[Joe Holst] Joe will never be a ladykiller. He will be neither a great diplomat of his tribe nor necessarily an exemplary leader, though the kid tries hard to be. What he is though, without a doubt, is a dedicated student of tactics.. nearly a worshipper of the art of War. It colors everything in him... and now colors his mood toward the monolithic building Aesir's Call is considering for a pack house.
He stands near the middle of a weed- choked and overgrown parking lot to the side of the church building itself. His eyes pass from the door in the side to the street, and back again. He'd liked the building itself. The location has him worried. With each swing of his thick neck, Joe grows more and more concerned.
"It is, Kora." He says it again. "Too open from da street. Tew visible an' dat.. I wan' us ta find less obvious ways uh gettin' in. Don't want theah ta be rumors dat squattahs moved in an' dat." His face swings to the pretty blond as he nods, decided.
[Joe Holst] "Oh wait... yew said weah gonna own it?"
[Sorrow] The streets are suggestions, living memories, sleeping spirits, stone and asphalt, amalgam-things, slow - cracked with salt, dreaming of solidity. Every thing has life here - muddled life, stuttered life, dreaming life, sleeping life. The wind tastes of heat and the rain sings when it falls. The subtle signs of the Eagles' territory are clear. Here is a glyph etched into the ghostly reflection of a wall, there is a trophy pole, displaying the slowly disintegrating skulls of those who crossed the Eagles. The advance of the Wyrm into what had been the territory, too - corruption creeps back into the hard fought and hard-won streets the way the forest reclaims even the most stout of stone structures.
The way some remnant of the Wyld has reclaimed the massive church in front of them. Overgrown trees - trashy, invasive laurels, escaped Princess trees, scrubby little hardwoods planted by squirrels or roosting birds - surround the structure in the physical world.
Sorrow stands cross-wise to her Alpha, such that whatever is behind him is perfectly within her field of vision. When Joe turns to consider the massive structure of the abandoned church - solid here, an unmistakeable presence - she tips her pale head back to it too, her dark eyes narrowed, her expression thoughtful. Her hands remain in her front pockets, just the tips of her fingers, really.
"We'll own it," she confirms, quiet. " - as I understand it, it's owned by the city, now as a derelict building. So the kin will make it disappear from the city books, give us the title to the place under some proxy name we'll control. Which is," she continues, the edge of her mouth hooking upward. " - an awful lot of words for saying we'll own it. Maybe there are less obvious entrances from the back. An old parking lot? They would've needed a place to park their cars - or horses - or whatever. Hell, we can enter and exit through the umbra for the most part, but need to have our kin in and out, too.
"Those trees, though. They're thicker than you'd think to look at them, especially at ground level, they're a pretty effective screen. 'Course, in the winter, they'll lose all their leaves."
[UmbralSquash] *The near realm. The penumbra. Cabrini is washed out and diluted even midday. Weaver worn and dismal after many months in the absence of the Eagle's Godi, or any theurge at all to tend the spirits here. Still, some hopeful vibrancy of the wyld flourishes here and there, crabgrass and dandelion spirits shoving stubbornly through webbed cement, choked out by greying cobwebs. The old church looms large beside cracked pavement, Ivy and creeper plant spirits struggling through webs to writhe with strong umbral winds, hungry green leaves upturned to feed on the ambient glare of Helios, sun's brilliance filtered to grim grey by the city's ever present haze of roiling smog. Trees are overgrown, clutching to eroding soil and twinging together for strength and company. Inside the stain glass windows of the upper stone arches, shadows flicker and light flashes metallic.*
[Joe Holst] Joe nods slowly, almost to himself. Here the evidence of Hermodr's claws in the spirit of the pack is even heavier. The boyish Jarl is a nearly bestial, looming thing- solid and harsh. He'd long since forgotten to be thankful for the ability to bind clothing to himself.. the kid has grown past such concerns even were the tattered jeans and thin tee shirt not present.
"Chain link fence, mebbe. Owah a partial privacy fence.. just sumpfin' ta block any light comin' from da door when we open it.. dat oughta do da trick..." He speaks half to himself. Intention and the bits of words that don't spill from his mouth patter their way across the totem link anyway, and he swipes a broad arm between the door and the thought-of-a-street again before moving toward the door.
"...th' fuck is dat flashin', dough..." He says it looking up at the stained glass windows, then listens at the door for a second before opening it.
[UmbralSquash] [ok folks! folly of dial up! I have to get offline for a lil bit so as to let mah sister call her husband! I'll be back in less than an hour I hopes. BE BACK!]
[Sorrow] "When the leaves fall, we'd be happier with some sort of privacy fence," the Skald's dark eyes cut back to her Alpha, " - but a chain link fence could be electrified, right?" That's provisional. She doesn't know the answer to the question, and her pale brows are drawn together with thought. "Hmm. You know, on tennis courts, or at construction sights, they have like - " a pause, distaste for the lack of specificity in her language. " - tarps or something attached to the chainlink, to serve as windbreaks or to keep people from watching the progress too closely. That could work, yeah?"
While Joe opens the front door, Kora looks back behind them, out into the darkened street, studying the shadows for any trailing threat. As he opens the door, she turns, studying the view over the bulk of his shoulder, sorting through the shadows ahead of him before cutting a glance up the vast facade of the church, the vines clinging to its walls, crawling up from the thin, starving soil, to the shadow of the stained glass gleaming in the light.
[Sorrow] (we can pick up when you're back. :) just grab me!)
[Joe Holst] [umbralsquash]
*Faint noises echo through the gutted stone structure, hollow. Ears straining. Alert, the two fenrir are ill prepared for the insistent electronic screech that sounds from the neglected walk light behind them. A small silver spider dangling from a thread, nearly swallowed by the angry green glare of a flashing human figure in its rusted metallic window.*
WAAAAAALK! WALK WALK! WALK! WAAAAAAAALK! WALK WALK! WALK!
*Demands the spider in a tiny tinny voice.*
[Joe Holst] Joe glowers over Kora's shoulder, leveling a half- lidded, angry glare at the demented spider creature.
"Foyst fuggin' ordah uh bidness aftah we secure dis place..."
With that, he heads inside- pausing to look toward the stairs at one end of the hallway, peeking toward the corridor of doors and the doubled ones at the end which must lead to the Sanctuary.
"Lights I saw was upstaihs.." He murmurs, gliding down the hallway with restless speed that belies his size.
[Sorrow] "How else would you know when it's safe to cross?" - Sorrow remarks, her laugh a low rich thread of a thing behind him - a low rich thread of a thing beneath the tension written into her by the sudden assault of the spirit's little demand, mind you. Her spine is straight, her shoulders neat and level, her tall frame taught. She has slid her hands from her pockets, now, and walks with her arms at her stride, hurrying in Joe's wake to match his pace, acutely conscious of the grace with which he moves.
"There's bound to be stairs leading to the choir loft either in the foyer or just inside - " she lifts her chin up to the ceiling, studying neo-gothic bones of the place. "I should've gone to the library, looked up some of the hsitory of the place before we came. I'll do that, next time."
[Joe Holst] [UmbralSquash]
*Further in, the glow of daylight becomes colorful, stained glass windows casting light in a multitude of brilliant shades across debris strewn floor. Dust devils whirl into long looming shadows, cockroach spirits skittering out of sight. A rat gaffling meanders with uncharacteristic laziness, disappearing under a heap of scuttled pews. The noise is louder as they stand in dancing kaleidescope colors, religious figures glaring down at the Fenrir with hard lifeless eyes, too long without the songs of faith in their desert god. A raucous clatter from the steeple far overhead.*
[Joe Holst] He pauses for a moment or two.. coulda sworn John the Baptist just...
..naaaah.
He snorts, and the sound is a small explosion in the near stillness. A thrust through the center of calm, bracketed by the noise from upstairs and the scuttling of the rat. Blue eyes wash quickly back to Kora, then follow the sound coming from upstairs.
Then he pushes his chin at the double doors leading to the foyer, and taps them open. Sure enough, a discreet flight of stairs to the right of the doubled front doors. Joe flashes a gap toothed grin at Kora as he heads toward them.
"Well lookit dat. Was yew a good church-goin' goyl once upon'a time?" The stairs creak a bit as he mounts them.
[Sorrow] There is a moment just within the sanctuary when Sorrow stands still, takes in the dusty swirl of the interior, the ruin, the damped sounds, the scurry of the rat spirit, the click click click of insect legs against the cool floors, the silent eyes of the silent saints of the absent god, without faith to enliven them. Then Joe's snort breaks the bubble of silence, and she cuts a glance back to him, jerking her attention away from the stained glass, the gallery, the dust swimming in the cloistered atmosphere, the great ribs of worked stone holding up the ruined roof.
Joe finds the stairs where Kora siad they'd be. She turns and jogs in his wake, ducks into the closed stairwell, trailing her fingers along the wall. "Never." - she says, in response to her Alpha's cheeky question. She affirms, in a quiet voice that hints at the ironic in its flat-lined undertone. " - I found better things to do in choir lofts."
Silent, then, though she is careful to look behind her regularly as they climb up to the choir loft, following the scuttling sound that draws them closer and closer still.
[UmbralSquash] "ForgiveMeFatherForIHaveSinned-BlessMySonLord-Amen-ShowHerThePathBackToYourGrace-DeliverMeFromThisEvil-Amen-MakeMyMommyComeBack-IHateYouYouFuckerIHateYou-Amen-ShowMe-PleaseLordHearMeINeedYou-GodDon'tLetMeDie-Don'tLetHerLeave-BlessedBeTheLordJesus-SeeUsThroughThisBadYear-Amen-MakeItStop-ForgiveMe-ForgiveHim-Amen-ForgiveUs-PleaseLord-OurFatherWhoArtInHeaven-GodHearMyPrayer-Amen-"
*Murmurs. A whisper's whisper easily mistaken as the scuff of a shoe or the inhalation of dusty breath. The audible impressions of desperate prayer seem to thrum like white noise around the pair as they cross through ransacked aisles to the belltower doors. Are they underscored by singing? Its difficult to tell over the howl of the wind, snatches of reedy organ music lasting time enough for a sliver of thought before fading into nothingness. Church a cavernous mausoleum for stale air and dead faith. The air is staler still as the stairs reach up into a small priest's office and library, a pungent odor of dust and rosehip incense clogging the senses. Scent of the clergy. Books that are moth eaten, scattered and vandalized in the physical realm still line the Father's bookcases neatly here, only a few strew about a dust covered oak table. A narrow staircase twists up to the bell room proper, the ruined roof above it. Fluttering of feathers and a metallic clicking more than clear as the door to the belfry looms large.*
[Joe Holst] A snicker chatters quietly against the close walls of the stairwell, and Joe mutters 'atta goyl..'
Joe's joking stops. Cuts off as though strangled by the heat that begins to spike, to radiate from the furnace of wrath inside Joe's breast. Slowly, the ghosts stoke old, old fury. Give weight and presence to half- memory, and cause a hatred beaten into the Jarl to grow toward the surface, like a wicked plant reaching toward the sun.
Pleading. The monkeys.. they do so much
pleading. Thick fingers curl into stinging fists, and Joe's teeth flash white and hard in the dust spackled beams of sunlight. As he moved toward the stairs, his face had swung back and forth with the slow, relentless rhythm of a shark scenting weakness. Reaching out to break it away. Clean it up.
It takes a while, and the boy keeps his own council. Flushing with shame only secretly- he'd kept his face carefully away from Kora during the climb up the stairs. The memories are pressed away now, and all that paints Joe's face as he looks up toward the belfry is interest and anticipation.
He lowers his gaze to the room, and looks out a window toward the ghost of a street outside.. trying to determine where exactly he saw the flashing and shadows.
[Joe Holst] Still looking out the window, Joe raises one heavy hand, a thick finger scribing a slow circle around the room before he looks toward Kora.
"Awright.. dew dat t'ing yew dew ta intraduce yahself ta spirits.."
[Sorrow] Kora feels the spike of Joe's rage. The moon is waning from the full, and tension still rides high in both of them - but the weight of his rage is heavy, a near-physical thing when roused as by the whispers, the remembered pleas of the long-dead faithful, whispering like loss through the echoing interior.
Her reaction is wholly different: her pale head cants with animal interest, following the threads of prayers dry as powder, struggling to catch the more of the most interesting, listening intently, her mouth still, her eyes fixed ahead of her as if she might hear more of it were she only easedropping.
The scent of incense is sharply familiar. They pass through the priest's quarters, Kora quiet in Joe's wake, quiet as they climb and climb and climb all the way up to the apex of the belfrey, While Joe looks out the window, Kora crosses her arms and studies the closed door, listening for the sounds that might match the flash they saw from below, and the flare of wings against the darkness.
"Sure, boss." - the Skald replies. She wears bracelets around her wrists and around her neck - not metal torques like Joe's - hardly ancient. There is a thin choker of twisted black leather cinched around her neck, and a half-dozen or more dark bracelets on either wrist - a mix of twisted suede, plainted leather, and knotted fiber pieces. The only metal jewelry she wears is a single iron ring pierced through the inner cartilage of her left ear, with a long charm hanging from the hoop the length of a child's fingerbone, as old as Joe's torque. With a thought, the whisper of spirit stuff against the darkness, Kora activates the fetish and -
[Sorrow] - there is no overt change, just in the way she hears the world. Just in the way she can speak to it. Just in the way the whispers change. With a brief look at her Alpha, seeking permission, Kora circles the room to stand in front of the closed door. She lifts her right hand, index finger crooked neatly, ready to knock twice if he gives her permission.
[Joe Holst] Joe's face ducks in minute increments toward the floor. He seems almost to gather.. one hand settling on the back of the Father's chair, which he tips slightly.. testing it for heft. One boot also taps against the surface of his desk. Prepared to throw the chair and follow it through the door, his eyes cut to Sorrow and he nods.
[UmbralSquash] *Strange, the speech of spirits. The faint fluttering of wings, the hollowness of bones, scrabbling clatter click of talons on rafters ringing brassy and strange, a language all their own beyond the closed door of the belfry. It was panic, and it was lazy, as though the two things could exist together. A negotiation kawunging in warbling metallic tones, frantic and meandering and chattering all at once.
We'llTalkWe'llTalkLookWhatIBroughtYouSickGetUpGetUpExplainSickGetUpExplainWhyDoYouSleepGetUpExplainWe'llTalkWe'llTalk -Kora's Knock causes a sharp clawscratching ruckus, before the only noise is the wind.*
[Sorrow] Kora conveys the strung-together words back to Joe as she hears them. Her voice is quiet, rich and organic as freshly turned earth, as mast settled over the floor of some great dark wood in the deepest days of autumn, a clear counterpoint to the warbling metal speech on the other side of the door.
"The bell - ?" she says after, speculating, her mouth hooking into a neat half-smile at the of it, light finding purchase in her dark eyes, a sort of
de light at the prospect. Then, the voice on the other side of the door goes silent, Kora's nostrils flare, and her mouth stills. "I am
she who offers sorrow," she says against the door, the shape and memory of it, the sleeping fact of it between them and that which is on the other side. "of Fenris and Hermodr, with my Alpha, War-Handed. We're coming through."
And, as Joe readies himself, Sorrow reaches for the handle, and opens the door.
[Joe Holst] Joe doesn't tense as Sorrow opens the door. That is a trick that takes a lot of practice, and the practice is written into his bones. Instead, muscle slackens across his entire frame and buzzes with energy. Gathering for the throw, and the brutal speed of a charge for the door.
On the other hand, his face looks open. Keenly interested. Imagining a massive bronze icon of western society.. imagining the impressive thing swinging back and forth. Summoning Pavlov's dogs to feed their god, rather than the other way around. What distress could such a thing be in?
[UmbralSquash] *The cause of the ruckus is readily apparent as they enter the belfry proper, wings flapping wildly as a steel grey bird circles wildly over head, red glass eyes glinting as it dives through lightness and dark, coppery beak flashing metallic. Square dimensions of the room make for long shadows on the side of the room opposite the street, obscuring the spirit bird a moment before its diving through a broken window.*
FixIt!FixIt!GetItUp!Explain! The scab-bird swoops out into the daylight, voice hollow and echoing as it disappears through the ornately arched window. The window pokes jagged glass fingers at the wind, causing a rattling howl that seems to vibrate the entire room with the brassy resonance of a clanging bell. The bell itself sits lopsided, leaning against a thick broken rafter as old as the church itself. Atop the bell, sits a fat Scab-bird spirit. Dull. Flat. Asleep. An echo itself.*
[Sorrow] The door opens. There is nothing at which Joe may throw the chair - just a belfrey with a lopsided, leaning bell and two birds - one dead-eyed, sleeping, the other circling the room wildly. The air is sharp with its raucous demands, and Kora watches the flying bird, her pale head darting to match its precise movements before it dives out through the broken window. The sunlight cuts through the gloom here, but there are shadows too, rich and deep, the sharp contrast between shadow and light is blinding.
When she is sure of her surroundings, Kora walks into the Belfrey, circles it carefully, pausing once to look out of the broken window for the scab-bird, then continues until she stands before the bell. "It wants its brother fixed," she says, as she circles to stand beside the bell, beside the sleeping, echoed, empty bird. "Wants it enlivened, awoken."
[Joe Holst] Joe's form fills the doorway soon after Sorrow paces across the belfry- blue eyes flicker from the sleeping bird to the other, still heard but unseen outside the window.
"Sah.." He says it while narrowing his eyes, sweeping the tip of his tongue along an eye tooth thoughfully. A new battlescar dapples one side of his neck as he leans forward to look out of the window, then back to the bird. He continues to pace around the room, watching the still, sleeping form of the 'sick' weaver bird.
"Bells warn.. bells.. mark time..." He grunts quietly, scowling in thought. "Buh what couldt put it ta sleep? Ahmean.. if it was jus' da building bein' abandoned, why aint da uddah one asleep? Or is just dis one da bell an' da uddah one-" He points to the window. "Sumpfin' else? Like.. one da shell an' one da hammer?"
[Sorrow] Sorrow gives a sharp whistle, then, in the direction of the broken window. To humans, such a whistle - means, hey you! come here! It's the sound of doormen in New York and Chicago summoning a cab, or friends gesturing to friends across the expanse of a park, To weaver-birds -
- well. There is a sharp whistle, and then she calls out after the spirit in its language, lifting her quiet voice, "Hey. Hey. We'll
fix it, if you come and tell me who you are. Tell me what happened. We'll make a deal."
[UmbralSquash] *The brassy beat of wings, hollow and light. Perched on a stone buttress outside the window, the smaller weaverbird rests wary. Untrusting, one beady red eye cocked to Kora, then to Joe in turn. A copper beak clicks as the Scab-Bird natters.*
FixItWakeItUpDeal.
*Nervous preening, grey feathers impossibly light for something that looks as though its made of metal filaments. One eye ever on the pair of Fenrir*
[Joe Holst] (paused!)
[Sorrow] "I could be wrong," Kora says quietly from where she stands at the window, looking out at the bird resting on a flying buttress, framed against the brilliantly light webs of the heart of the weaver's domain downtown, where the skyscrapers erupt against the sky, metal and glass wrapped in thick webs that sing with ordered electrical impulses, with the constant workings of pattern spiders, all banked in a sort of drifting
(beginning of next post)
to Sorrow
