Can you tell?
Saturday, 6 July 2013 14:00![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeremiah_garouJuly 6, 2013
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (11% full).
Shovelfoot is sitting on the couch, munching his way through a bowl of popcorn. On the television, an old John Wayne movie is playing, but he doesn't appear to be paying any heed to it.
The front door of the library creaks open, announcing Jeremiah's arrival, and creaks shut again behind him. Despite his silence, his presence is nowhere near stealthy as he makes his way in, rucksack in one hand and oversized army coat in the other hand, and there's a nod when he sees the cub. His things are dropped at the edge of the living area, and wordlessly, the former Shadow Lord walks over and turns off the television, leaning against it and watching the cub.
Shovelfoot nods politely back, and lifts the popcorn bowl in Jeremiah's direction, an obvious offer for him to help himself. The cub doesn't speak either, though.
Jeremiah considers the bowl of popcorn for a moment, then shakes his head. Once he's been noticed, though, the ahroun moves back over to where he'd dropped his stuff, shedding the additional layers of sweatshirt, flannel shirt, long sleeve shirt and tattered tee until he remains in an a-shirt. All of them, remarkably, seem clean, like the last place the ahroun had been was the laundromat. Then the ahroun sets to moving the table from the living area out of the way and towards one side so that there's a nice, clear amount of space.
Shovelfoot takes the popcorn back, and watches Jeremiah disrobe casually; he doesn't stare or act creepy, but seems more bemused to see him shed clothes this way. When Jer starts to move furniture, Shov stands up as if to offer a hand with shifting it.
Jeremiah nods at this, letting the cub help. Not that even with as heavy as the table is, the ahroun seems to need much help. He's built of muscle, nearly, every inch of him solid and toned muscle, exceedingly athletic and fit. When they're done, the ahroun looks at the cub and furrows his brows, and opens his mouth, then shuts it, pacing into the middle of the space he's cleared. "You too," he says aloud, and then perhaps, it's clear why the man rarely speaks. His voice is high, whiny, and squeaky, like he can't help but speak through his nose. Worse than a young teenage boy whose voice is cracking, though he himself doesn't seem to notice at this point. "Shoes off, rings off. Down to a teeshirt. Lesson."
Shovelfoot blinks at the older guy for a second or two. "Oh, man," he says with a note of sympathy in his voice. "Smoke a lot, did you?" He starts to divest himself of his ornaments and to unlace his big boots.
Jeremiah purses his lips. And while there's a faint and lingering odor of cigarettes around the ahroun, he shakes his head. "No," he says, speaking quietly, though that doesn't make his voice less ruined. As he speaks, he pulls out from on his person no less than ten knives, setting them onto the couch, and a gun, which he checks over, and sets down as well. "My voice… that's… another lesson, yeah? One when's Lefty-rhya's or Maddie-rhya's here, I's think." As well, the ahroun radiates a coiled and tightly-controlled tension even on this small moon, rage an obvious feature of his demeanor. "Tell me 'bout Mama Rat," he prompts, the hardness of his features softened by a slight smile.
"Oh… I thought you were… you know…" Shovelfoot avoids Jer's gaze for a moment or two. "Like that one guy in South Park… Uh, Mama Rat? That's, uh, the symbol of our people? If I remember right?" He manages to extricate one foot from its boot and turns to the other one.
Jeremiah finishes divesting himself of weapons, and nods, moving over to set a hand on the cub's shoulder. It's surprisingly gentle, an attempt at being reassuring. "'sokay," he says, a hillfolk and less than educated accent still audible underneath. "You didn' know, an' I never said. Now, lesson. Yes, that she is. Tell me 'bout her."
Shovelfoot tenses a little at the touch on his shoulder. "I don't know much more than that," he has to confess. "I was told I'd learn more later, but nobody's gotten back to that subject yet. It's all been trying to memorise a list of tribe names and moon phases."
Jeremiah nods. "Y' learn more now," he decides, moving out into the centre of the space cleared and waiting for the cub. "'bove all, Mama Rat survives. Mama Rat accepts. The streets are hers, the downtrodden are hers. She favours us an' we survive."
Shovelfoot wriggles out of his other boot, wriggling his toes as if they're unused to such freedom. "Is it true what they say, that in a city you're never more than ten feet from a rat?" he asks.
The ahroun smiles a little. "It ain't untrue," he says, and then gestures the cub out. "Anyone taught you t' fight?" It comes out sounding more like 'ficht', that definite hillfolk influence again, but it's clear enough. "An' Mama Rat takes care her own, takes care an' t' survive. An' t' survive we's need t' fight. Even you, you not bein' ahroun. All Garou fight." He pauses, and sets his hands out, open palm, then prompts the cub, "Hit me."
"They told me this was coming as well," says the cub with an air of melancholy. "I really don't like fighting. Fighting is only necessary when you let yourself get into a position where it's the only option. Smart people don't get into positions like that." There's an unspoken "like me" after "smart people".
Jeremiah narrows his eyes at the boy, and doesn't move, but then looks to the space in front of him, not really leaving room for argument. "Second law," he prompts the cub.
Shovelfoot rolls his eyes, then takes a completely obvious swing at Jeremiah which could be seen coming a mile off by an octogenarian.
Jeremiah moves far, far faster than should be humanly possible in reaction to that. The cub's hand is caught, and then a swift series of motions and Jeremiah's pulled the boy's feet out from under him, landing him on his rear. "We're Garou," he tells the boy, letting go of his arm before it gets overly painful. "We have to fight." He pauses and steps back, to let the cub get up. "Tell me the second law?"
"To, uh, combat the Wyrm wherever it dwells and breeds." Shov puts finger-waggles around "Wyrm" as he climbs back up off his ass, looking less than pleased with this situation.
Jeremiah watches the cub, and his expression is stern. "Combat the Wyrm Where it Dwells and Whenever It Breeds," he says, and there's a hint of something far more traditional than the other teachers the cub has had, there. "Now, how do you do that if y' can't fight. Hit me, and I want a better effort this time." Once again, the man stands, ready, open palmed.
"Can't you just nuke it from long range?" The question appears to be a serious one. After delivering it, Shovelfoot feints another punch and then aims a kick at the ahroun's knee.
Jeremiah seems actually pleased with both the answer, and the attempt, though he steps back so that the kick only barely connects as though it's the easiest thing in the world for him, nodding. "Not usually," he says. "Can't nuke it. Dwells, breeds, in the city. Can shoot it, but sometimes that don't hurt it. Just like it don't hurt us." The ahroun seems, a little, to be getting tired of talking, but he talks anyway. "In w' the people an' th' places an' the corruption, an' where do we live? We fight it." At the end as he speaks, he moves forward, delivering a faint, light tap of a punch (enough to send the cub stumbling backwards but not enough to really hurt) in the middle of Shovelfoot's chest.
Shovelfoot steps back again. "Now if I still had my boots on…" he points out. "I said I didn't like fighting, I didn't say I couldn't do it. Hello, teenager, alternative lifestyle? Hello, people trying to make life at school a misery? I'm not defenceless—" He's too busy with words to avoid the sudden forward move from Jer, and stumbles back.
"You won't always have those," Jeremiah points out. The ahroun has kept his own shoes on, but he doesn't seem to have any intent of using his feet, either. "Learn to fight without them, you'll be better with."
No sooner than the ahroun has finished talking, though, there's noise that comes from the basement. Not usual noise, not noise of someone who knows their way around, and from the relatively relaxed ahroun giving the lesson, Jeremiah tenses, and puts a hand up. Clearly a different gesture, clearly stopping the lesson. The ahroun goes for the couch, grabbing about half the knives, and then nods for the cub to come with him down the stairs. Most of the knives make way to on his person, in his boots or pants, but one is flipped open and in his hand. "Behind me," the man says.
Shovelfoot slinks down the stairs after Jeremiah. Without his trademark boots on, he's at least able to move a good deal more quietly than when they're on his feet.
The ahroun himself even makes the attempt to be quiet, keeping to the side of the stairs. Combat boots make the occasional footstep, but abandoned buildings aren't quiet to begin with. At the bottom of the stairs, the man looks about, not turning on any of the lights.
The door to the basement has been opened, with a certain amount of noise. The chain was cut free with bolt cutters, then the door lock was defeated with the use of a crowbar. Knapsack resting near the now-open doorway, Becky is standing in the darkness and inspecting the re-enforced cage.
Jeremiah looks at the cub and points, indicating to stay ant the base of the stairs. Away from whatever conflict. And then the ahroun moves, again with that supernatural, rage-fueled speed, putting himself clearly between Becky and the doorway out, not more than a foot and a half away from her. There's a flipped open knife in one hand, but his hand is down by his side. "So," he says, and his voice, while distinctly Jackal-ruined, is nonetheless an attempt at threatening.
Becky jumps, caught off guard, but after a brief moment of recovery, she smiles brilliantly at Jeremiah. "Oh, well, hello there. I didn't realize this place was occupied. Terribly sorry, dear. And your voice is a complete disaster. Do you need some water? I have some in my bag."
Jeremiah doesn't seem entirely fazed by the smile, and he takes a single step back to give the other space. It doesn't, however, ease the overall air of anger—or how tightly the man has it controlled. "I knows," he notes, apparently in response to the comment about his voice. "Slightly occupied, yes." His accent's hard to place underneath the Jackal, but there's a note of hillfolk, lower class and distinctly uneducated. "Who're you? An' I'm fine."
"I can see that, dear," Becky says, as she goes back to regarding the cage. "Rather interesting choice of decorations." Becky's speech patterns are rather neutral. "My name is Becky, dear. Decided to take a look at the place, as it doesn't seem to have been in use for quite some time. Thought that there might be some books to scavenge. Perhaps you could put the knife away, dear? I'm hardly a threat." Well, she doesn't look like much of a threat and her words only enforce this impression.
Jeremiah seems reluctant, but flips the knife shut and clips it to his belt, and the words are met with a glare at the woman as she says she's hardly a threat, sullen and annoyed as though he would have preferred a fight. One can guess there're a significant number of others on his person. "Most folk call me Bullfrog," he allows in introduction. Hardly a usual name, but it's the one he gives. "An' well. It's in use, an' I's ain' th' one t' be talkin' to about stayin' here, not really."
"Well, if the place is occupied, I wouldn't want to impose," Becky says, as she turns away from the cage and heads for her bag. "I can manage fine elsewhere. It is summertime, so freezing isn't a danger."
Jeremiah doesn't, however, get out of the way, shaking his head in disagreement and looking at Becky all the more. "You new in town?" he asks, vaguely. Subtlety unfortunately doesn't seem to be the ahroun's strong suit, and he's studying the woman intently, watching her. "Talked t' anyone yet?"
"Excuse me, dear," Becky says, as she attempts to step around the other Gnawer. "I just want to get to my bag for a moment. I think I have some lozenges in there and your voice really is a fright," Becky says, voice calm and reasonable. "And yes, I am fairly new in town. I'm afraid that I'm not terribly interested in any sort of organization."
Jeremiah rubs his throat, a forced gesture, and he's quieter, though it doesn't help. "It won't help," he tells her, "but thanks." He doesn't move to stop her this time, and looks. "Interested or not, y' should talk to your folk at least, if not the folk in charge. They uh. Prefer it like that, 'round here. And there's good people here." His fingers find a particularly dusty bookshelf, sketch the glyph for Bone Gnawers.
"Oh, there are good people everywhere, dear," Becky says, as she digs through her bag and after much searching, does manage to find a nearly empty package of extra strength halls. "And there are some very bad ones. I was in fancy-town the other night and some steakhouse threw away a whole slab of steaks that were still good. Terrible waste. The cuts weren't up to snuff, I suppose. Will have to keep an eye on them," Becky says, as she offers Jeremiah the package.
Jeremiah shakes his head again. "They won't help," he says, again. "My voice. I'm not sick, it's not—" he shakes his head, and moves to stand inside the door, watching the woman. Watching to see if she notices. "Some restaurants that throw out a lot," he says. "Chinese place that puts out too much at the end of each night, and hasn't tried t' shoot me for dumpster-divin'. But their food is good. And they's not bad people, actually."
"You're about as subtle as a slab of concrete, dear," Becky states, after looking down at the Gylph. "There are other options. If they are throwing away gobs of the stuff, there are places that will take it for soup kitchens and the like." The Halls are tossed back in to her bag.
Jeremiah raises a hand and rubs his forehead. "Big fault, I know," he explains. "Not subtle. Never have been, not now, not when I was— before. Can deal with anything that gets in my way, though." There's a hand that brushes over the knife on his belt, though it's more to reassure himself that it's there, there's no longer any obvious threat towards the woman. "It evens out. Jeremiah. Usually called Bullfrog, like I said. Sometimes called other things. Full moon, anruth, first-ranked."
"Anruth? Really?" Becky asks, sounding a little bemused. "But you should be more careful, dear. You really have no way of knowing that I'm one of the good ones. Becky, Sucks-the-Marrow-from-the-Bones. Fostern of the Bone Gnawers and Anruth as well. A pleasure to meet you, Bullfrog."
Jeremiah watches this, and the knife is flipped open from his belt, opened, shut again. "You'll meet someone who can check, soon," the ahroun states. "An' no, but you aren't, I kill you, an' I'm not leaving 'til you been checked. Works out, no?" It's not a threat, it sounds more like… fact. The knife's put down, and the man moves forward, and offers a hand in a handshake. "Anywhere y' been that y' know people I might know?" To the general air, he calls out, "Boy, come say hi."
There's a movement from just outside, and a young man peeks around the corner of the door. "Everything a-ok in here?" he asks, with a dubious note in his voice.
"I would be very surprised if you had," Becky says, rather convincingly. "Well, if you're not leaving me, could we head out later? I am still exploring."
Jeremiah nods his head, and gestures the boy over with a faint smile. "Sure. Even show y' some places," he agrees, and then he looks at her. "I been a lot of places," the man says. "Casino Royale all the way to all the East Coast until I fell out of the Umbra here." He pauses, and looks at the boy. "Go on, introduce yourself."
Shovelfoot gives Becky a highly suspicious look, as if he suspects trickery of some kind, and stage-whispers to Jer. "The usual way or the… other way?"
"Our way," Jer tells the boy, with a firm nod. "'sokay."
Shovelfoot gives Jeremiah another look as if to disclaim responsibility, then turns to Becky and squares himself up. "Lawrence Laney, or alternatively Shovelfoot… and… an' I'm a homid-born, philodox cub of the Bone Gnawers. Yeah." His chin tilts upward, daring Becky to take issue with this introduction.
"Lovely to meet you dear boy," Becky replies, all smiles and cheerfulness as she repeats her earlier introduction. "Lovely clothes. Make them yourself?"
Jeremiah looks at the door and the chains, attention turning to that, though he keeps watch on the newcomer and the cub at the same time. The cut chains are picked up, and the door is swung shut, before the ahroun leans against it. Apparently, he's done with talking for the moment.
Shovelfoot can't suppress a smile of pride. Looks like his choice to slip back into his jacket before heading downstairs paid off. "Yeah… can you tell?"
"Yes, dear, It's very nice," Becky says with a winning smile. "I much say, I certainly wasn't expecting to encounter Family when I came in here."
Jeremiah huffs, and even that noise is ruined partially by whatever's been done to his voice, and then the ahroun kicks the door in frustration. "Dumb Punishment," he mutters to himself.
That wipes any trace of a smile from the cub's face. "What the fuck? You're not my family," he blurts at her.
Jeremiah sighs, the outburst seeming to distract him from himself, and moves over to stand next to the cub, a hand set on the boy's shoulder. "We's all family, remember?" he says, quiet. "Mama Rat makes us family, and we stick together and take care of each other. That makes Becky here family here too, just like Lefty-rhya, or Maddie or Masao."
"Sorry dear boy," Becky says, as she remains quite calm. "No offense was intended."
Shovelfoot kicks at one of his heels with his other foot, looking down. "Yeah. Well. She's not my mother," he mutters sullenly.
Jeremiah takes a step back, nodding. "No, but she deserves yer respect too. I's sure she earned Fostern, an' for that fact, cliath."
"Well, I would hope not dear," Becky says with a bit of a laugh. "I'm not that old. Not yet, anyway."
"Sorry," mutters the cub. "Sore point kinda. Wasn't dissing you… ma'am." He shoots Jeremiah a sidelong look briefly, plainly trying to figure how much trouble he's in for his outburst.
Jeremiah doesn't seem bothered, or at least, any moreso than he did earlier, and the easygoing manner has returned as he moves to sit on a spare crate. Once more, the ahroun seems to have decided to stop talking, though.
"You seem to be new to this life," Becky says to Shovelfoot, not unsympathetically. "It can be difficult, when you are new."
"Uh, yeah, few weeks," Shovelfoot confirms. "It's all kind of wild and weird… Some of it's wicked cool, other bits suck, that's life for you I guess…"
"You'll get used to it," Becky claims, reassuringly. "Spirits told the Gnawers back home that I was coming, so they took me off the docks when I wandered too far from my folks. It was somewhat… distressing at the time."
Jeremiah listens quietly, drumming his fingers on one knee. "I wasn't always a Gnawer," he says, more for Becky's benefit. "Another life, I was a Shadow Lord. Gnawers took me in, in Casino Royale. Already'd been Garou a long time."
"I didn't know you could change between families," Shovelfoot blurts, evidently surprised by the corncrake-voiced garou's revelation.
"I've heard of it happening before," Becky says. "Mama Rat'll take in most folks. She's good like that. People the other Tribes would turn their noses up at."
Jeremiah nods. "Not usually," he tells the cub. "Things happened. It's not looked on well, most Tribes. I did it because I had to. Long story, for one day… when my voice is better. Or there's a Galliard or two can tell it. I wasn't a very good Shadow Lord, but I tries t' be the best person I can now. Honest, fair, kind. Hard things f'r an ahroun."
Shovelfoot looks very curiously at Jeremiah, but buttons his piehole, at least for now.
"Well now, I've been rather busy today," Becky says, as she moves to collect her bag. "Mind terribly if I lay down over there?" She asks, pointing at the cot in the cage. "You can lock up the door if you're worried about me wandering off."
Jeremiah looks at Becky and shakes his head. "Go on," he says. "Don't mind. An' I don't mind you go somewhere without me, either, I ain't going to babysit you every second. But you meet yourself up with Lefty-rhya soon an' talk to her, whether y' want to stay Anruth here or not." The Gnawer nods to the cub, looking at the stairs. "I'll be up later. Lessons then." That said, the ahroun stops, turns, and shifts to lupus, moving over to find somewhere to sprawl out on the floor.
"Will wander off after a nap, then," Becky says. "Been sleeping behind a Pizza place called Garcia's. Lefty can find me there." That said, Becky head over to the cot and lays down.
The moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (11% full).
Shovelfoot is sitting on the couch, munching his way through a bowl of popcorn. On the television, an old John Wayne movie is playing, but he doesn't appear to be paying any heed to it.
The front door of the library creaks open, announcing Jeremiah's arrival, and creaks shut again behind him. Despite his silence, his presence is nowhere near stealthy as he makes his way in, rucksack in one hand and oversized army coat in the other hand, and there's a nod when he sees the cub. His things are dropped at the edge of the living area, and wordlessly, the former Shadow Lord walks over and turns off the television, leaning against it and watching the cub.
Shovelfoot nods politely back, and lifts the popcorn bowl in Jeremiah's direction, an obvious offer for him to help himself. The cub doesn't speak either, though.
Jeremiah considers the bowl of popcorn for a moment, then shakes his head. Once he's been noticed, though, the ahroun moves back over to where he'd dropped his stuff, shedding the additional layers of sweatshirt, flannel shirt, long sleeve shirt and tattered tee until he remains in an a-shirt. All of them, remarkably, seem clean, like the last place the ahroun had been was the laundromat. Then the ahroun sets to moving the table from the living area out of the way and towards one side so that there's a nice, clear amount of space.
Shovelfoot takes the popcorn back, and watches Jeremiah disrobe casually; he doesn't stare or act creepy, but seems more bemused to see him shed clothes this way. When Jer starts to move furniture, Shov stands up as if to offer a hand with shifting it.
Jeremiah nods at this, letting the cub help. Not that even with as heavy as the table is, the ahroun seems to need much help. He's built of muscle, nearly, every inch of him solid and toned muscle, exceedingly athletic and fit. When they're done, the ahroun looks at the cub and furrows his brows, and opens his mouth, then shuts it, pacing into the middle of the space he's cleared. "You too," he says aloud, and then perhaps, it's clear why the man rarely speaks. His voice is high, whiny, and squeaky, like he can't help but speak through his nose. Worse than a young teenage boy whose voice is cracking, though he himself doesn't seem to notice at this point. "Shoes off, rings off. Down to a teeshirt. Lesson."
Shovelfoot blinks at the older guy for a second or two. "Oh, man," he says with a note of sympathy in his voice. "Smoke a lot, did you?" He starts to divest himself of his ornaments and to unlace his big boots.
Jeremiah purses his lips. And while there's a faint and lingering odor of cigarettes around the ahroun, he shakes his head. "No," he says, speaking quietly, though that doesn't make his voice less ruined. As he speaks, he pulls out from on his person no less than ten knives, setting them onto the couch, and a gun, which he checks over, and sets down as well. "My voice… that's… another lesson, yeah? One when's Lefty-rhya's or Maddie-rhya's here, I's think." As well, the ahroun radiates a coiled and tightly-controlled tension even on this small moon, rage an obvious feature of his demeanor. "Tell me 'bout Mama Rat," he prompts, the hardness of his features softened by a slight smile.
"Oh… I thought you were… you know…" Shovelfoot avoids Jer's gaze for a moment or two. "Like that one guy in South Park… Uh, Mama Rat? That's, uh, the symbol of our people? If I remember right?" He manages to extricate one foot from its boot and turns to the other one.
Jeremiah finishes divesting himself of weapons, and nods, moving over to set a hand on the cub's shoulder. It's surprisingly gentle, an attempt at being reassuring. "'sokay," he says, a hillfolk and less than educated accent still audible underneath. "You didn' know, an' I never said. Now, lesson. Yes, that she is. Tell me 'bout her."
Shovelfoot tenses a little at the touch on his shoulder. "I don't know much more than that," he has to confess. "I was told I'd learn more later, but nobody's gotten back to that subject yet. It's all been trying to memorise a list of tribe names and moon phases."
Jeremiah nods. "Y' learn more now," he decides, moving out into the centre of the space cleared and waiting for the cub. "'bove all, Mama Rat survives. Mama Rat accepts. The streets are hers, the downtrodden are hers. She favours us an' we survive."
Shovelfoot wriggles out of his other boot, wriggling his toes as if they're unused to such freedom. "Is it true what they say, that in a city you're never more than ten feet from a rat?" he asks.
The ahroun smiles a little. "It ain't untrue," he says, and then gestures the cub out. "Anyone taught you t' fight?" It comes out sounding more like 'ficht', that definite hillfolk influence again, but it's clear enough. "An' Mama Rat takes care her own, takes care an' t' survive. An' t' survive we's need t' fight. Even you, you not bein' ahroun. All Garou fight." He pauses, and sets his hands out, open palm, then prompts the cub, "Hit me."
"They told me this was coming as well," says the cub with an air of melancholy. "I really don't like fighting. Fighting is only necessary when you let yourself get into a position where it's the only option. Smart people don't get into positions like that." There's an unspoken "like me" after "smart people".
Jeremiah narrows his eyes at the boy, and doesn't move, but then looks to the space in front of him, not really leaving room for argument. "Second law," he prompts the cub.
Shovelfoot rolls his eyes, then takes a completely obvious swing at Jeremiah which could be seen coming a mile off by an octogenarian.
Jeremiah moves far, far faster than should be humanly possible in reaction to that. The cub's hand is caught, and then a swift series of motions and Jeremiah's pulled the boy's feet out from under him, landing him on his rear. "We're Garou," he tells the boy, letting go of his arm before it gets overly painful. "We have to fight." He pauses and steps back, to let the cub get up. "Tell me the second law?"
"To, uh, combat the Wyrm wherever it dwells and breeds." Shov puts finger-waggles around "Wyrm" as he climbs back up off his ass, looking less than pleased with this situation.
Jeremiah watches the cub, and his expression is stern. "Combat the Wyrm Where it Dwells and Whenever It Breeds," he says, and there's a hint of something far more traditional than the other teachers the cub has had, there. "Now, how do you do that if y' can't fight. Hit me, and I want a better effort this time." Once again, the man stands, ready, open palmed.
"Can't you just nuke it from long range?" The question appears to be a serious one. After delivering it, Shovelfoot feints another punch and then aims a kick at the ahroun's knee.
Jeremiah seems actually pleased with both the answer, and the attempt, though he steps back so that the kick only barely connects as though it's the easiest thing in the world for him, nodding. "Not usually," he says. "Can't nuke it. Dwells, breeds, in the city. Can shoot it, but sometimes that don't hurt it. Just like it don't hurt us." The ahroun seems, a little, to be getting tired of talking, but he talks anyway. "In w' the people an' th' places an' the corruption, an' where do we live? We fight it." At the end as he speaks, he moves forward, delivering a faint, light tap of a punch (enough to send the cub stumbling backwards but not enough to really hurt) in the middle of Shovelfoot's chest.
Shovelfoot steps back again. "Now if I still had my boots on…" he points out. "I said I didn't like fighting, I didn't say I couldn't do it. Hello, teenager, alternative lifestyle? Hello, people trying to make life at school a misery? I'm not defenceless—" He's too busy with words to avoid the sudden forward move from Jer, and stumbles back.
"You won't always have those," Jeremiah points out. The ahroun has kept his own shoes on, but he doesn't seem to have any intent of using his feet, either. "Learn to fight without them, you'll be better with."
No sooner than the ahroun has finished talking, though, there's noise that comes from the basement. Not usual noise, not noise of someone who knows their way around, and from the relatively relaxed ahroun giving the lesson, Jeremiah tenses, and puts a hand up. Clearly a different gesture, clearly stopping the lesson. The ahroun goes for the couch, grabbing about half the knives, and then nods for the cub to come with him down the stairs. Most of the knives make way to on his person, in his boots or pants, but one is flipped open and in his hand. "Behind me," the man says.
Shovelfoot slinks down the stairs after Jeremiah. Without his trademark boots on, he's at least able to move a good deal more quietly than when they're on his feet.
The ahroun himself even makes the attempt to be quiet, keeping to the side of the stairs. Combat boots make the occasional footstep, but abandoned buildings aren't quiet to begin with. At the bottom of the stairs, the man looks about, not turning on any of the lights.
The door to the basement has been opened, with a certain amount of noise. The chain was cut free with bolt cutters, then the door lock was defeated with the use of a crowbar. Knapsack resting near the now-open doorway, Becky is standing in the darkness and inspecting the re-enforced cage.
Jeremiah looks at the cub and points, indicating to stay ant the base of the stairs. Away from whatever conflict. And then the ahroun moves, again with that supernatural, rage-fueled speed, putting himself clearly between Becky and the doorway out, not more than a foot and a half away from her. There's a flipped open knife in one hand, but his hand is down by his side. "So," he says, and his voice, while distinctly Jackal-ruined, is nonetheless an attempt at threatening.
Becky jumps, caught off guard, but after a brief moment of recovery, she smiles brilliantly at Jeremiah. "Oh, well, hello there. I didn't realize this place was occupied. Terribly sorry, dear. And your voice is a complete disaster. Do you need some water? I have some in my bag."
Jeremiah doesn't seem entirely fazed by the smile, and he takes a single step back to give the other space. It doesn't, however, ease the overall air of anger—or how tightly the man has it controlled. "I knows," he notes, apparently in response to the comment about his voice. "Slightly occupied, yes." His accent's hard to place underneath the Jackal, but there's a note of hillfolk, lower class and distinctly uneducated. "Who're you? An' I'm fine."
"I can see that, dear," Becky says, as she goes back to regarding the cage. "Rather interesting choice of decorations." Becky's speech patterns are rather neutral. "My name is Becky, dear. Decided to take a look at the place, as it doesn't seem to have been in use for quite some time. Thought that there might be some books to scavenge. Perhaps you could put the knife away, dear? I'm hardly a threat." Well, she doesn't look like much of a threat and her words only enforce this impression.
Jeremiah seems reluctant, but flips the knife shut and clips it to his belt, and the words are met with a glare at the woman as she says she's hardly a threat, sullen and annoyed as though he would have preferred a fight. One can guess there're a significant number of others on his person. "Most folk call me Bullfrog," he allows in introduction. Hardly a usual name, but it's the one he gives. "An' well. It's in use, an' I's ain' th' one t' be talkin' to about stayin' here, not really."
"Well, if the place is occupied, I wouldn't want to impose," Becky says, as she turns away from the cage and heads for her bag. "I can manage fine elsewhere. It is summertime, so freezing isn't a danger."
Jeremiah doesn't, however, get out of the way, shaking his head in disagreement and looking at Becky all the more. "You new in town?" he asks, vaguely. Subtlety unfortunately doesn't seem to be the ahroun's strong suit, and he's studying the woman intently, watching her. "Talked t' anyone yet?"
"Excuse me, dear," Becky says, as she attempts to step around the other Gnawer. "I just want to get to my bag for a moment. I think I have some lozenges in there and your voice really is a fright," Becky says, voice calm and reasonable. "And yes, I am fairly new in town. I'm afraid that I'm not terribly interested in any sort of organization."
Jeremiah rubs his throat, a forced gesture, and he's quieter, though it doesn't help. "It won't help," he tells her, "but thanks." He doesn't move to stop her this time, and looks. "Interested or not, y' should talk to your folk at least, if not the folk in charge. They uh. Prefer it like that, 'round here. And there's good people here." His fingers find a particularly dusty bookshelf, sketch the glyph for Bone Gnawers.
"Oh, there are good people everywhere, dear," Becky says, as she digs through her bag and after much searching, does manage to find a nearly empty package of extra strength halls. "And there are some very bad ones. I was in fancy-town the other night and some steakhouse threw away a whole slab of steaks that were still good. Terrible waste. The cuts weren't up to snuff, I suppose. Will have to keep an eye on them," Becky says, as she offers Jeremiah the package.
Jeremiah shakes his head again. "They won't help," he says, again. "My voice. I'm not sick, it's not—" he shakes his head, and moves to stand inside the door, watching the woman. Watching to see if she notices. "Some restaurants that throw out a lot," he says. "Chinese place that puts out too much at the end of each night, and hasn't tried t' shoot me for dumpster-divin'. But their food is good. And they's not bad people, actually."
"You're about as subtle as a slab of concrete, dear," Becky states, after looking down at the Gylph. "There are other options. If they are throwing away gobs of the stuff, there are places that will take it for soup kitchens and the like." The Halls are tossed back in to her bag.
Jeremiah raises a hand and rubs his forehead. "Big fault, I know," he explains. "Not subtle. Never have been, not now, not when I was— before. Can deal with anything that gets in my way, though." There's a hand that brushes over the knife on his belt, though it's more to reassure himself that it's there, there's no longer any obvious threat towards the woman. "It evens out. Jeremiah. Usually called Bullfrog, like I said. Sometimes called other things. Full moon, anruth, first-ranked."
"Anruth? Really?" Becky asks, sounding a little bemused. "But you should be more careful, dear. You really have no way of knowing that I'm one of the good ones. Becky, Sucks-the-Marrow-from-the-Bones. Fostern of the Bone Gnawers and Anruth as well. A pleasure to meet you, Bullfrog."
Jeremiah watches this, and the knife is flipped open from his belt, opened, shut again. "You'll meet someone who can check, soon," the ahroun states. "An' no, but you aren't, I kill you, an' I'm not leaving 'til you been checked. Works out, no?" It's not a threat, it sounds more like… fact. The knife's put down, and the man moves forward, and offers a hand in a handshake. "Anywhere y' been that y' know people I might know?" To the general air, he calls out, "Boy, come say hi."
There's a movement from just outside, and a young man peeks around the corner of the door. "Everything a-ok in here?" he asks, with a dubious note in his voice.
"I would be very surprised if you had," Becky says, rather convincingly. "Well, if you're not leaving me, could we head out later? I am still exploring."
Jeremiah nods his head, and gestures the boy over with a faint smile. "Sure. Even show y' some places," he agrees, and then he looks at her. "I been a lot of places," the man says. "Casino Royale all the way to all the East Coast until I fell out of the Umbra here." He pauses, and looks at the boy. "Go on, introduce yourself."
Shovelfoot gives Becky a highly suspicious look, as if he suspects trickery of some kind, and stage-whispers to Jer. "The usual way or the… other way?"
"Our way," Jer tells the boy, with a firm nod. "'sokay."
Shovelfoot gives Jeremiah another look as if to disclaim responsibility, then turns to Becky and squares himself up. "Lawrence Laney, or alternatively Shovelfoot… and… an' I'm a homid-born, philodox cub of the Bone Gnawers. Yeah." His chin tilts upward, daring Becky to take issue with this introduction.
"Lovely to meet you dear boy," Becky replies, all smiles and cheerfulness as she repeats her earlier introduction. "Lovely clothes. Make them yourself?"
Jeremiah looks at the door and the chains, attention turning to that, though he keeps watch on the newcomer and the cub at the same time. The cut chains are picked up, and the door is swung shut, before the ahroun leans against it. Apparently, he's done with talking for the moment.
Shovelfoot can't suppress a smile of pride. Looks like his choice to slip back into his jacket before heading downstairs paid off. "Yeah… can you tell?"
"Yes, dear, It's very nice," Becky says with a winning smile. "I much say, I certainly wasn't expecting to encounter Family when I came in here."
Jeremiah huffs, and even that noise is ruined partially by whatever's been done to his voice, and then the ahroun kicks the door in frustration. "Dumb Punishment," he mutters to himself.
That wipes any trace of a smile from the cub's face. "What the fuck? You're not my family," he blurts at her.
Jeremiah sighs, the outburst seeming to distract him from himself, and moves over to stand next to the cub, a hand set on the boy's shoulder. "We's all family, remember?" he says, quiet. "Mama Rat makes us family, and we stick together and take care of each other. That makes Becky here family here too, just like Lefty-rhya, or Maddie or Masao."
"Sorry dear boy," Becky says, as she remains quite calm. "No offense was intended."
Shovelfoot kicks at one of his heels with his other foot, looking down. "Yeah. Well. She's not my mother," he mutters sullenly.
Jeremiah takes a step back, nodding. "No, but she deserves yer respect too. I's sure she earned Fostern, an' for that fact, cliath."
"Well, I would hope not dear," Becky says with a bit of a laugh. "I'm not that old. Not yet, anyway."
"Sorry," mutters the cub. "Sore point kinda. Wasn't dissing you… ma'am." He shoots Jeremiah a sidelong look briefly, plainly trying to figure how much trouble he's in for his outburst.
Jeremiah doesn't seem bothered, or at least, any moreso than he did earlier, and the easygoing manner has returned as he moves to sit on a spare crate. Once more, the ahroun seems to have decided to stop talking, though.
"You seem to be new to this life," Becky says to Shovelfoot, not unsympathetically. "It can be difficult, when you are new."
"Uh, yeah, few weeks," Shovelfoot confirms. "It's all kind of wild and weird… Some of it's wicked cool, other bits suck, that's life for you I guess…"
"You'll get used to it," Becky claims, reassuringly. "Spirits told the Gnawers back home that I was coming, so they took me off the docks when I wandered too far from my folks. It was somewhat… distressing at the time."
Jeremiah listens quietly, drumming his fingers on one knee. "I wasn't always a Gnawer," he says, more for Becky's benefit. "Another life, I was a Shadow Lord. Gnawers took me in, in Casino Royale. Already'd been Garou a long time."
"I didn't know you could change between families," Shovelfoot blurts, evidently surprised by the corncrake-voiced garou's revelation.
"I've heard of it happening before," Becky says. "Mama Rat'll take in most folks. She's good like that. People the other Tribes would turn their noses up at."
Jeremiah nods. "Not usually," he tells the cub. "Things happened. It's not looked on well, most Tribes. I did it because I had to. Long story, for one day… when my voice is better. Or there's a Galliard or two can tell it. I wasn't a very good Shadow Lord, but I tries t' be the best person I can now. Honest, fair, kind. Hard things f'r an ahroun."
Shovelfoot looks very curiously at Jeremiah, but buttons his piehole, at least for now.
"Well now, I've been rather busy today," Becky says, as she moves to collect her bag. "Mind terribly if I lay down over there?" She asks, pointing at the cot in the cage. "You can lock up the door if you're worried about me wandering off."
Jeremiah looks at Becky and shakes his head. "Go on," he says. "Don't mind. An' I don't mind you go somewhere without me, either, I ain't going to babysit you every second. But you meet yourself up with Lefty-rhya soon an' talk to her, whether y' want to stay Anruth here or not." The Gnawer nods to the cub, looking at the stairs. "I'll be up later. Lessons then." That said, the ahroun stops, turns, and shifts to lupus, moving over to find somewhere to sprawl out on the floor.
"Will wander off after a nap, then," Becky says. "Been sleeping behind a Pizza place called Garcia's. Lefty can find me there." That said, Becky head over to the cot and lays down.