Integrity.

[jeremiah_garou]

4 March, 2013
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (52% full).

Jeremiah's out for a run in the park at the moment, in tattered jeans and a equally worn out sweatshirt, ht having long been shoved into a pocket. The man runs at an even, steady pace, laps around the park which have the majority of pedestrians avoiding him even at this smaller moon. And then he slows and comes to a halt along one of the paths, walking over towards a bench to sit down.

Aha! And then, behold! There is a Dirk, moving in a slow, measured, kata-like exercise in a clearing with a direct view from said bench. It could be T'ai Chi, the way he's moving hands and limbs in line with each-other, breathing in time. Despite the cold, the man is wearing loose flannel with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, jeans worn and frayed, shoes equally so. Yet even so, the clothes do not detract from the man, who appears to be in The Zone of serenity. Or as much as he can be, at least.

The Bone Gnawer's brows furrow a little, recognition dawning on his expression, though he stops by the bench to retie his shoes. Jeremiah doesn't seem keen to interrupt the other Garou. Instead, within sight, he raises one hand in greeting to the Silver Fang, in between tying one shoe and the other.

A stopping place is not far off—a few minutes at most. Dirk's hands fall to his sides, and he takes a breath, simply standing there for a moment. At length, he bends over to retrieve a towel from his gym bag, and mops his face and beard.

Jeremiah is deliberate and patient, and eventually moves over to greet the other man. "Hey," Jeremiah offers. Aaaaand the cat's out of the bag. Most people might think that the ahroun's simply lost his voice and is getting it back, but it's not unrecognisable as the Jackal to Garou. High, nasal, and with a slight whine to it, and definitely something that wasn't there the last time the two met in New Jersey. "Didn't expect to see you here, sir."

Dirk recognizes the man by sight, if certainly not by sound. He does, in fact, turn to greet Jeremiah with an escalating grin that rather… flops when hears that telltale whine. Even so, the Fang tosses the towel over his shoulder and extends a hand; he tips his head in welcome. "Nor I, you, Jeremiah." That Scottish brogue remains… if not quite at the same thickness Jeremiah might remember. The Scotsman has acclimated somewhat. Or he's actively trying to be more understandable. Either way.

Jeremiah offers a smile in return, not defeated in either expression or posture. Rather, whatever it is seems to be something that the Gnawer's determined to weather and get through. "I found myself with some uh, business here, so." The handshake's returned firmly, just as much as ever, and then Jer falls silent for a moment. "Good to see you."

Lifting a brow in curiosity, Dirk can't help by allow the intrigue to write itself over his features. But at any rate, if Jeremiah seems to be dealing with the grating voice, as will he. Briefly returning the smile, Dirk bends down to replace his towel in the gymbag, and haul the thing up by the straps. "A friendly face is always a welcome sight, aye," he replies, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging at his side. "But at risk of bein' rude, my friend, why have ye been jackaled this way?"

The younger man's lips purse into a frown. "Things I did," he explains. "B'fore I was a Gnawer, before I got a second chance at life. I'd come here after Broken Prairie fell. Fucked up pretty good." Jeremiah winces at the sound of his own voice and hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his sweatshirt, shifts his weight. "I could leave, you know. Leave and never come back and it'd be lifted. Or I stay and face it." Which seems to be the choice that the Ahroun's chosen.

Quietly, that information is assessed. The Scotsman cants his head slightly, lifting hand to rub at his beard in thought, and softly shaking his head. "'Tis a punishment for an indeterminate time, then? Or until the ritemaster is satisfied? An' likewise, who laid this burden upon ye?"

"Inde— indeterminate." The younger Garou seems, a little, to struggle with the fact that he does have an option out of things. His expression's an open book, overall. "I was in Connecticut in the Umbra. An' I fell out here and it got me thinkin' about. About the past, and so I asked t' get to stand for Judgment and all. Jack Salem did." Jeremiah rolls his shoulders and then stretches first one arm, then the other, then eases into a lunge to stretch from having been running. "I need to get permission from every tribal elder to stay in the area as Anruth. Nik and Jacinta'd prolly sooner kill me. And then it lifts if I leave. Or if I do some damn heroic thing for Sept… I'm an ahroun, not a hero." Yet none of this seems to dissuade Jeremiah from his choice to try to stay.

"I had heard of that event, though didnae put all the pieces together until, well, jus' now," Dirk admits, readjusting the gym bag so the strap falls over and against his chest rather than hanging over his shoulder. He looks away, glancing around the environs for the moment, watching, thinking. "'Tis a sad place t'be—a community where few want ye, but I can understand the need t'want to prove somethin' to yourself. Have ye been expressly forbidden from participatin' in the Caern Buildin'?"

Jeremiah purses his lips. "Not to step foot on the Bawn," Jer says, and it doesn't much sound like a complaint that the Ahroun doesn't have a reason to leave the concrete jungle. "So I'd think it's a yes, but, you know. I'd like t' help. And I feel like I can be useful here. Like I need to do this." There's a grin, if a tense one, and the Gnawer looks to Dirk. "Be honest with me, sir, how ridiculous an' awful do I sound?"

"Ridiculous?" This is considered for a moment, as Dirk is apt to do, his gaze flicking back and searching for something in Jeremiah's expression in that interim. "No, nae ridiculous. A glutton for punishment, perhaps. 'Tis a hard thing you bring upon yourself, my friend. But 'tis your choice t'make. Now, I'll be havin' t'think of a proper test a' contrition for the sake a' Falcon, y'must understand."

The ahroun's quite serious, and there's perhaps a hint of appreciation in the expression, as well as the same honest-earned respect he has for the other. That uncertainty is there too, but not so much now. "I'd expect nothin' less," Jeremiah responds. There's a thoughtful nod that follows. "I think th' word my elders used was 'stubborn'. That, an' Salem said 'dumb Russian bastard'." Both of which Jeremiah seems determined to own just as much as anything else he's ever been called. "I'm real glad you're here, sir."

Dirk scratches the back of his head and looks a bit sheepish. "Aye, well, I won't be easy on you, a'course. But I do know you t'be a decent sort based on what I've seen, m'self. Unfortunately, nothin' I say's going to change what the other think, so the burden a' changing their minds falls on you. I'll be tryin' t'keep that in mind as I figure somethin' for you t'do that'll help make a difference."

"Ain't th' man I was," Jeremiah squeaks out, and scowls, though it's good-natured and without the backing of Rage. "'Course y' didn't know me, then. Grief makes an ahroun do really dumb things. As for that, it. I think I can change some minds. Facin' stuff, t' start with, it's a good start. Way different than I was." That scowl turns into a more deeply etched frown. "Except Kyler, but… I have a nephew." Even after the change of tribe, regardless of everything, it's clear that family in whatever form is hellaciously important to Jeremiah. "I'm prolly dead to him as it is, but I gotta try."

"Grief… I know," Dirk responds, slowly. Now is not the time to elaborate, however, and the weight of those words are enough to make clear he's not of a mind to talk about it. His brows furrow, and he turns bodily away for a moment, closing his eyes. He takes a breath. "Focus on provin' that your integrity shouldn't be in question. Your family will come in time, or they won't. Y'can't control what they do, what they think, but y'can control what they see." Glancing over his shoulder, which he shrugs, the man turns back halfway. "'Tis a more worthwhile and achievable goal than what may be vain hope, aye?"

Jeremiah nods, not particularly of the mind to further that particular thread of conversation while the moon's still this big, and moves to clap Dirk lightly but firmly on the shoulder. "Thanks," he says, more quietly if no less of a whine. But his expression is genuine. "By the way," he adds. "If yer in the city, much youuu, might want to watch out for pigeons. Found out that there's some might been touched by a smog bane, or something. They spew nasty smoke that burns. We's—Maddie an' I—goin' to try and lure them, catch them, an' Cleanse them. Hopefully."

Mercifully, the sudden jolt to his shoulder seems to snap Dirk out of his reverie. He blinks, briefly, and then shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. "Aye? Pigeons, truly?" The Scotsman tries his best to not seem distracted, and fully turns towards the Gnawer again in that spirit. "Well, keep me informed if any help is needed, though sounds t'me that y'got the situation well in-hand."

"Pigeons," Jeremiah says. "Nasty-lookin' pigeons. They die easy if y' catch them but 'd rather not kill more, if they can be Cleansed." He pauses and thinks, then asks, "Though. Do you know who th' rest of th' tribal elders is around here? I need, 'ventually, to talk to all of them. Though one atta time, more less, first thing's first. You an' talkin' to Lefty, and to Elliot again."

Dirk scratches his head, nodding. "Not t'be crass, but I can't see the world bein' much at a loss by losin' a few pigeons. Bein' though as I owe Dove a debt a' gratitude, I'd be inclined to save 'em also. As for the elders, Silvertip-rhya's gone an' left for a time, so that leaves Mr. Reggie. Then there's the Talon, Earth-Whisperer-rhya. Mouse-rhya still claims the Walkers. Melodie-rhya the Furies. If y'need the others, jus' ask again. No need t'overload you."

Jeremiah tilts his head. "'d rather save things if I can, than kill them, least while I'm thinking about it," he says. "Sometimes I feel like I've had 'nough of killin' for a lifetime. Not that I won't when I need to, but." Each name is carefully noted, and the ex-Shadow Lord offers Dirk a smile. "Thanks, sir. Prolly jus' as well that Silvertip-rhya's gone. He was here, I'd not have this chance."

Dirk simply nods, dropping his hand, and appearing to understand without need for further question. "Do what your integrity demands," he says, with a brief shake of his head, and another lifting the gym bag strap. Must be a ton of stuff in there. "'Tis your decision if this place be worth the possibility of ignominious death, but I support your decision t'make the attempt. So long as y'realize that death may be the consequence."

"Anywhere... anywhere is worth the possibility of death," Jeremiah says, after some consideration. The jackal-voice makes it difficult to sound serious, but once again expression conveys what his voice currently cannot. "I do know it might be. But the fight's here too, and... I owe this Sept my life, and th' chance I got t' start over. I want to show that I made good, that I's changed. That I'm a better man." There's a nod. "I'll see you 'round, yeah? I's stayin' at th' Library most of the time, an' near th' bridge edge of that camp th' rest."