[Sorrow] There is a girl in John Thornton's apartment when he returns. It is Sunday, and it is spring, and the air is crisp and cool. Outside, though, the sun is failing and the sky wrapped in impossible gradations of blue - robin's egg at the horizons, some impossible cerulean at the apex, falling colors of flame in the west. And when he returns - from the grocery or the precinct, from the corner store or the coffee shop - there is a girl in his apartment.
Not a girl; she turns when the door opens, standing where she is in the center of the room. Standing, contained, her hands in the pockets of her worn jeans, her booted feet on the floor. The locks are undisturbed; there are no signs of forced entry. There is nothing to alert him that something is wrong until the door is open, and there is a girl in his apartment.
She is tall and lean, with northern coloring - a pale complexion, pale blonde hair pulled back from her face and bound, haphazardly, at the nape of her neck. The knot is already failing, falling apart.
"You're John Thornton?" she asks, when the door swings open. When he is alone. If he does not try to shoot her. Her breathing is even, her wide mouth held in a neutral position, her dark eyes direct and serious. She does not belong in his world, but he is part of her own.
She awaits confirmation. The most minute shift of his eyes will be enough for her. "I have news."
[John Thornton] When John arrives home, that very Sunday evening... The door opens just far enough for the light spilling from the windows to illuminate the feminine form standing in the midst of the room. Then, abruptly, John turns... The door swinging open of its own accord seamingly... The hinge squealing with the motion.
Without the room, John waits for the gunfire that doesn't come. Then, after a few beats, John leans his head just far enough around the doorway to see the feminine form. Then, with a curiously raised brow, John enters the room and closes the door behind him.
She asks if he's John Thornton... But he doesn't answer until the door is closed behind him, locks clicking into place. Then, after turning... He begins fishing in his pocket for cigarettes and his lighter, and nods.
"What news?"
John's still... Save for hunting for the cigarettes, and after finding them, lighting one... His face is a deadpan, unreadable... But his eyes narrow, the pale complexion turning lighter still, giving the dark socketed hazel eyes a gray, unhealthy cast.
It's happening again... All over again... And there's nothing you can do to stop it.
[Sorrow] Sorrow is braced for gunfire, too. Her shoulders are level, her spine straight and tense. She has not taken a seat, but was standing there looking out toward the windows, the city beyond until the door began to open. Then: he arrives, the door opens, closes, opens again, and she watches the whole process with an unerring sort of attention, dark-eyed and direct. In the gloomy shadows of the room, the exact hue of her eyes is impossible to guess.
Her clothes are old and worn. A black t-shirt pronouncing her love for late 80s Indie rock (PIXIES in white letters on black) and jeans that have seen much better days. Black boots on the floor, probably hidden from his immediate view by the coffee table, the skirt around an armchair.
"The Jarl's dead." She has heard stories about him; she was braced for gunfire, ready to shift. Then it doesn't come, and she is still braced - against this, the death she carries inside her, the word she carries with her. "Kemp. My Alpha."
[John Thornton] Then... almost as though waking from a dream... John blinks. Color rushes back into his face; the haunted look seems to dissipate somewhat. It's almost as though what he's heard and what he expected to hear were not remotely the same thing.
"What?"
The cigarette falls from his mouth, forgotten... Before he even got the chance to light it. The white of the cigarette paper seeming stark against the charcoal gray of his suit, the deep navy shade of his tie... The black polished dress shoes upon his feet.
[Sorrow] "Kemp Oates, the Jarl of the Fenrir, and my Alpha, is dead." Sorrow offers these words clearly, directly. Her voice is fine, a low alto, and in the week that has passed she has quested to the umbra and back to learn the truth of the death. The shock has passed, but there is a supple thread of something raw - anger, grief - cuts into the second recitation of the words. Her dark eyes drop, following the fall of the cigarette from his mouth to the floor. "He was killed in battle against the cursed ones in the north; he died to close a vortex opened by the enemy, in our first true foray against them in the war."
She pauses, there. Her gaze cuts upward. Other than her mouth and her eyes, she is still, narrow shouldered, stark, perhaps even austere in these moments. She has, after all, earned a certain name. "The Gathering for the Departed wll be soon.
"You," there is perhaps a wryness to the curve of her mouth, which appears and disappears quickly as she continues, " - will of course not be permitted to attend as kin are banned from the bawn. However, if you wish to give me an offering to be burned on the pyre, I will see that it is added to the grave goods, and burned with the body to see him on his way to Valhalla."
[John Thornton] John nods... and after retrieving the cigarette that had fallen on the floor, resumes lighting it.
flick... flick... The thin thread of flame springs into existence at the metal top of the cheap bic lighter, and before long, a pleasant stream of smoke is rising from the red tip of the cigarette. He walks to the window, and opens it, before turning on the overhead fan... Letting the cigarette smoke escape without permeating the room.
Then, after a quiet moment of consideration, he starts to the kitchen.
"Can I get you something to drink? Water... Milk... Scotch...?"
[Sorrow] "I'm down with Scotch," the girl assures him, shifting her tall frame to follow his movement around the room. She is an attentive thing, watchful and considered. Her eyes remain fixed on him as he starts toward the kitchen, rising only when and if he disappears inside. When he remerges, he will find her studying him, unerring and direct. "I drink it neat."
"Until there is a new Jarl, my Alpha, Joe War-Handed, will answer for the kin of Fenris. And you, Mr. Thornton, will be answerable to Joe War-Handed. " She pauses, digs into her front pocket for a white card. It's an index car, not a business card, folded in half. Two phone numbers are written on it in a clear spare script. "I have his phone number for you, and mine. We are packmates, and I can always find him."
[John Thornton] John nods, and returns with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. One is filled with a few cubes of ice.
Then, setting the glasses and scotch on the coffee table, he pours scotch into both glasses.
"I've met Joe. He was Jarl before..."
John takes the card and nods.
"Thanks... Here."
He holds out a glass of Scotch, neat, to her... And as she considers it, she'd note it's from a bottle of Glenmarange, fairly old... Top shelf liquor.
[Sorrow] She takes the Scotch with a wordless thanks. The thanks becomes worded, though, when she lifts the glass to her nose, takes in the aromas, half-closing her eyes for the pleasure of it before taking a sip. "To Kemp-rhya." - she offers by way of thanks, the liquid dark in her longfingered, pale hand. " - and the heroes in Valhalla."
Not a girl; she turns when the door opens, standing where she is in the center of the room. Standing, contained, her hands in the pockets of her worn jeans, her booted feet on the floor. The locks are undisturbed; there are no signs of forced entry. There is nothing to alert him that something is wrong until the door is open, and there is a girl in his apartment.
She is tall and lean, with northern coloring - a pale complexion, pale blonde hair pulled back from her face and bound, haphazardly, at the nape of her neck. The knot is already failing, falling apart.
"You're John Thornton?" she asks, when the door swings open. When he is alone. If he does not try to shoot her. Her breathing is even, her wide mouth held in a neutral position, her dark eyes direct and serious. She does not belong in his world, but he is part of her own.
She awaits confirmation. The most minute shift of his eyes will be enough for her. "I have news."
[John Thornton] When John arrives home, that very Sunday evening... The door opens just far enough for the light spilling from the windows to illuminate the feminine form standing in the midst of the room. Then, abruptly, John turns... The door swinging open of its own accord seamingly... The hinge squealing with the motion.
Without the room, John waits for the gunfire that doesn't come. Then, after a few beats, John leans his head just far enough around the doorway to see the feminine form. Then, with a curiously raised brow, John enters the room and closes the door behind him.
She asks if he's John Thornton... But he doesn't answer until the door is closed behind him, locks clicking into place. Then, after turning... He begins fishing in his pocket for cigarettes and his lighter, and nods.
"What news?"
John's still... Save for hunting for the cigarettes, and after finding them, lighting one... His face is a deadpan, unreadable... But his eyes narrow, the pale complexion turning lighter still, giving the dark socketed hazel eyes a gray, unhealthy cast.
It's happening again... All over again... And there's nothing you can do to stop it.
[Sorrow] Sorrow is braced for gunfire, too. Her shoulders are level, her spine straight and tense. She has not taken a seat, but was standing there looking out toward the windows, the city beyond until the door began to open. Then: he arrives, the door opens, closes, opens again, and she watches the whole process with an unerring sort of attention, dark-eyed and direct. In the gloomy shadows of the room, the exact hue of her eyes is impossible to guess.
Her clothes are old and worn. A black t-shirt pronouncing her love for late 80s Indie rock (PIXIES in white letters on black) and jeans that have seen much better days. Black boots on the floor, probably hidden from his immediate view by the coffee table, the skirt around an armchair.
"The Jarl's dead." She has heard stories about him; she was braced for gunfire, ready to shift. Then it doesn't come, and she is still braced - against this, the death she carries inside her, the word she carries with her. "Kemp. My Alpha."
[John Thornton] Then... almost as though waking from a dream... John blinks. Color rushes back into his face; the haunted look seems to dissipate somewhat. It's almost as though what he's heard and what he expected to hear were not remotely the same thing.
"What?"
The cigarette falls from his mouth, forgotten... Before he even got the chance to light it. The white of the cigarette paper seeming stark against the charcoal gray of his suit, the deep navy shade of his tie... The black polished dress shoes upon his feet.
[Sorrow] "Kemp Oates, the Jarl of the Fenrir, and my Alpha, is dead." Sorrow offers these words clearly, directly. Her voice is fine, a low alto, and in the week that has passed she has quested to the umbra and back to learn the truth of the death. The shock has passed, but there is a supple thread of something raw - anger, grief - cuts into the second recitation of the words. Her dark eyes drop, following the fall of the cigarette from his mouth to the floor. "He was killed in battle against the cursed ones in the north; he died to close a vortex opened by the enemy, in our first true foray against them in the war."
She pauses, there. Her gaze cuts upward. Other than her mouth and her eyes, she is still, narrow shouldered, stark, perhaps even austere in these moments. She has, after all, earned a certain name. "The Gathering for the Departed wll be soon.
"You," there is perhaps a wryness to the curve of her mouth, which appears and disappears quickly as she continues, " - will of course not be permitted to attend as kin are banned from the bawn. However, if you wish to give me an offering to be burned on the pyre, I will see that it is added to the grave goods, and burned with the body to see him on his way to Valhalla."
[John Thornton] John nods... and after retrieving the cigarette that had fallen on the floor, resumes lighting it.
flick... flick... The thin thread of flame springs into existence at the metal top of the cheap bic lighter, and before long, a pleasant stream of smoke is rising from the red tip of the cigarette. He walks to the window, and opens it, before turning on the overhead fan... Letting the cigarette smoke escape without permeating the room.
Then, after a quiet moment of consideration, he starts to the kitchen.
"Can I get you something to drink? Water... Milk... Scotch...?"
[Sorrow] "I'm down with Scotch," the girl assures him, shifting her tall frame to follow his movement around the room. She is an attentive thing, watchful and considered. Her eyes remain fixed on him as he starts toward the kitchen, rising only when and if he disappears inside. When he remerges, he will find her studying him, unerring and direct. "I drink it neat."
"Until there is a new Jarl, my Alpha, Joe War-Handed, will answer for the kin of Fenris. And you, Mr. Thornton, will be answerable to Joe War-Handed. " She pauses, digs into her front pocket for a white card. It's an index car, not a business card, folded in half. Two phone numbers are written on it in a clear spare script. "I have his phone number for you, and mine. We are packmates, and I can always find him."
[John Thornton] John nods, and returns with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. One is filled with a few cubes of ice.
Then, setting the glasses and scotch on the coffee table, he pours scotch into both glasses.
"I've met Joe. He was Jarl before..."
John takes the card and nods.
"Thanks... Here."
He holds out a glass of Scotch, neat, to her... And as she considers it, she'd note it's from a bottle of Glenmarange, fairly old... Top shelf liquor.
[Sorrow] She takes the Scotch with a wordless thanks. The thanks becomes worded, though, when she lifts the glass to her nose, takes in the aromas, half-closing her eyes for the pleasure of it before taking a sip. "To Kemp-rhya." - she offers by way of thanks, the liquid dark in her longfingered, pale hand. " - and the heroes in Valhalla."
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