Sorting things out.
Tuesday, 5 March 2013 10:04![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeremiah_garou5 March, 2013
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (42% full).
The homeless encampment near the bridge and the river sprawls, the less desirable and less fortunate segment of society left where no one has to see them, or care about them. Closer to the bridge itself, there's a makeshift leanto of cardboard and a piece of tin well positioned for someone to keep an eye on the area, and people gather around small fires or heaters or card games and the bottle being passed around, or keep to themselves, or eat breakfast. All the normal activities. Jer sits under the low tin roof, just watching and barely sheltered from the rain, a cigarette lit and dangling from his lips.
The last time Reed was seen around this bridge and this camp was the day he revealed himself to be a werewolf. Interesting how things come full circle, and even more interesting is the very wide berth the vagrants give him. It could just be the soaked appearance, the huddling in his hoodie and scowling that angles itself toward anyone who might appear too close. Though he's got a skateboard slung from the straps of his backpack, it's more obvious that he's been walking a while.
Jeremiah doesn't seem inclined to get up from his shelter from the rain, but he does note the teen's progress across the area, eventually raising a hand in vague greeting.
The movement draws a look from the boy. It isn't happy, and it seems undeniably Rage fueled. He un-huddles long enough to tug the straps of his backpack higher onto his shoulders, then draws his arms back over his chest.
The look in return is studying, and not at all unkind. Recognition of the Rage, certainly, and though the man's own Rage is clearly on a very tight leash, it's definitely there. And there's no one particularly near where Jeremiah's chosen, either. He lets Reed walk a bit, and then Jer raises a hand, slightly more insistent, sort of a come-here gesture.
Reed's expression narrows, distrust clearly evident. His head shakes slightly, as if that alone would ward off the cliath's beckoning.
Jeremiah furrows his brows. "Don' make me stand up," he calls out. It's a squeaky, grating, awful voice, but there's a vestige of authority. "Just want to talk."
The boy pauses, not unlike a kid who's been called on by an adult. Or a cub called by an elder wolf. One can almost see the fur bristling, hackles rising while at the same time submission plays into his posture. He stops walking, but he doesn't approach either, gaze firmly upon Jeremiah.
Jeremiah straightens his shoulders, grinding the cigarette out in a small tin that gets shoved back into the 'stuff' and 'bed' part of the leanto, and it seems like the Gnawer ahroun at least has all the patience in the world while waiting for the teen to approach. There's a nod. "Prefer to talk quiet-like," Jeremiah points out, the Jackal-voice distinctively worse when he tries to be loud, and in distinct contrast to the seriousness of the words themselves and of his expression. "Come sit."
Reed would prefer not to talk at all, but something about the Cliath's bearing keeps him planted. One portion of lip lifts and bears teeth, unspoken refusal to completely comply.
Jeremiah grumbles to himself. To the perceptive, it sounds like Russian, and slowly, carefully, his lips pull back to bare teeth in response, chin up, a silent expression of authority. "Just talk. I ain't going to let you go 'bout the city like you is, all angry and piss an' vinegar at the world, kid. Come over here, so I can stop raisin' my voice."
Reed eases a step backward, anger flaring again, though he's got a grip on it. The Rage is definitely unmistakable, and there's a lot of it even for a waning half moon. His head shakes in negative, while he steels himself against the look Jeremiah levels on him. Then, resolute, he turns to continue on his path.
There's only so much defiance that Jeremiah seems to be willing to put up with, and he gets up, moves after Reed, sets a hand on the teen's shoulder. Pitched for the teen, and the teen alone, in as serious as he can make his voice, comes an introduction hissed into the face, Rage matched with well-reined Rage, the older Ahroun seeming to have a near-iron grip on his own anger. "Jeremiah Lives-On. Cliath Ahroun of Rat's tribe. Anruth at the moment, but I live here. So. Y' come wanderin' through here like you is, you's going to come sit, and talk. An' eat breakfast, if y' haven't already."
It takes only that one touch for Reed to go on the defensive. The introduction falls on deaf ears as the boy turns and gives a shove to put distance between himself and Jeremiah. It goes no further, but his grip on that rage is far more tenuous than before, barely controlled.
Jeremiah allows the teen to get a grip. Whenever he does, though, there's Jeremiah standing in the way of further progress, pointing at the slight shelter created by the lean-to. "Go sit," he instructs, with no room left for argument.
Reed throws himself bodily against Jeremiah, instincts threatening to take over. Even newer cubs than he can see the death-grasp he's got on his control, trying to keep it in check as much as he is trying to get away from the Gnawer.
Jeremiah raises his brow when the boy goes on the offensive, and from there the man's all business, a chokehold and then later, when the teen wakes, more proper introductions and a trip on foot to the Old Library to wait for things to be sorted out. The cliath ahroun's firm about it, though he doesn't press for conversation or talk.
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (42% full).
The homeless encampment near the bridge and the river sprawls, the less desirable and less fortunate segment of society left where no one has to see them, or care about them. Closer to the bridge itself, there's a makeshift leanto of cardboard and a piece of tin well positioned for someone to keep an eye on the area, and people gather around small fires or heaters or card games and the bottle being passed around, or keep to themselves, or eat breakfast. All the normal activities. Jer sits under the low tin roof, just watching and barely sheltered from the rain, a cigarette lit and dangling from his lips.
The last time Reed was seen around this bridge and this camp was the day he revealed himself to be a werewolf. Interesting how things come full circle, and even more interesting is the very wide berth the vagrants give him. It could just be the soaked appearance, the huddling in his hoodie and scowling that angles itself toward anyone who might appear too close. Though he's got a skateboard slung from the straps of his backpack, it's more obvious that he's been walking a while.
Jeremiah doesn't seem inclined to get up from his shelter from the rain, but he does note the teen's progress across the area, eventually raising a hand in vague greeting.
The movement draws a look from the boy. It isn't happy, and it seems undeniably Rage fueled. He un-huddles long enough to tug the straps of his backpack higher onto his shoulders, then draws his arms back over his chest.
The look in return is studying, and not at all unkind. Recognition of the Rage, certainly, and though the man's own Rage is clearly on a very tight leash, it's definitely there. And there's no one particularly near where Jeremiah's chosen, either. He lets Reed walk a bit, and then Jer raises a hand, slightly more insistent, sort of a come-here gesture.
Reed's expression narrows, distrust clearly evident. His head shakes slightly, as if that alone would ward off the cliath's beckoning.
Jeremiah furrows his brows. "Don' make me stand up," he calls out. It's a squeaky, grating, awful voice, but there's a vestige of authority. "Just want to talk."
The boy pauses, not unlike a kid who's been called on by an adult. Or a cub called by an elder wolf. One can almost see the fur bristling, hackles rising while at the same time submission plays into his posture. He stops walking, but he doesn't approach either, gaze firmly upon Jeremiah.
Jeremiah straightens his shoulders, grinding the cigarette out in a small tin that gets shoved back into the 'stuff' and 'bed' part of the leanto, and it seems like the Gnawer ahroun at least has all the patience in the world while waiting for the teen to approach. There's a nod. "Prefer to talk quiet-like," Jeremiah points out, the Jackal-voice distinctively worse when he tries to be loud, and in distinct contrast to the seriousness of the words themselves and of his expression. "Come sit."
Reed would prefer not to talk at all, but something about the Cliath's bearing keeps him planted. One portion of lip lifts and bears teeth, unspoken refusal to completely comply.
Jeremiah grumbles to himself. To the perceptive, it sounds like Russian, and slowly, carefully, his lips pull back to bare teeth in response, chin up, a silent expression of authority. "Just talk. I ain't going to let you go 'bout the city like you is, all angry and piss an' vinegar at the world, kid. Come over here, so I can stop raisin' my voice."
Reed eases a step backward, anger flaring again, though he's got a grip on it. The Rage is definitely unmistakable, and there's a lot of it even for a waning half moon. His head shakes in negative, while he steels himself against the look Jeremiah levels on him. Then, resolute, he turns to continue on his path.
There's only so much defiance that Jeremiah seems to be willing to put up with, and he gets up, moves after Reed, sets a hand on the teen's shoulder. Pitched for the teen, and the teen alone, in as serious as he can make his voice, comes an introduction hissed into the face, Rage matched with well-reined Rage, the older Ahroun seeming to have a near-iron grip on his own anger. "Jeremiah Lives-On. Cliath Ahroun of Rat's tribe. Anruth at the moment, but I live here. So. Y' come wanderin' through here like you is, you's going to come sit, and talk. An' eat breakfast, if y' haven't already."
It takes only that one touch for Reed to go on the defensive. The introduction falls on deaf ears as the boy turns and gives a shove to put distance between himself and Jeremiah. It goes no further, but his grip on that rage is far more tenuous than before, barely controlled.
Jeremiah allows the teen to get a grip. Whenever he does, though, there's Jeremiah standing in the way of further progress, pointing at the slight shelter created by the lean-to. "Go sit," he instructs, with no room left for argument.
Reed throws himself bodily against Jeremiah, instincts threatening to take over. Even newer cubs than he can see the death-grasp he's got on his control, trying to keep it in check as much as he is trying to get away from the Gnawer.
Jeremiah raises his brow when the boy goes on the offensive, and from there the man's all business, a chokehold and then later, when the teen wakes, more proper introductions and a trip on foot to the Old Library to wait for things to be sorted out. The cliath ahroun's firm about it, though he doesn't press for conversation or talk.