying to not be imposing, because now, though he doesn't get closer, he kicks a patch of dirt clear, so that he's got where to sit down. To kneel would be more like what Jeremiah does, settling to sit on his heels, disciplined and controlled. And the next sound isn't words, or a sigh, at all, but friendly (if unfortunately homid) imitation of a whuffling, and he speaks a bit quieter. "M'names Jeremiah. What's yer name?"
Quoz is silent for a long time, his face hidden under the giant hoodie. He pulls his scarf down slightly and says, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Don' want no trouble, mister."
Jeremiah offers a friendly smile. No teeth, no threat, and he looks down, no longer directly looking at the other, instead venturing occasional glances that betray his curiosity. "I won't bring none," he assures, weak assurance though it may be. "I really did think ye'd like th' food, gi'n from what I heard ye might not have as good a time getting it as I do. It's alright, what's your name? I don't haveta tell anyone."
Another long pause. The voice is a bit louder, but raspy, as if he hardly ever used it. "Name's Dave. No offense, mister, but you scare me. Thanks f'r the food. You be on yer way now. Just let me be." He closes the flap on the door and makes no more sound.
Jeremiah nods and watches, and at the 'you scare me' the other can almost see Jeremiah's face and mood fall, that smile he'd offered turning sad and gloomy, but yet there is no outburst of Rage or anger. "I'm sorry," he says, to the closed flap, and then pauses, halfway through getting up. "I didn' mean to. If any'ne bothers you, one bit… you can' find my box out at the Municipal Bridge, I'll set 'em straight. Or, y' tell Lefty," and this seems to carry more weight to it, "that I sent you an' met y' once already, she'll know what t' do. She always does." That said, the man does get up, pauses, and he approaches the box once more. But it's only to help the other out again, a ragged collection of nearly twenty one dollar bills shoved under the flap with no waiting around for a response, because Quoz can hear Jeremiah's footfalls go across the abandoned lot at a run, once he's done that. Not sticking around to find out.
There's no more movement from the box. However, the squeaking of a rat just may be audible over the noise of the city.
The moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (84% full).
Far in a back corner of the lot is an enormous cardboard box, one of those boxes they put refrigerators in. A flap is cut in one end and a shopping cart stands just outside the "door." It shifts slightly every once in a while, indicating that it's occupied. A thin plume of smoke or steam drifts out of a small hole at the other end of the box.
It wasn't too hard for the Anruth Gnawer ahroun to find out where he needed to go to investigate. The moon is full in the sky, and Jeremiah doesn't quite boil rage, but no one's followed him, which is good, since he might not notice anyway. He's quieter as he enters the abandoned lot, picking his way across the dirt field from the street until he gets to where he can observe the box and the shopping cart. And then even then, backs away from it, nose wrinkling. So he does the next best thing, and picks up a stone, throwing it so it bounces with a gentle tinkling off of the metal of the cart.
The flap on the end of the box opens just a crack, enough for the occupant to be seen partially. Even the part that's visible is buried in a huge hooded sweatshirt. The light from the streetlights outside glints off of what might be an eye in the hood for a moment, then it's gone. The person in the box says nothing.
Jeremiah might have natural anger, but for the moment, he isn't outright hostile. In fact, there's a grimace and a grumble, and the tall homeless man reaches into the inside of his jacket, to pull out a plastic bag that's got some mostly-full containers of Chinese food, and he holds his breath, walks forward enough to set it down in front of the box, nudges it forward with one steel-booted toe until it's closer to the other, and then backs out a bit, nearly ten feet in fact. "Came to…" Jeremiah stops, because his voice, such as it is, is a Jackaled squeaky ruin nowhere suiting his frame. "Thought y' might like th' food. Still hot." And then there's an edge, as much to his expression and the set of his jaw, since he can't manage to make it to his voice. "Heard 'bout yous. New to town?"
Quoz's gloved hand waves slightly in gratitude and emerges to take the food. He reacts at the sound of the man's voice, drawing back a few inches. He nods at the question of his arrival. If the moon is affecting him, he's either keeping it down or is a very good actor, or both. He mutters something unintelligible and shrinks a bit more into his box.
The ahroun sighs, to himself, and his own mutter is unintelligible for probably the voice of the Jackal on him. He seems to truly be trying to not be imposing, because now, though he doesn't get closer, he kicks a patch of dirt clear, so that he's got where to sit down. To kneel would be more like what Jeremiah does, settling to sit on his heels, disciplined and controlled. And the next sound isn't words, or a sigh, at all, but friendly (if unfortunately homid) imitation of a whuffling, and he speaks a bit quieter. "M'names Jeremiah. What's yer name?"
Quoz is silent for a long time, his face hidden under the giant hoodie. He pulls his scarf down slightly and says, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Don' want no trouble, mister."
Jeremiah offers a friendly smile. No teeth, no threat, and he looks down, no longer directly looking at the other, instead venturing occasional glances that betray his curiosity. "I won't bring none," he assures, weak assurance though it may be. "I really did think ye'd like th' food, gi'n from what I heard ye might not have as good a time getting it as I do. It's alright, what's your name? I don't haveta tell anyone."
Another long pause. The voice is a bit louder, but raspy, as if he hardly ever used it. "Name's Dave. No offense, mister, but you scare me. Thanks f'r the food. You be on yer way now. Just let me be." He closes the flap on the door and makes no more sound.
Jeremiah nods and watches, and at the 'you scare me' the other can almost see Jeremiah's face and mood fall, that smile he'd offered turning sad and gloomy, but yet there is no outburst of Rage or anger. "I'm sorry," he says, to the closed flap, and then pauses, halfway through getting up. "I didn' mean to. If any'ne bothers you, one bit… you can' find my box out at the Municipal Bridge, I'll set 'em straight. Or, y' tell Lefty," and this seems to carry more weight to it, "that I sent you an' met y' once already, she'll know what t' do. She always does." That said, the man does get up, pauses, and he approaches the box once more. But it's only to help the other out again, a ragged collection of nearly twenty one dollar bills shoved under the flap with no waiting around for a response, because Quoz can hear Jeremiah's footfalls go across the abandoned lot at a run, once he's done that. Not sticking around to find out.
There's no more movement from the box. However, the squeaking of a rat just may be audible over the noise of the city.