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jeremiah_garou) wrote2013-03-03 04:00 pm
jeremiah_garou) wrote2013-03-03 04:00 pm
Entry tags:
Comfort zone.
3 March, 2013
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (58% full).
The afternoon brings the same as the morning. Jeremiah's taken a spot on the corner of the couch, with a bottle of water and some cookies nearby, and a worn paperback of the sort that there are so many of in the Library on his lap, a few more nearby so that he doesn't have to get up when he finishes what he's reading. The ahroun's sullenly kept to himself when his tribemates were present, and pulls the oversize army surplus jacket around his shoulders a little more. He hasn't shaved in days, and whether he's slept in days is rather arguable.
Ila's cheerful singing can be heard from right outside the library, the words becoming audible as she punts open the door with her backside—her arms being occupied with bulging bags. Audible but not necessarily comprehensible, as far as the words go, the song seems to be in Spanish, as sung by someone who knows the sounds but not necessarily the meaning. Scents waft in along with the music—street fumes mingled with fresh baking and hot soup. As the door swings shut behind her, Ila spins on her toes to peek within the building, head slightly cocked. "Hullo-oh? Anyone home? Lefty? Kitty? Emma?"
Jeremiah looks up and tilts his head to one side. "Lefty's out, I think," the young man offers from where he sits. His voice. Oh dear gods his voice. There is definitely something wrong with his voice, high and whining and a disturbing squeak, and it brings a rise of slight undirected anger, just as quickly gone. "Hi."
"Oh dear." There's just the right touch of sympathy in the woman's, avoiding the pity that is only likely to evoke further ire. "You sound as if you could use a nice cup of hot soup, dear. Tomato or chicken?" She bustles towards the couch, but stops short of crowding it so she can lump her loaded bags in a free spot. "Nothing like a nice mug of hot soup to make the day seem a little more bearable," she says comfortingly.
Jeremiah seems, perhaps, a little bit surprised by the kindness, and nods. "Chicken," he responds, then pauses. "Though it won't change, ee-um-myyy." That said with a shrug, Jeremiah straightens and looks up, continuing to speak in that awful Jackal-voice. "Jeremiah Lives-on. Called Bullfrog most've th' time, if y' like. Cliath ahroun, Gnawer."
"Chicken coming right up, sweetie." The endearments seem as much a part of the woman as the quaint clothes and the automatic kindness. "Ila Kubala, Bone Gnawer kin. Nice to meet you, my dear. Now then, here we are…" She pours from a steaming thermos into a disposable cup. Wrapping both hands around the soup, she brings it over carefully to hand to the Ahroun. "I made it fresh this morning. Just the thing to warm the heart and soul."
The ahroun takes the cup of soup carefully, and grins, then frees one hand and carefully makes a sign. Recognisable as 'thank you' if one understands sign language. He takes a sip and the expression becomes more easygoing, if a rage six ahroun can in fact be easy going. "'s good," he squeaks out.
"Thank you," Ila says, genuinely pleased by the compliment. "I know we haven't met before. Have I just missed being in the same place?"
Jeremiah shakes his head. "I haven't been here that long," he explains. Even the hot soup doesn't seem to help Jer's voice, though it certainly seems to help his mood and alleviate what tension might come from the topic. "A few weeks. I'm Anruth, in town for a bit." A pause. "This," seeming to mean his voice, "happened yesterday. Sounds like utter crap, dunnit."
"You can tell me about it, if you want to, or if you don't mind," Ila suggests, curling herself into another seat and leaning forward just a little.
This is considered, though for a bit, Jer focuses on the soup instead. After all it's good, and he's hungry. A pause is taken somewhere in the middle to eat another of the sandwich cookies from the bag nearby, and eventually he speaks. "It's a punishment rite," Jeremiah explains. "Voice of the Jackal. A. A while ago, I did some pretty stupid things around here, when I was a— I was a Shadow Lord," he explains, evident distaste in his voice. "Then the Umbra dumped me baaack here, and so, I'm dealing with it. This, until I either leave forever, or. Do something heroic in service to the sept." The explanation, given the current state of his voice, sounds ridiculous. Laughable and like a joke, almost, and he seems to know this.
"Oh. I see. That's quite a lot to deal with," Ila says with that same ready sympathy, calmly accepting of the rather large lumps of Big Deal stuff in Jer's explanation. "Did you have something heroic in mind, or were you waiting for something to come along?"
Jeremiah shakes his head. "I'm an ahroun, not a hero," the young man says dourly, with a squeaky sort of sigh. There seems to be a distinction, and clearly the man regards himself as doing what needs to be done, nothing more. "If something comes along, though, I'll do it. I'll do it if it needs doing, regardless. Even if it's just killing little fomor while I'm in town."
"If I come across anything, I'll let you know, dear." Ila smiles, gently encouraging. "Sometimes, the hero is the one who does what needs doing, even when it's not glamorous or spectacular. I see a lot of St. Claire's less fortunate population… the vulnerable, those under threat. Some of them could use a champion who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty."
Jeremiah makes a faint 'heh' sound. "That's what I've always done," he responds. "Least, tried to. What needs doing, as long as it's the right thing." His heart's in the right place at least, and his words are genuine, if rather difficult to listen to a bit. "It isn't about glory, or any of that. Just about fighting what needs to be fought, for Gaia and for all of that." The cup of soup is finished off, and then Jer looks at Ila. "'s there more soup?" he asks, a bit sheepishly.
"I always have soup," Ila says with a grin. "A bottomless soup-pan, although some days you have to take pot luck on the flavour. Here you are, my dear, and welcome." She's pouring another serving as she speaks, and she passes it over with the same almost reverent care as the first cup.
Jeremiah grins and doesn't seem to mind, taking the second cup of soup too. "It's very good," he says. "Much better than I sometimes eat, or when I was traveling." That's not at all a complaint, though the whine of his voice might make it sound like it. But the expression at least makes it certain that it's not.
Ila chuckles. "You're welcome any time. I do take requests."
The ahroun nods, carefully sipping the cup of soup, and in a significantly better mood, it would seem, then he was when the kinswoman came in. "So, what do you do, anyway?" Jeremiah asks. Idle conversation, not quite his forte.
Ila curls back into her chair. "I'm a professional fortune-teller," she announces, with a touch of self-depreciating frankness. "Palm-reading, card-reading, crystal healing, occult consultations, blessings. Soul-healing, if you prefer. Of course—" her mouth-corners tilt upwards a little— "it's nothing like the real spirit-magic that Garou can do. It's a sort of psychology, I suppose."
Jer doesn't seem to be one to look down on anything, it seems, and there's an easy and accepting nod. Nonetheless there's a long while before he says anything, as though he's choosing his words quite carefully. "Sometimes it's what folk need," he says, with the seriousness of someone who's been broken. Alas, being quiet doesn't change what's happened to his voice either, though it might make it a little easier to listen to. "Doesn't need to be magic to help make th' world a little bit better, push back against the Wyrm that little bit. Just needs t' be honest."
"And caring," Ila adds with a firmness at odds with her general impression of soft cuddliness. "Compassion's become a dirty word in today's world, but if someone's not helping people because they care about them and their needs, then they're only really doing it for themselves. Their own conscience and their own ideals." She gives a determined nod. "Speaking of which, when did you last get a good night's sleep?"
Jeremiah shrugs his shoulders at the question. "While ago," he responds, shoulders falling and the cookies (peanut butter sandwich cookies of the Girl Scout variety) are picked up again, after the Ahroun gets a few they're offered to Ila. "Been er. Kinda stressed?" That's definitely self-deprecating humour, and a bit of a Russian accent creeps into the words. "Or busy, or both."
"Would you like something to help you sleep?" There's all sorts of things could be read into Ila's question, including a simple offer of a bed-time drink.
The kinswoman gets a curious look, and definite thought to the question. Not that it's necessarily a 'normal' bedtime, but the ahroun hasn't exactly been keeping a 'normal' sleep schedule with his entire skipping sleeping in favour of pacing or running. Jeremiah eventually nods. "Sure," he agrees. "Couldn' hurt."
Ila tilts her head again as she regards the Ahroun with gentle curiosity. "Well then, what would you prefer? A herb tea? A herbal pillow? A massage…?" Another of her smiles graces her face. "There are other possibilities… but what are you comfortable with?"
It might not be an entirely unexpected reaction, the flash of very obvious grief that crosses Jeremiah's face, memories that are so long buried when he wasn't at the Hidden Walk so much closer to the surface now that he is, with the shadow of his past right over him. And pain there too, as the former Shadow Lord remembers something, or someone. He looks at Ila for a moment, and there's an almost nervous, uncertain smile. "Tea'd be nice," he manages, high and nasal but with effort managing to convey gratitude through his voice as well. "Thank you." It's not shutting the door to possibilities either, the Ahroun just seems… nervous. "A massage, well," he offers a smile that's stark contrast to the voice. "I promise I won' go all furry and freak out."
"That would be appreciated," Ila admits, not trying to hide her awareness of just how long she'd be likely to last in the face of Crinos claws and teeth, though it doesn't stop her from uncurling from her chair and moving closer to the Ahroun, though for now it's to start pulling things from her bags, watching Jer as she finds this and that—packets, oil-jars, an ornate-carved burner and incense. "I'm here to help. Whatever you need. Let me help you relax, and soothe away your troubles for a while… though we might want to find somewhere that is less likely to find us interrupted…"
Jeremiah smiles at the kinswoman. "Probably," he squeaks, setting the books carefully aside, and he shrugs at the stairs. "I tend to sleep downstairs." The preparations are watched carefully. "And, y'know, less. Interruptions." The man's clearly careful of his Rage, but it doesn't flare up. "I 'preciate it. I'm glad I met you," he adds.
Ila's answer is another smile, and she gathers her materials to follow Jer out of the room.
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (58% full).
The afternoon brings the same as the morning. Jeremiah's taken a spot on the corner of the couch, with a bottle of water and some cookies nearby, and a worn paperback of the sort that there are so many of in the Library on his lap, a few more nearby so that he doesn't have to get up when he finishes what he's reading. The ahroun's sullenly kept to himself when his tribemates were present, and pulls the oversize army surplus jacket around his shoulders a little more. He hasn't shaved in days, and whether he's slept in days is rather arguable.
Ila's cheerful singing can be heard from right outside the library, the words becoming audible as she punts open the door with her backside—her arms being occupied with bulging bags. Audible but not necessarily comprehensible, as far as the words go, the song seems to be in Spanish, as sung by someone who knows the sounds but not necessarily the meaning. Scents waft in along with the music—street fumes mingled with fresh baking and hot soup. As the door swings shut behind her, Ila spins on her toes to peek within the building, head slightly cocked. "Hullo-oh? Anyone home? Lefty? Kitty? Emma?"
Jeremiah looks up and tilts his head to one side. "Lefty's out, I think," the young man offers from where he sits. His voice. Oh dear gods his voice. There is definitely something wrong with his voice, high and whining and a disturbing squeak, and it brings a rise of slight undirected anger, just as quickly gone. "Hi."
"Oh dear." There's just the right touch of sympathy in the woman's, avoiding the pity that is only likely to evoke further ire. "You sound as if you could use a nice cup of hot soup, dear. Tomato or chicken?" She bustles towards the couch, but stops short of crowding it so she can lump her loaded bags in a free spot. "Nothing like a nice mug of hot soup to make the day seem a little more bearable," she says comfortingly.
Jeremiah seems, perhaps, a little bit surprised by the kindness, and nods. "Chicken," he responds, then pauses. "Though it won't change, ee-um-myyy." That said with a shrug, Jeremiah straightens and looks up, continuing to speak in that awful Jackal-voice. "Jeremiah Lives-on. Called Bullfrog most've th' time, if y' like. Cliath ahroun, Gnawer."
"Chicken coming right up, sweetie." The endearments seem as much a part of the woman as the quaint clothes and the automatic kindness. "Ila Kubala, Bone Gnawer kin. Nice to meet you, my dear. Now then, here we are…" She pours from a steaming thermos into a disposable cup. Wrapping both hands around the soup, she brings it over carefully to hand to the Ahroun. "I made it fresh this morning. Just the thing to warm the heart and soul."
The ahroun takes the cup of soup carefully, and grins, then frees one hand and carefully makes a sign. Recognisable as 'thank you' if one understands sign language. He takes a sip and the expression becomes more easygoing, if a rage six ahroun can in fact be easy going. "'s good," he squeaks out.
"Thank you," Ila says, genuinely pleased by the compliment. "I know we haven't met before. Have I just missed being in the same place?"
Jeremiah shakes his head. "I haven't been here that long," he explains. Even the hot soup doesn't seem to help Jer's voice, though it certainly seems to help his mood and alleviate what tension might come from the topic. "A few weeks. I'm Anruth, in town for a bit." A pause. "This," seeming to mean his voice, "happened yesterday. Sounds like utter crap, dunnit."
"You can tell me about it, if you want to, or if you don't mind," Ila suggests, curling herself into another seat and leaning forward just a little.
This is considered, though for a bit, Jer focuses on the soup instead. After all it's good, and he's hungry. A pause is taken somewhere in the middle to eat another of the sandwich cookies from the bag nearby, and eventually he speaks. "It's a punishment rite," Jeremiah explains. "Voice of the Jackal. A. A while ago, I did some pretty stupid things around here, when I was a— I was a Shadow Lord," he explains, evident distaste in his voice. "Then the Umbra dumped me baaack here, and so, I'm dealing with it. This, until I either leave forever, or. Do something heroic in service to the sept." The explanation, given the current state of his voice, sounds ridiculous. Laughable and like a joke, almost, and he seems to know this.
"Oh. I see. That's quite a lot to deal with," Ila says with that same ready sympathy, calmly accepting of the rather large lumps of Big Deal stuff in Jer's explanation. "Did you have something heroic in mind, or were you waiting for something to come along?"
Jeremiah shakes his head. "I'm an ahroun, not a hero," the young man says dourly, with a squeaky sort of sigh. There seems to be a distinction, and clearly the man regards himself as doing what needs to be done, nothing more. "If something comes along, though, I'll do it. I'll do it if it needs doing, regardless. Even if it's just killing little fomor while I'm in town."
"If I come across anything, I'll let you know, dear." Ila smiles, gently encouraging. "Sometimes, the hero is the one who does what needs doing, even when it's not glamorous or spectacular. I see a lot of St. Claire's less fortunate population… the vulnerable, those under threat. Some of them could use a champion who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty."
Jeremiah makes a faint 'heh' sound. "That's what I've always done," he responds. "Least, tried to. What needs doing, as long as it's the right thing." His heart's in the right place at least, and his words are genuine, if rather difficult to listen to a bit. "It isn't about glory, or any of that. Just about fighting what needs to be fought, for Gaia and for all of that." The cup of soup is finished off, and then Jer looks at Ila. "'s there more soup?" he asks, a bit sheepishly.
"I always have soup," Ila says with a grin. "A bottomless soup-pan, although some days you have to take pot luck on the flavour. Here you are, my dear, and welcome." She's pouring another serving as she speaks, and she passes it over with the same almost reverent care as the first cup.
Jeremiah grins and doesn't seem to mind, taking the second cup of soup too. "It's very good," he says. "Much better than I sometimes eat, or when I was traveling." That's not at all a complaint, though the whine of his voice might make it sound like it. But the expression at least makes it certain that it's not.
Ila chuckles. "You're welcome any time. I do take requests."
The ahroun nods, carefully sipping the cup of soup, and in a significantly better mood, it would seem, then he was when the kinswoman came in. "So, what do you do, anyway?" Jeremiah asks. Idle conversation, not quite his forte.
Ila curls back into her chair. "I'm a professional fortune-teller," she announces, with a touch of self-depreciating frankness. "Palm-reading, card-reading, crystal healing, occult consultations, blessings. Soul-healing, if you prefer. Of course—" her mouth-corners tilt upwards a little— "it's nothing like the real spirit-magic that Garou can do. It's a sort of psychology, I suppose."
Jer doesn't seem to be one to look down on anything, it seems, and there's an easy and accepting nod. Nonetheless there's a long while before he says anything, as though he's choosing his words quite carefully. "Sometimes it's what folk need," he says, with the seriousness of someone who's been broken. Alas, being quiet doesn't change what's happened to his voice either, though it might make it a little easier to listen to. "Doesn't need to be magic to help make th' world a little bit better, push back against the Wyrm that little bit. Just needs t' be honest."
"And caring," Ila adds with a firmness at odds with her general impression of soft cuddliness. "Compassion's become a dirty word in today's world, but if someone's not helping people because they care about them and their needs, then they're only really doing it for themselves. Their own conscience and their own ideals." She gives a determined nod. "Speaking of which, when did you last get a good night's sleep?"
Jeremiah shrugs his shoulders at the question. "While ago," he responds, shoulders falling and the cookies (peanut butter sandwich cookies of the Girl Scout variety) are picked up again, after the Ahroun gets a few they're offered to Ila. "Been er. Kinda stressed?" That's definitely self-deprecating humour, and a bit of a Russian accent creeps into the words. "Or busy, or both."
"Would you like something to help you sleep?" There's all sorts of things could be read into Ila's question, including a simple offer of a bed-time drink.
The kinswoman gets a curious look, and definite thought to the question. Not that it's necessarily a 'normal' bedtime, but the ahroun hasn't exactly been keeping a 'normal' sleep schedule with his entire skipping sleeping in favour of pacing or running. Jeremiah eventually nods. "Sure," he agrees. "Couldn' hurt."
Ila tilts her head again as she regards the Ahroun with gentle curiosity. "Well then, what would you prefer? A herb tea? A herbal pillow? A massage…?" Another of her smiles graces her face. "There are other possibilities… but what are you comfortable with?"
It might not be an entirely unexpected reaction, the flash of very obvious grief that crosses Jeremiah's face, memories that are so long buried when he wasn't at the Hidden Walk so much closer to the surface now that he is, with the shadow of his past right over him. And pain there too, as the former Shadow Lord remembers something, or someone. He looks at Ila for a moment, and there's an almost nervous, uncertain smile. "Tea'd be nice," he manages, high and nasal but with effort managing to convey gratitude through his voice as well. "Thank you." It's not shutting the door to possibilities either, the Ahroun just seems… nervous. "A massage, well," he offers a smile that's stark contrast to the voice. "I promise I won' go all furry and freak out."
"That would be appreciated," Ila admits, not trying to hide her awareness of just how long she'd be likely to last in the face of Crinos claws and teeth, though it doesn't stop her from uncurling from her chair and moving closer to the Ahroun, though for now it's to start pulling things from her bags, watching Jer as she finds this and that—packets, oil-jars, an ornate-carved burner and incense. "I'm here to help. Whatever you need. Let me help you relax, and soothe away your troubles for a while… though we might want to find somewhere that is less likely to find us interrupted…"
Jeremiah smiles at the kinswoman. "Probably," he squeaks, setting the books carefully aside, and he shrugs at the stairs. "I tend to sleep downstairs." The preparations are watched carefully. "And, y'know, less. Interruptions." The man's clearly careful of his Rage, but it doesn't flare up. "I 'preciate it. I'm glad I met you," he adds.
Ila's answer is another smile, and she gathers her materials to follow Jer out of the room.