"You wanna throw shit in the river?"
Jun. 15th, 2012 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
renferretEx and Riley make friends, Ky gives out sandwiches, and Moros nearly murders a skateboarder. Later, Moros looms some more.
One of the best things about a new city is exploring all the various new places, and Samuel has made it to Harbor Park and makes his way along one of the paths, occasionally jumping onto and off of benches, or turning around and going back to look at something closer. The young man seems to be looking at /everything/ in the park, and /everyone/, and all of this without letting it interfere with where he's going.
One of the benches that's no far removed from the park's fountain is occupied by a young, dark-haired woman with her nose in a book. It's a ratty old mass-market paperback, likely a loaner from the library, else picked up for cheap at a Used store - it's generic Fantasy fare, featuring laughably bad, faded cover art. If one were to look closely, they'll occasionally see that her attention is diverted from the book on a minutely basis to skirt her eyes across the surrounding area before letting her eyes drop back to the pages. Seems likely that she's waiting for someone.
Riley slings a name in there somewhere.
Down near the river, a skinny, raggedy looking person skulks into view from the general direction of the bridge. At a distance, it might actually take some studying to recognize that she's female; her body seems distinctly lacking in curves, and not helping the matter is her very short, uneven haircut, or the oversized, faded hoodie that she's wearing. Her movements are jittery and directionless--she moves along the river's edge for a while, seemingly just because she can, and pauses now and then to kick a rock or a bent soda can into the water.
Samuel makes it to near the fountain first, walking along the edge rather than along the path there, and there's a pause to study Riley for quite a while, but given as the woman's reading, Samuel doesn't interfere. Instead, he turns, and tosses a coin into the fountain, setting it to arc up spinning through the air before it finally splashes into the water.
As wholesome as some parts of St. Claire are, there's little denying the fact that it's a city, and with cities come junkies. Riley's eyes lift from her novel a little prematurely from her scheduled interval at the distant sound of aluminum clanging in the distance. Her facial features tighten and she claps the little book shut, not bothering to roll it up as she jams it haphazardly into the pocket of an unseasonably heavy winter jacket. "Fuckin' junkies." She stands, casting Samuel an appraising glance, pausing to give a little nod of her head before straying off in the direction of the not-terribly distant river. She's striding with intent, clearly angling to intersect paths with the hooded figure.
The skinny, hoodie-clad woman jerks sharply to one side, and her shoe comes into contact with half of a glass bottle this time. Part of it actually makes it into the river, but the other part is ground underfoot. She busies herself with this meaningless, petty destruction for a few moments, before Riley's impending arrival catches her attention. Her eyes snap up from the ground and stare at the oncoming Ragabash.
Samuel glances about the park, a moment, before it seems that Riley's impending altercation with the other woman is likely the most interesting thing going on. There's a nod in return, and Samuel makes his way a little bit circuitously, not that far behind Riley in arrival by the waterside.
She doesn't wait to get especially close before the chewing-out process begins, "Hey, y'know you /could/ just pick the damn things up instead of punting them into the river if you're angling to clean up the riverside!" Riley storms on closer, a sour expression made clear on her face as she nears, spreading her arms in a universal gesture of displeasure. "Or if you're not /feelin'/ that, just let 'em lay there where someone that does can actually get at 'em, don't send them sinking to the bottom of the fucking river." She sweeps her arm to gesture, and immediately catches sight of one of the cans. Technically, it's floating, not sinking. Her nose wrinkles at the contradiction.
Hoodie-woman stares hard at Riley, her fever-bright eyes slightly narrowed. She stands completely still apart from a tic in one cheek, and a brief but quick flexing of the fingers on her left hand. As Riley draws closer, the twin scars on her face become noticeable. In some circles it's known as a Glassgow smile. /Lovely/. This one, though, appears thinner and more precise than the usual. Three full seconds after the Ragabash has finished speaking, her jaw works, and she says, in a voice that's rather hoarse, "Cash?"
Samuel mutters what absolutely sounds like a curse word in tone, but it's also definitely not in English. Then, a moment later, he says, "Y' gotta be /kidding/ me. Go beg somewhere else," is addressed to the woman who had previously been kicking cans and rocks. "Or get a job."
That earns a prompt narrowing of Riley's eyes. She takes a half-step back, settling into a solid stance and lifting a brow. That one-word question can be interpreted in any number of ways. Samuel seems to have taken it for begging, but the suspicion and annoyance in Riley's eyes reveal that she's probably taken it a completely different way. Which is, ultimately, confirmed by a lift of her brows, "Alright, litterbug. You'd better be asking an' not telling. Either way, the answer's 'No'." She flicks a glance over Samuel's way, marking his position and then turning her gaze back in toward the assumed-Junkie.
Samuel stands at 5'8" and has clearly already reached the first growth spurt of adolescence. His shoulders are broad and those of a young man coming into his own, and although he is slim, there is a toned athleticism to him as well. He wears clearly second-hand jeans and teeshirts and sweaters, worn sneakers, but his overall appearance is neat. Straight black hair is cut relatively short, and piercing blue eyes contrast sharply with deeply tanned skin, high cheekbones, and the rest of the features that clearly show strong Native American ancestry.
That tic appears again in the presumed junkie's scarred cheek at the answers. Her gaze switches from Riley to Samuel, and the latter gets a long, hard stare before she turns, deliberately grinding her heel into the broken bottle glass, and takes another step in the same direction she was originally heading, along the river bank.
"All you people /ever/ do," Samuel mutters. "Mess up the earth even more." It sounds, from the teen, like it's a rather rote thing to say, and Samuel turns halfway, away from the girl with the hoodie, long enough for the youth to unclench his fists.
The look Riley gets from Samuel isn't supportive. In fact, it just seems weary, and she doesn't otherwise react to his words other than to awkwardly shuffle half a step to the side for a moment as she watches the hooded girl's retreating form. She seems to consider for several moments before snorting and all but dancing out in front of the other girl's path. "You speak english, Half-Baked?"
Samuel gets from Riley.*
The girl comes to a sudden, abrupt stop as Riley crosses her path. There's no eye contact this time; she doesn't even look toward Riley's face, and there's a decided tensing in her shoulders. "Yes." Like before, the monosyllabic answer is hoarse.
Some days you just need to get out. And after keeping himself cooped up inside for two days, that's exactly what Ky had decided. He strolls along the river bank, a roll to his gait implying a slight limp, however his spirits are well enough. An eye is kept toward the water, more interested in the murky swath of mud and muck than the goings on further out in the park proper.
Samuel takes a few steps towards Riley. For all of whatever the ragabash might think, the youth's gaze is firmly on her face, chin jutting out, eyes narrowed, and hands clench into fists again. "Of course I do," he snaps, words with a slightly drawn out midwest accent. "Typical," he adds, in the implication that he's wasting his time, turning away from both Riley and Ex.
Tightly folding her arms, Riley's narrowed eyes bore in on the girl. Hoodie-Girl's response comes. Riley is just opening her mouth to let loose some other cutting remark when Samuel, rather unexpectedly, answers too. It disarms her entirely, and she immediately blinks, "Hey, wha-- I didn't mean /you/, kid, I meant this bitch. Christ." She turns her attention back on said bitch. "If you speak English, then stop being such a fuck-off. Seriously, there's enough shit in that river. Knock it off."
Ex jerks her left shoulder back and scratches at her forearm, but her expression doesn't really change, nor does she answer the stare with one of her own. "Go away." Ky's arrival doesn't escape her notice either. Her gaze moves from the bank to the newest newcomer, and her eyes narrow a little further.
Ky turns a look from the water to the sounds of voices. Brows raise ever so slightly as he takes in the trio, though he continues to walk along the bank. And toward them.
At the correction from Riley, Samuel turns back, brows raising just a moment. For now, however, the teen keeps his mouth shut, simply watching the exchange between the others. Ky's approach is noted with a nod, hands shoving into pockets.
At the monosyllabic dismissal from the assumed-junkie-litterer, Riley bristles even further, taking a step toward the girl. "Uh, yeah. No. No, you know what? Fuck it. You wanna throw shit in the river?" She spreads her arms, which doesn't look as intimidating as it could, what with her slender, suburban white frame. "What a /fucking coincidence/, I do too." Several very intent steps later, and she makes a grab for the girl's hood.
The first step gets no reaction, but the others have the strange girl abruptly backing up, and as Riley makes a grab, she twists suddenly and violently away. It's not a clean escape--Riley's fingers manage to snag onto the very edge of the girl's hood--and then, suddenly, without it quite being clear how she managed such a thing so fast, there's a switchblade gripped tightly in her right hand. She's breathing heavily, eyes, if anything, more fever-bright than ever, all the muscles in her face visibly tensed. "Let go, /LET GO/." The repeat of the words is, while still hoarse, quite a degree louder, if still somewhat monotone.
A frown replaces the look of wondering when one girl grabs for the other. Ky doesn't run forward, though he does speed up a bit intent on the trio, gaze flicking from Samuel to Riley and the hoodied girl. "Hey, /hey/! Stop!" He yells when the knife is produced, posture and confidence of his breeding making him fully expectant of being listened to.
Samuel draws his shoulders straight, not bothering with words as he moves towards Riley to pull the girl off the other. There's a flicker of tension and anger from the native American teen, as well.
From the moment she lunges forward, Riley clearly isn't in the mood to stop her aggression, and Ky's shout goes ignored. Unfortunately for the hooded girl, producing the knife only gets a sharp narrowing of Riley's eyes and an embarrassingly animalistic baring of her teeth as she firmly plants her feet into the ground and /yanks/ the girl by what little grip she has on the hood. The result ends up three-fold. Both of them stagger toward the river, there's a loud rip of fabric as the thinner of the girls continues on toward the water, and Riley's arm is seized by Samuel just a little bit too late to stop the altercation, but in time to stop her from unbalancing herself into the river. She rebalances and swiftly shakes her arm in Samuel's grip as she intently watches the ripped-hoodie girl's momentum carry her, a grimly satisfied look on her face.
Riley: Littering: Not even once.
Samuel snorts.
It's a spectacular tumble, though there's no yelp or cry of alarm, just a loud splash. The ex-hooded girl comes up coughing, sputtering, and violently shaking, but clearly in no danger from the current--here, it's quite sluggish, even if the water's disgusting. She still has that knife in hand, but she appears to have entirely forgotten about it for the moment. Instead her eyes squeeze tightly shut, and her jaw clenches.
Ky looks as if he's not sure whether to scowl or sigh. Or just walk away. What he does, after a beat, is approach the edge of the river and offer a hand to the sputtering, spluttering wet girl. "Cops kind of frown on this sort of thing, you know," he tells the group as a whole. "Especially with knives involved, blood is messy."
Samuel tightens his grip on Riley's arm instead, though his hand isn't big enough to wrap around her wrist. "Much as, you know, I don't think anyone should be adding more litter to Mother Earth," Samuel says, voice edging into baritone range, though it cracks once, "you probably shouldn't have done that." Ky gets a nod of acknowledgement as Samuel finally lets go, stepping back to stand there with ease and a fair amount of confidence in his bearing. "Good thing no one plans on calling them, right?"
Being a Ragabash, one would expect Riley to have a quip at hand. Instead, all she has prepared is to grin wide and crow, "Now you're wet!" It's a little lacking in its incisiveness, all things considered, but the girl is clearly too amused to care. She casts a frown in Samuel's direction first, because his grip is most noticeable, but another one follows shortly after at Ky. "Whatever. She deserved to get wet."
The girl's eyes widen for a moment, and her lips pull sharply against her teeth. Her trembling gets a little more pronounced. For several seconds, she seems unaware that Ky is even present, and when she does focus on the hand being offered to her, she eyes it with deep suspicion. Rather than take the hand, she twists away, slogging a wide arc around the gathered group in order to try and reach the shore. The knife remains in hand, clenched so tightly that her knuckles have gone completely white.
Ky's hand falls to his side while the opposite shoulder lifts into a shrug. He looks at Riley, brows lifting upward again. "Right well. Can I push you in the water? Looks to me like you deserve to get wet, too."
"No one else's pushing anyone else in the water!" Samuel says, stepping into the direct line between Riley and Ky, and squaring his shoulders.
"'Only saying that because you missed the whole thing." Comes Riley's immediate huff in response. She gives her arm a slight jerk away from Samuel - which actually doesn't take any effort, given that he's moving to her defense at around the same time. It's clear from her growing frown that her victory is starting to feel soured by its reception. Truly, these sorts of things are best appreciated alone. "Yeah, and everyone's gonna start thinkin' twice now before throwing throwing shit in the river to make themself feel like a badass, aren't they?" Her eyes narrowly follow after the soggy girl with the ripped hoodie.
The girl pulls herself out of the water a good twenty feet downriver. She keeps one ear angled toward the conversation, but her focus appears to be on her current state. Her jaw sets into a thin frown as she wriggles her left arm out of the hoodie sleeve, and attempts to squeeze the water from it with a hand still clutching the switchblade, and without actually taking the hoodie off. The reason for this is obvious; she doesn't appear to be wearing anything underneath said hoodie.
"You thinking twice about throwing shit into the river, badass," Ky asks, looking at Riley for a long moment. He shakes his head, passing that look more mildly over Samuel. Edging around those two, he takes a couple of steps toward the hoodied girl, though he's mindful of her personal space bubble. "You alright?"
Samuel looks over at Ky in response, a furrow of a frown, before turning back to Riley, and then towards the rest of the park, turning to start to leave. "/I/ don't throw things in the river to start with," he grumbles.
The trouble with a joke at someone else's expense is when it starts to turn awkward. Riley opens her mouth at Ky's comment, then closes it with a sulky frown as she takes a closer look at the state of the dripping, stick of a woman. She grits her teeth, "What, just because she's..." Wearing one scrap of clothing that she just helped ruin even further? Riley's cheeks burn and she grates, "She was polluting the river." She lamely looks away, but doesn't move from the spot. Whether it's out of stubbornness or curiosity, she doesn't let a thing like being more or less in the wrong sway her from her spot. Samuel is cast a parting look, but she doesn't aim to stop him from distancing himself from the admittedly embarrassing scene.
The boy standing before you still has some growing to do, measuring at roughly five and a half feet tall on a lanky, if rather averagely built frame. His normally short-kept dark brown hair is now shaven clean, without even enough length left to be considered peach fuzz, and clear blue eyes are set into a face that's more cute than handsom. He's got some way to go before his body will begin to show more of the stature and build that's brought on by adulthood, with odd lines and angles setting him firmly still in adolescence.
Ty carries himself with some confidence, an easy grin quick to tick into his expression. His skin is still pale, though no longer with a sickly cast, the pink of health colors his cheeks though he's still thin, as though recovering from a long illness. One forearm still bears a scar, easily recognizable as the Shadow Lords' tribal glyph.
Ex eyes Ky suspiciously as she wriggles her left arm back into its sleeve, and then wriggles her right arm--knife included--out, in order to repeat the water wringing efforts. That over-bright look to her eyes hasn't faded one bit, though the trembling, thankfully, seems to have died down.
Ky glances toward Riley, frowning slightly. "Yeah. So you one-up her pollution by polluting yourself. Bravo." Back to the wet girl, he takes one final step closer, though it's non-aggressive. He pushes his hands into his pockets, looking from her to the river. "I'm Ky, by the way."
Samuel makes his way away from the entire gathering. "Delayed getting to work long enough," he explains himself over his shoulder, and there's a glance back every so often.
Riley looks sufficiently cowed under the scolding. It's clear that she's not feeling too thrilled with herself at this point, awkwardly shuffling her feet and muttering to herself. Then Ky introduces himself. Her head swings over, and for the first time, she takes a hard look at Ky and pauses. She blinks a few times, then starts to bristle all over again. Her fingers curl upward, tightening into fists, and the embarrassed look is replaced with mounting annoyance once again.
Ex matches the step forward with her own step backward. Nothing about the suspicious look eases at his introduction, and she spends the time it takes getting her arm back into the right sleeve--still with knife in hand--to repeatedly eye his face and his pocketed hands. Her jaw works, but no words are forthcoming.
Ky either doesn't notice or doesn't care that the silent girl is maintaining distance. He doesn't look her way again, keeping his gaze upon the river. The frown eases to something more neutral, calm. And Riley and her frown is quite ignored. "I was supposed to go get groceries, since I was going out," he continues after a beat. "My brother loafed the chore off onto me. You want a sandwich or something?"
Riley's fingers drum quietly on her arm. She doesn't budge from her spot on the shore, and doesn't bother to inject herself into the conversation. She's glowering daggers into the back of Ky's head.
That, if nothing else, clearly gets her attention. The girl's eyes flick upward, narrow, and remain on Ky's face. "Yes," she says eventually, after several more small tics in her right cheek.
"Yeah," Ky asks as if to confirm. "Good. What about you, bad ass?" The question is posed as he turns to face Riley, one corner of his mouth turning up to a grin at the glowering. "Want a sandwich?"
The typical reaction to this entire scenario would probably have seen Riley fleeing the scene not long after throwing Ex into the drink - it most certainly would not include following the person who just chewed her out to go and get /sandwiches/. "I'd love a sandwich," She answers, tone frosty, but not sarcastic.
Ex slowly, carefully folds the blade of her knife back into the handle, where it remains partially concealed in her palm. Her eyes flick from Ky to Riley. That suspicious expression is still there, but she seems to regarding both of them with equal measures of it.
"Cool." Ky nods toward the pathway proper that'll take them out of the park. "There's a little shop a few blocks down. They got some good food usually."
Well and truly looking as though there's nothing she'd rather do less than get a sandwich, Riley casts Ex a brief look. Her glower eases slightly, and she manages the barest of apologetic looks before choosing to be the one to follow Ky, leaving Ex to head up the rear if she decides to follow at all.
Heading up the rear appears to be exactly what the strange girl prefers. She lets Ky and Riley trail far ahead of her; but she does follow, cautiously, with the occasional twitch of fingers or her jaw. That she's still a dripping, soggy mess doesn't elicit any sign of outward bother.
Ky casts a glance over his shoulder occasionally, glancing at Riley and past to the girl. Just to make sure they're following. He's not one for idle conversation himself, content to lead the way.
It's a hell of a silent walk, and one that Ky leads with one woman regarding him sourly, and the other cautiously. To any that pass by, it would no doubt be an amusing sight. As they start to near the sandwich shop, Riley grunts and elbows ahead of Ky, "She shouldn't go in there looking and..." She turns to regard Ex for a moment, frowning, "...Smelling like she does, either. Tell her to wait outside or something so she doesn't become a conversation piece." With that, the ragabash takes a hard turn and stalks down the street.
In a direction opposite if the sandwich shop.
Ex scratches at her right sleeve and says nothing, even though it's very likely she overheard that. Her look of suspicion shifts from Ky to the sandwich shop, and then, briefly, to the departing Riley.
Ky seems surprised for a moment, when he looks back at Riley's gone. But it passes quickly and Ex is offered a shrug as explanation. Soon enough they reach the shop, though, and again he takes the lead going in, holding the door open for the sodden girl. "Pick out whatever, get a drink too if you want."
Now she's reluctant. She eyes Ky, then the door, then the building itself, and then the door again. Her jaw works several times, as if she were chewing gum, before she says, "...I'll wait here."
Ky looks inside, then back at the girl, then inside again. "But I don't know what you want. And you seem a bit short on conversation."
Ex inhales heavily, and lets it out as a sharp huff. "I want food." Pause. "Something to drink." The next bit takes a a few moments longer. "A bag."
"Food, a drink, and a bag." Ky counts each off on his fingers then disappears into the store. Minutes pass and it seems like the boy might have forgotten to come back out, or ducked out the back way. But just when it seems like he may never show up again, he does, bearing a bag with some food and drinks. It's not much, a couple of meals or one large one, and offered to the girl. "You got a name?"
She gets fidgety right away as she waits. Most of the motion is in her fingers, where they either open and close, or she resumes scratching at her right sleeve, but there's the occasional facial tic, or jaw clenching, weight shifting...anything that isn't complete stillness. The door is repeatedly eyed, but even moreso the street, both ways, up and down the block. By the time Ky returns, the young woman looks as though she's about ready to bolt. Instead, she takes the bag--she practically snatches at it--and backs a few steps away in order to peer inside. The question itself catches her off guard. She eyes Ky for a moment, looks off to one side for longer, and eventually gives a sharp jerk of her head. "Ex."
Ky gives the bag up with no resistance. His hands return to his pockets once she's got it, and he doesn't outright stare at her so much as watch her while taking stock of his surroundings. "Ex," he repeats, like he's committing the name to memory. "That's pretty cool. Is it short for anything?"
Ex finally deigns to stuff the switchblade into her jeans pocket so that she can more easily investigate the contents of the sandwich bag. Silly things like questions don't delay her from this, though her expression visibly sours. "Yes."
The long wait in the sandwich store overlaps well with the shorter wait that Riley had to endure further down the block. The ragabash rounds the corner of the sandwich store shortly after Ex has started to examine the bag of food. Riley's got a bag of her own, one that's opaque and grey. She's wearing a decidedly more awkward expression than her previous pissy one as she reigns herself in a few feet detached from the pair. Scratching an index finger awkwardly over her cheek, she gives her bag a swing and lofts it the few feet over to land approximately at the young woman's feet with an unremarkable 'swoosh'. Whatever's in there has some substance, but little weight. She squints, and turns, glancing over her shoulder in order to murmur a soft, but sincere, "Sorry." Then starts her second egress. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets and walks away, head down, shoulders up.
Moros has arrived.
Ky looks up when the bag lands near Ex, eventually finding Riley's back. "You sure you don't want a sandwich," he calls after her.
Ex startles as the second bag lands at her feet, and only just manages to avoid spilling the contents of the sandwich bag. She stares at Riley's retreating back, expression unreadable, and then gives the bag she delivered an experimental prodding with the toe of her worn sneaker, just enough to get a glimpse of the contents. Her eyes widen, and her eyebrows lift considerably.
Nope, she must not want that sandwich. She turns down a sidestreet in short order and doesn't get around to replying.
Ky shrugs to himself when Riley doesn't turn back around. Instead he turns back to Ex and regards the bag left on the ground in front of her.
Ex crouches down and quickly stuffs the sandwich bag inside the larger, Riley donated bag, then bundles it all up as tightly as she can. She does this in swift, hurried movements, though she does spare a darting glance to Ky and the street itself.
Ky takes a step back under Ex's glance, once again a corner of his mouth quirking upward into a grin. "Got somewhere to stay? There's a shelter, off Regan street, if you don't."
Ex shakes her head roughly and mutters, more to the bag than Ky, "No fucking shelters."
Ky nods slightly, consideration crossing his expression. "Well..." He trails off, taking a longer moment to think.
Ex hefts the bag carefully in both hands. Her jaw's working again, and her right hand's index and middle fingers have begun tapping repeatedly on the bag handles. Truthfully, the bag doesn't look remotely heavy. Whatever Riley bought, it was light.
"Got anywhere to go then," Ky asks almost abruptly, shaking out of whatever thoughts had crossed his mind.
The girl abruptly sets her bag down, opens it up, opens the sandwich bag up, and selects the first thing she finds on top. It isn't until she's unwrapped the sandwich and taken a massive bite that she answers the young Shadow Lord, with slightly narrowed eyes and a sidelong glance. "Why?" Oh, and a mouthful of food. Such manners.
Ky shrugs casually, rocking back on his heels. "Everyone's got to have a place to sleep at night," he answers. "Thought I'd see you safely back, so you don't get tossed into anything worse than the river."
Ex works her way through the large bite only to take two more in quick succession. "No," she says, still chewing, as she wraps up the rest of the sandwich and stuffs it back into the double bag.
Ky scuffs a foot against the walkway the sole of his shoe scraping rubbery against pavement. "Well, that sucks. So what do you do at night?"
The girl swallows the rest of her bite of sandwich. She's crouched over a bag-within-a-bag on the sidewalk--the largest, outer bag looks like a plastic one from a clothing store. The one inside that bag, faintly visible, is a paper bag from the sandwich shop they're standing outside of. While she's starting to dry, she's still utterly soaking wet, and the hood of the hoodie that she's wearing has been mostly torn away. "No," she says again, in response to Ky. It's a little tenser this time, the repeated tapping of her fingers against the plastic bag handle somewhat faster.
Ky nods slowly, taking another small step backward. No hurry, still maintaining his calm. "No," he agrees. "That's alright. --Here." He pulls one hand out from his pocket, and with it the change from his trip into the store. It's offered, palm up and with a small shrug. "In case you get hungry later."
Moros is visible from a distance, the big black-clad monster of a man striding down the sidewalk that they're sharing. His hands are stuffed in his coat pockets and his head's slightly lowered, greasy tendrils of black hair hanging forward over his face.
Ex's tongue pokes briefly out the side of her mouth, prodding at a stray crumb on her lip. She stares at Ky rather than the hand, eyes narrow, jaw slowly working back and forth, as she reaches forward and gingerly works her fingers around the offered coins. For the moment, she doesn't seem aware of the approaching giant, but that's not likely to last for long.
Ky's hand returns to his pocket after the change is taken, his head dipping into a nod. "It was nice meeting you, Ex," he says, grin again tugging upward briefly.
As for Moros, he's not much looking where he's going, though even on a busy sidewalk, this isn't much of a problem. He's the kind of man that people make way for, usually with an uneasy stare. But there are exceptions. Like the college-aged skateboarder in blonde dreadlocks and an Undertaker t-shirt that goes zipping by Ky and Ex, disrupting the flow of foot traffic far more than the black-clad behemoth. Who's right in the skateboarder's path.
Ex shoves the coins into her jeans pocket and yanks the plastic bag backwards, away from the Cliath. "/Shut up/," she snaps. There might be more, but the skateboarder suddenly has her scrambling backwards, all wide eyes and clutching the bag like a lifeline. The young woman has just enough time to suck in breath and hiss, "You stupid /fuck/," in the general direction of the disrupter before she gets a look at Moros. She stares, mouth slightly open. Her grip on the bag has gone white knuckled again.
Ky looks at the skateboarder in just enough time to jump back a step, cringing at the too-fast shift of weight required to keep from being run down. His gaze follows the kid, and possibly he's thinking things along the same lines as the girl's outburst. His gaze passes over Moros as he straightens, frown pulling at his brows.
The skateboarder, like Moros himself, is clearly used to people just getting out of his way, and it's only at the last moment that he yells out, "Hey!" The big black-clad monster snaps his head up and has only a second to brace himself before BAM! The dreadlocked youth's face smashes into the monster's broad chest, the skateboard goes shooting out from under his feet, and down he goes, crashing to the pavement ass-first. Ow.
Moros, who looks barely staggered by the collision, recovers from his surprise and bares his teeth in a snarl. He reaches down a massive hand to grab the skateboarder by the hair.
Ex remembers to close her mouth, but she's still blatantly staring. The girl tenses, as if preparing to spring away, though she stays in place for the moment.
Ky straightens as the collision happens. His attention remains on Moros and the skateboarder. And unlike the instance at the river, he makes no move to intervene.
Moros gets a good grip on the thick mass of dreadlocks and uses this to haul the half-stunned youth to his feet. His other hand, the right, is already curling into a fist and cocking back. Then he stops, tilts his head, and then looks up to survey the collection of witnesses. Yes, there are a lot of people staring right now. There's even a woman behind Moros stealthily recording things with her cellphone.
The skateboarder starts groaning apologizes, reaching up as he does so to try to dislodge the monster's iron grip.
It's not the impending punch, or even the staring people. Ex's gaze slips past Moros when he hesitates, and Ky's in a decent enough position to see her face go stark white. She springs up, bag in hand, and darts off down the sidewalk as though she'd just snatched someone's purse. Squidgy wet shoe prints trail behind her, and the one with the lose sole flaps hard against the pavement.
Ex: Loose. Yes. Typing.
The abrupt movement of flight catches Ky's attention, and his gaze snaps to the fleeing girl. He almost goes after her, watching the direction she takes carefully, marking wet shoe prints and the path cut through other pedestrians. He looks at Moros one last time, before setting off after the girl at a slower pace. Chances are he'll lose her, but he'll make an effort to follow and learn all the same.
Moros' attention snaps past the nearby crowd to the fleeing girl and the boy going after her. His head slowly tilts to the other side... and then, with a grimace, he shoves the skateboarder off to the side, sending him sprawling. And then he, too, goes off in the direction of the pair, but he doesn't run and gets left behind rather quickly.
Direction is a rather strong word, as it turns out. Ex darts down side-streets and alleys without any real heed as to exactly /where/ she's going, and several times she actually ends up doubling back a block or two. Time, rather than distance, eventually slows her, and she drops back to a jog, and then a panting, jittery sort of walk. Only her white-knuckled grip on the shopping bag prevented it from spilling out all over during the run.
Ky loses the girl after a few too many turns. He lingers on the streets though, a slow and idle walk to keep him moving, and maybe find her again.
With the drama passed, the crowd slowly breaks up, its component parts moving along. The skateboarder stumbles off carrying his recovered board under his arm. The majority of injury is, fortunately, just to his pride.
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From: Ex Subject: Harbor Park Fountain change
To: Nicodemus, Val
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Someone has gone to the trouble of stealing every single coin left in the Harbor Park Fountain since last night, including any pennies. Greedy!
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Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Obvious exits:
Harbor Park Meadow
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.82 and falling, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)
It's a thin moon, and the overcast sky does a fair job of blocking out even that miniscule amount of light. With the threat of yet more impending rain, even most of the more hardy park dwellers have gone elsewhere for the night; but not, it would seem, all. The young woman from earlier has returned to the river bank, where she's currently perched ungracefully between the berm and a slightly larger than usual river stone. She's relatively dry now, but she's still wearing that ripped hoodie, the ill fitting jeans, and the woebegone sneakers. The shopping bag is tucked right nearby, and there's the telltale crackle of a wrapper as she sets about finishing off the last of the sandwich she started on earlier.
And there's that big guy from earlier, the one who came close to knocking the shit out of a careless skateboarder. Moros walks alongside the river, looking as surly now as he did earlier. At least he's paying more attention to his surroundings (now that there are far less people to collide into, or to collide with him), and so it is that he spots Ex. He stops dead. And then his head tilts to one side, a line furrowing between heavy brows. He's not wearing the sunglasses now that it's night, but his eyes are shadowed.
Moros is big. Really big. He stands seven feet tall exactly and appears to weigh over three hundred pounds, nearly all of it brawny muscle. His torso has more of a rectangular shape than the classic inverted triangle of a deliberate bodybuilder; his chest is broad, his middle thick without being flabby, and his shoulder-span is quite impressive. He has legs like tree trunks and massive hands. Just a huge monster of a man who looks almost too big to be real.
His face is broad and brutish, with heavy brows and a wide, flat nose. His skin is pale, not unhealthy but clearly he's not much of a sunbather. Nor is he much of a man for shaving, because his chin and jaw are covered in a scruff of black bristles. His hair is black as well and hangs in oily, greasy tendrils past his shoulders.
On top of being physically imposing, Moros has about him an aura of violence and rage that tends to make people ill-at-ease around him. The fact that he's usually entirely in black doesn't help things. He's currently dressed in a tight black tank-top, a pair of loose-fitting black jeans, and a pair of heavy black boots. Sunglasses and a knee-length black coat complete the outfit.
There's just no mistaking a seven foot giant. Ex notices him almost as soon as he notices her. She tenses, abruptly stuffs the rest of the sandwich into her mouth--it's too much, and her scarred cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's--and makes a grab for her bag. The woman doesn't bolt, not yet at least, but she watches Moros with a feverish sort of intensity as she works on chewing and wolfing down her hoarded mouthful.
Moros doesn't move closer, though the way he watches her, the way his head's tilted, is not exactly comforting. He looks like he should be wearing a hockey mask.
Ex chews vigorously, swallows. Chews. Swallows. Not once does she glance away from Moros. The first actual sound from her is on the last swallow--again it's a bit too large, and she finishes off with harsh cough. Gathering up her bag in one hand, she rolls onto her toes and squats in place. Her stare's just a little more deliberate now, a little more direct. It might actually be a bit defiant, despite the massive difference in size.
Moros lowers his head slightly, then snaps it up, flicking stray tendrils of greasy hair out of his face. Then he starts walking toward her. His hands come out of his pockets, empty and open, loose. It's perhaps as unthreatening as it's possible for him to be in this circumstance.
The woman's shoulders roll forward, and while she keeps her eyes locked on Moros, her head lowers a little as well. There's a distinct tic in her right cheek, followed by her jaw moving from side to side. Despite the nervous movements, she holds her ground, her eyes flicking from his face to his empty hands--pretty dangerous, even empty--and back to his face.
It's dark enough that it's still hard to see the big man's eyes, but when he gets close, close enough to talk, she might notice that they seem red. Not bloodshot, but with actual red irises. But maybe that's a trick of the thin moon and distant streetlights. Moros stops walking at this point and studies her for a second or two before speaking up. "I see that he didn't catch you." His voice is low and growly.
Ex tips her head and peers upward at his face, but any curiosity about his eyes is quashed by the question. "Who?" Her own voice sounds faintly hoarse, even in low tones.
"The boy," says Moros. "The one with the buzzcut." He's referring to Ky.
Ex's jaw works again, and her head jerks to one side. The motion doesn't seem to have any meaning attached to it. "No," she answers after a moment. "Don't know where he went."
Moros utters a thoughtful sort of 'hrrrn' noise. "You _are_ running, though," he says after a moment. "Who are you running from?"
The young woman's eyes narrow to sudden slits. "No one." Another facial tic. "I'm fucking eating."
The monster's eyes (they can't actually be _red_, surely) narrow for a second, and then his mouth twists into a slanted, cynical smile. "Sure," he says, nodding, clearly not believing her in the slightest.
Ex scowls at him, not missing the tone, as she clutches her bag to her chest. "What the fuck is with your eyes?"
The crooked smile vanishes. "Contacts," he answers brusquely. His weight shifts ever so slightly forward, not _quite_ taking a step toward her. "What the fuck is with those scars?"
Ex shrinks back just a little, just about the amount to match that slight forward lean. Abruptly, she scratches at the sleeve of her right arm, and there's no immediate answer forthcoming. Or, as it turns out, any answer, because the next words out of her are, "Were you going to crush his skull?"
Moros does that little movie-slasher head-tilt thing again. "Who?" And then the penny drops. "Oh." Broad shoulders lift and fall, and the big hands vanish back into his coat pockets. "I don't know." That, at least, sounds like an honest answer.
"Bet you could." Ex scratches at her forearm, /hard/, and then abruptly stops. "You're a fucking giant. Bet nobody fucks with you."
Moros scowls, his head lowering slightly, enough to cast his eyes back into the shadow of his brows. "Some do," he growls. "And sometimes I have to endure it."
Ex squints at Moros. She runs her sleeve across her mouth before dropping her arm again. "Who?"
Moros gives his head a sharp shake, making hair fall into his face. Slowly, he hunkers down into a squat, elbows on his knees. He's still _huge_, nothing can get past that, but he's not looming quite so much. And she can see his eyes again, and they're definitely red, and they're definitely intense. "Tell me who you're running from."
Ex's grip on the shopping bag relaxes ever so slightly at this change in posture. "Nobody. I don't know." And then she eyes him, and her tone becomes distinctly sharper, if no louder. "How do you know if I'm running?"
"Call it a hunch." The big man stands up again, slowly, rolling his shoulders as he does so. "But if you _are_, I'm at the Motel 6 off of 95. Room 138. For the time being, anyway."
Ex stares at him. It's not the intense stare of before, or even the somewhat more curious one from this afternoon. This one just seems bewildered. After a moment her jaw tightens, but she doesn't actually say anything.
The black-clad monster says nothing more to that and just... walks away.
One of the best things about a new city is exploring all the various new places, and Samuel has made it to Harbor Park and makes his way along one of the paths, occasionally jumping onto and off of benches, or turning around and going back to look at something closer. The young man seems to be looking at /everything/ in the park, and /everyone/, and all of this without letting it interfere with where he's going.
One of the benches that's no far removed from the park's fountain is occupied by a young, dark-haired woman with her nose in a book. It's a ratty old mass-market paperback, likely a loaner from the library, else picked up for cheap at a Used store - it's generic Fantasy fare, featuring laughably bad, faded cover art. If one were to look closely, they'll occasionally see that her attention is diverted from the book on a minutely basis to skirt her eyes across the surrounding area before letting her eyes drop back to the pages. Seems likely that she's waiting for someone.
Down near the river, a skinny, raggedy looking person skulks into view from the general direction of the bridge. At a distance, it might actually take some studying to recognize that she's female; her body seems distinctly lacking in curves, and not helping the matter is her very short, uneven haircut, or the oversized, faded hoodie that she's wearing. Her movements are jittery and directionless--she moves along the river's edge for a while, seemingly just because she can, and pauses now and then to kick a rock or a bent soda can into the water.
Samuel makes it to near the fountain first, walking along the edge rather than along the path there, and there's a pause to study Riley for quite a while, but given as the woman's reading, Samuel doesn't interfere. Instead, he turns, and tosses a coin into the fountain, setting it to arc up spinning through the air before it finally splashes into the water.
As wholesome as some parts of St. Claire are, there's little denying the fact that it's a city, and with cities come junkies. Riley's eyes lift from her novel a little prematurely from her scheduled interval at the distant sound of aluminum clanging in the distance. Her facial features tighten and she claps the little book shut, not bothering to roll it up as she jams it haphazardly into the pocket of an unseasonably heavy winter jacket. "Fuckin' junkies." She stands, casting Samuel an appraising glance, pausing to give a little nod of her head before straying off in the direction of the not-terribly distant river. She's striding with intent, clearly angling to intersect paths with the hooded figure.
The skinny, hoodie-clad woman jerks sharply to one side, and her shoe comes into contact with half of a glass bottle this time. Part of it actually makes it into the river, but the other part is ground underfoot. She busies herself with this meaningless, petty destruction for a few moments, before Riley's impending arrival catches her attention. Her eyes snap up from the ground and stare at the oncoming Ragabash.
Samuel glances about the park, a moment, before it seems that Riley's impending altercation with the other woman is likely the most interesting thing going on. There's a nod in return, and Samuel makes his way a little bit circuitously, not that far behind Riley in arrival by the waterside.
She doesn't wait to get especially close before the chewing-out process begins, "Hey, y'know you /could/ just pick the damn things up instead of punting them into the river if you're angling to clean up the riverside!" Riley storms on closer, a sour expression made clear on her face as she nears, spreading her arms in a universal gesture of displeasure. "Or if you're not /feelin'/ that, just let 'em lay there where someone that does can actually get at 'em, don't send them sinking to the bottom of the fucking river." She sweeps her arm to gesture, and immediately catches sight of one of the cans. Technically, it's floating, not sinking. Her nose wrinkles at the contradiction.
Hoodie-woman stares hard at Riley, her fever-bright eyes slightly narrowed. She stands completely still apart from a tic in one cheek, and a brief but quick flexing of the fingers on her left hand. As Riley draws closer, the twin scars on her face become noticeable. In some circles it's known as a Glassgow smile. /Lovely/. This one, though, appears thinner and more precise than the usual. Three full seconds after the Ragabash has finished speaking, her jaw works, and she says, in a voice that's rather hoarse, "Cash?"
Samuel mutters what absolutely sounds like a curse word in tone, but it's also definitely not in English. Then, a moment later, he says, "Y' gotta be /kidding/ me. Go beg somewhere else," is addressed to the woman who had previously been kicking cans and rocks. "Or get a job."
That earns a prompt narrowing of Riley's eyes. She takes a half-step back, settling into a solid stance and lifting a brow. That one-word question can be interpreted in any number of ways. Samuel seems to have taken it for begging, but the suspicion and annoyance in Riley's eyes reveal that she's probably taken it a completely different way. Which is, ultimately, confirmed by a lift of her brows, "Alright, litterbug. You'd better be asking an' not telling. Either way, the answer's 'No'." She flicks a glance over Samuel's way, marking his position and then turning her gaze back in toward the assumed-Junkie.
Samuel stands at 5'8" and has clearly already reached the first growth spurt of adolescence. His shoulders are broad and those of a young man coming into his own, and although he is slim, there is a toned athleticism to him as well. He wears clearly second-hand jeans and teeshirts and sweaters, worn sneakers, but his overall appearance is neat. Straight black hair is cut relatively short, and piercing blue eyes contrast sharply with deeply tanned skin, high cheekbones, and the rest of the features that clearly show strong Native American ancestry.
That tic appears again in the presumed junkie's scarred cheek at the answers. Her gaze switches from Riley to Samuel, and the latter gets a long, hard stare before she turns, deliberately grinding her heel into the broken bottle glass, and takes another step in the same direction she was originally heading, along the river bank.
"All you people /ever/ do," Samuel mutters. "Mess up the earth even more." It sounds, from the teen, like it's a rather rote thing to say, and Samuel turns halfway, away from the girl with the hoodie, long enough for the youth to unclench his fists.
The look Riley gets from Samuel isn't supportive. In fact, it just seems weary, and she doesn't otherwise react to his words other than to awkwardly shuffle half a step to the side for a moment as she watches the hooded girl's retreating form. She seems to consider for several moments before snorting and all but dancing out in front of the other girl's path. "You speak english, Half-Baked?"
Samuel gets from Riley.*
The girl comes to a sudden, abrupt stop as Riley crosses her path. There's no eye contact this time; she doesn't even look toward Riley's face, and there's a decided tensing in her shoulders. "Yes." Like before, the monosyllabic answer is hoarse.
Some days you just need to get out. And after keeping himself cooped up inside for two days, that's exactly what Ky had decided. He strolls along the river bank, a roll to his gait implying a slight limp, however his spirits are well enough. An eye is kept toward the water, more interested in the murky swath of mud and muck than the goings on further out in the park proper.
Samuel takes a few steps towards Riley. For all of whatever the ragabash might think, the youth's gaze is firmly on her face, chin jutting out, eyes narrowed, and hands clench into fists again. "Of course I do," he snaps, words with a slightly drawn out midwest accent. "Typical," he adds, in the implication that he's wasting his time, turning away from both Riley and Ex.
Tightly folding her arms, Riley's narrowed eyes bore in on the girl. Hoodie-Girl's response comes. Riley is just opening her mouth to let loose some other cutting remark when Samuel, rather unexpectedly, answers too. It disarms her entirely, and she immediately blinks, "Hey, wha-- I didn't mean /you/, kid, I meant this bitch. Christ." She turns her attention back on said bitch. "If you speak English, then stop being such a fuck-off. Seriously, there's enough shit in that river. Knock it off."
Ex jerks her left shoulder back and scratches at her forearm, but her expression doesn't really change, nor does she answer the stare with one of her own. "Go away." Ky's arrival doesn't escape her notice either. Her gaze moves from the bank to the newest newcomer, and her eyes narrow a little further.
Ky turns a look from the water to the sounds of voices. Brows raise ever so slightly as he takes in the trio, though he continues to walk along the bank. And toward them.
At the correction from Riley, Samuel turns back, brows raising just a moment. For now, however, the teen keeps his mouth shut, simply watching the exchange between the others. Ky's approach is noted with a nod, hands shoving into pockets.
At the monosyllabic dismissal from the assumed-junkie-litterer, Riley bristles even further, taking a step toward the girl. "Uh, yeah. No. No, you know what? Fuck it. You wanna throw shit in the river?" She spreads her arms, which doesn't look as intimidating as it could, what with her slender, suburban white frame. "What a /fucking coincidence/, I do too." Several very intent steps later, and she makes a grab for the girl's hood.
The first step gets no reaction, but the others have the strange girl abruptly backing up, and as Riley makes a grab, she twists suddenly and violently away. It's not a clean escape--Riley's fingers manage to snag onto the very edge of the girl's hood--and then, suddenly, without it quite being clear how she managed such a thing so fast, there's a switchblade gripped tightly in her right hand. She's breathing heavily, eyes, if anything, more fever-bright than ever, all the muscles in her face visibly tensed. "Let go, /LET GO/." The repeat of the words is, while still hoarse, quite a degree louder, if still somewhat monotone.
A frown replaces the look of wondering when one girl grabs for the other. Ky doesn't run forward, though he does speed up a bit intent on the trio, gaze flicking from Samuel to Riley and the hoodied girl. "Hey, /hey/! Stop!" He yells when the knife is produced, posture and confidence of his breeding making him fully expectant of being listened to.
Samuel draws his shoulders straight, not bothering with words as he moves towards Riley to pull the girl off the other. There's a flicker of tension and anger from the native American teen, as well.
From the moment she lunges forward, Riley clearly isn't in the mood to stop her aggression, and Ky's shout goes ignored. Unfortunately for the hooded girl, producing the knife only gets a sharp narrowing of Riley's eyes and an embarrassingly animalistic baring of her teeth as she firmly plants her feet into the ground and /yanks/ the girl by what little grip she has on the hood. The result ends up three-fold. Both of them stagger toward the river, there's a loud rip of fabric as the thinner of the girls continues on toward the water, and Riley's arm is seized by Samuel just a little bit too late to stop the altercation, but in time to stop her from unbalancing herself into the river. She rebalances and swiftly shakes her arm in Samuel's grip as she intently watches the ripped-hoodie girl's momentum carry her, a grimly satisfied look on her face.
It's a spectacular tumble, though there's no yelp or cry of alarm, just a loud splash. The ex-hooded girl comes up coughing, sputtering, and violently shaking, but clearly in no danger from the current--here, it's quite sluggish, even if the water's disgusting. She still has that knife in hand, but she appears to have entirely forgotten about it for the moment. Instead her eyes squeeze tightly shut, and her jaw clenches.
Ky looks as if he's not sure whether to scowl or sigh. Or just walk away. What he does, after a beat, is approach the edge of the river and offer a hand to the sputtering, spluttering wet girl. "Cops kind of frown on this sort of thing, you know," he tells the group as a whole. "Especially with knives involved, blood is messy."
Samuel tightens his grip on Riley's arm instead, though his hand isn't big enough to wrap around her wrist. "Much as, you know, I don't think anyone should be adding more litter to Mother Earth," Samuel says, voice edging into baritone range, though it cracks once, "you probably shouldn't have done that." Ky gets a nod of acknowledgement as Samuel finally lets go, stepping back to stand there with ease and a fair amount of confidence in his bearing. "Good thing no one plans on calling them, right?"
Being a Ragabash, one would expect Riley to have a quip at hand. Instead, all she has prepared is to grin wide and crow, "Now you're wet!" It's a little lacking in its incisiveness, all things considered, but the girl is clearly too amused to care. She casts a frown in Samuel's direction first, because his grip is most noticeable, but another one follows shortly after at Ky. "Whatever. She deserved to get wet."
The girl's eyes widen for a moment, and her lips pull sharply against her teeth. Her trembling gets a little more pronounced. For several seconds, she seems unaware that Ky is even present, and when she does focus on the hand being offered to her, she eyes it with deep suspicion. Rather than take the hand, she twists away, slogging a wide arc around the gathered group in order to try and reach the shore. The knife remains in hand, clenched so tightly that her knuckles have gone completely white.
Ky's hand falls to his side while the opposite shoulder lifts into a shrug. He looks at Riley, brows lifting upward again. "Right well. Can I push you in the water? Looks to me like you deserve to get wet, too."
"No one else's pushing anyone else in the water!" Samuel says, stepping into the direct line between Riley and Ky, and squaring his shoulders.
"'Only saying that because you missed the whole thing." Comes Riley's immediate huff in response. She gives her arm a slight jerk away from Samuel - which actually doesn't take any effort, given that he's moving to her defense at around the same time. It's clear from her growing frown that her victory is starting to feel soured by its reception. Truly, these sorts of things are best appreciated alone. "Yeah, and everyone's gonna start thinkin' twice now before throwing throwing shit in the river to make themself feel like a badass, aren't they?" Her eyes narrowly follow after the soggy girl with the ripped hoodie.
The girl pulls herself out of the water a good twenty feet downriver. She keeps one ear angled toward the conversation, but her focus appears to be on her current state. Her jaw sets into a thin frown as she wriggles her left arm out of the hoodie sleeve, and attempts to squeeze the water from it with a hand still clutching the switchblade, and without actually taking the hoodie off. The reason for this is obvious; she doesn't appear to be wearing anything underneath said hoodie.
"You thinking twice about throwing shit into the river, badass," Ky asks, looking at Riley for a long moment. He shakes his head, passing that look more mildly over Samuel. Edging around those two, he takes a couple of steps toward the hoodied girl, though he's mindful of her personal space bubble. "You alright?"
Samuel looks over at Ky in response, a furrow of a frown, before turning back to Riley, and then towards the rest of the park, turning to start to leave. "/I/ don't throw things in the river to start with," he grumbles.
The trouble with a joke at someone else's expense is when it starts to turn awkward. Riley opens her mouth at Ky's comment, then closes it with a sulky frown as she takes a closer look at the state of the dripping, stick of a woman. She grits her teeth, "What, just because she's..." Wearing one scrap of clothing that she just helped ruin even further? Riley's cheeks burn and she grates, "She was polluting the river." She lamely looks away, but doesn't move from the spot. Whether it's out of stubbornness or curiosity, she doesn't let a thing like being more or less in the wrong sway her from her spot. Samuel is cast a parting look, but she doesn't aim to stop him from distancing himself from the admittedly embarrassing scene.
The boy standing before you still has some growing to do, measuring at roughly five and a half feet tall on a lanky, if rather averagely built frame. His normally short-kept dark brown hair is now shaven clean, without even enough length left to be considered peach fuzz, and clear blue eyes are set into a face that's more cute than handsom. He's got some way to go before his body will begin to show more of the stature and build that's brought on by adulthood, with odd lines and angles setting him firmly still in adolescence.
Ty carries himself with some confidence, an easy grin quick to tick into his expression. His skin is still pale, though no longer with a sickly cast, the pink of health colors his cheeks though he's still thin, as though recovering from a long illness. One forearm still bears a scar, easily recognizable as the Shadow Lords' tribal glyph.
Ex eyes Ky suspiciously as she wriggles her left arm back into its sleeve, and then wriggles her right arm--knife included--out, in order to repeat the water wringing efforts. That over-bright look to her eyes hasn't faded one bit, though the trembling, thankfully, seems to have died down.
Ky glances toward Riley, frowning slightly. "Yeah. So you one-up her pollution by polluting yourself. Bravo." Back to the wet girl, he takes one final step closer, though it's non-aggressive. He pushes his hands into his pockets, looking from her to the river. "I'm Ky, by the way."
Samuel makes his way away from the entire gathering. "Delayed getting to work long enough," he explains himself over his shoulder, and there's a glance back every so often.
Riley looks sufficiently cowed under the scolding. It's clear that she's not feeling too thrilled with herself at this point, awkwardly shuffling her feet and muttering to herself. Then Ky introduces himself. Her head swings over, and for the first time, she takes a hard look at Ky and pauses. She blinks a few times, then starts to bristle all over again. Her fingers curl upward, tightening into fists, and the embarrassed look is replaced with mounting annoyance once again.
Ex matches the step forward with her own step backward. Nothing about the suspicious look eases at his introduction, and she spends the time it takes getting her arm back into the right sleeve--still with knife in hand--to repeatedly eye his face and his pocketed hands. Her jaw works, but no words are forthcoming.
Ky either doesn't notice or doesn't care that the silent girl is maintaining distance. He doesn't look her way again, keeping his gaze upon the river. The frown eases to something more neutral, calm. And Riley and her frown is quite ignored. "I was supposed to go get groceries, since I was going out," he continues after a beat. "My brother loafed the chore off onto me. You want a sandwich or something?"
Riley's fingers drum quietly on her arm. She doesn't budge from her spot on the shore, and doesn't bother to inject herself into the conversation. She's glowering daggers into the back of Ky's head.
That, if nothing else, clearly gets her attention. The girl's eyes flick upward, narrow, and remain on Ky's face. "Yes," she says eventually, after several more small tics in her right cheek.
"Yeah," Ky asks as if to confirm. "Good. What about you, bad ass?" The question is posed as he turns to face Riley, one corner of his mouth turning up to a grin at the glowering. "Want a sandwich?"
The typical reaction to this entire scenario would probably have seen Riley fleeing the scene not long after throwing Ex into the drink - it most certainly would not include following the person who just chewed her out to go and get /sandwiches/. "I'd love a sandwich," She answers, tone frosty, but not sarcastic.
Ex slowly, carefully folds the blade of her knife back into the handle, where it remains partially concealed in her palm. Her eyes flick from Ky to Riley. That suspicious expression is still there, but she seems to regarding both of them with equal measures of it.
"Cool." Ky nods toward the pathway proper that'll take them out of the park. "There's a little shop a few blocks down. They got some good food usually."
Well and truly looking as though there's nothing she'd rather do less than get a sandwich, Riley casts Ex a brief look. Her glower eases slightly, and she manages the barest of apologetic looks before choosing to be the one to follow Ky, leaving Ex to head up the rear if she decides to follow at all.
Heading up the rear appears to be exactly what the strange girl prefers. She lets Ky and Riley trail far ahead of her; but she does follow, cautiously, with the occasional twitch of fingers or her jaw. That she's still a dripping, soggy mess doesn't elicit any sign of outward bother.
Ky casts a glance over his shoulder occasionally, glancing at Riley and past to the girl. Just to make sure they're following. He's not one for idle conversation himself, content to lead the way.
It's a hell of a silent walk, and one that Ky leads with one woman regarding him sourly, and the other cautiously. To any that pass by, it would no doubt be an amusing sight. As they start to near the sandwich shop, Riley grunts and elbows ahead of Ky, "She shouldn't go in there looking and..." She turns to regard Ex for a moment, frowning, "...Smelling like she does, either. Tell her to wait outside or something so she doesn't become a conversation piece." With that, the ragabash takes a hard turn and stalks down the street.
In a direction opposite if the sandwich shop.
Ex scratches at her right sleeve and says nothing, even though it's very likely she overheard that. Her look of suspicion shifts from Ky to the sandwich shop, and then, briefly, to the departing Riley.
Ky seems surprised for a moment, when he looks back at Riley's gone. But it passes quickly and Ex is offered a shrug as explanation. Soon enough they reach the shop, though, and again he takes the lead going in, holding the door open for the sodden girl. "Pick out whatever, get a drink too if you want."
Now she's reluctant. She eyes Ky, then the door, then the building itself, and then the door again. Her jaw works several times, as if she were chewing gum, before she says, "...I'll wait here."
Ky looks inside, then back at the girl, then inside again. "But I don't know what you want. And you seem a bit short on conversation."
Ex inhales heavily, and lets it out as a sharp huff. "I want food." Pause. "Something to drink." The next bit takes a a few moments longer. "A bag."
"Food, a drink, and a bag." Ky counts each off on his fingers then disappears into the store. Minutes pass and it seems like the boy might have forgotten to come back out, or ducked out the back way. But just when it seems like he may never show up again, he does, bearing a bag with some food and drinks. It's not much, a couple of meals or one large one, and offered to the girl. "You got a name?"
She gets fidgety right away as she waits. Most of the motion is in her fingers, where they either open and close, or she resumes scratching at her right sleeve, but there's the occasional facial tic, or jaw clenching, weight shifting...anything that isn't complete stillness. The door is repeatedly eyed, but even moreso the street, both ways, up and down the block. By the time Ky returns, the young woman looks as though she's about ready to bolt. Instead, she takes the bag--she practically snatches at it--and backs a few steps away in order to peer inside. The question itself catches her off guard. She eyes Ky for a moment, looks off to one side for longer, and eventually gives a sharp jerk of her head. "Ex."
Ky gives the bag up with no resistance. His hands return to his pockets once she's got it, and he doesn't outright stare at her so much as watch her while taking stock of his surroundings. "Ex," he repeats, like he's committing the name to memory. "That's pretty cool. Is it short for anything?"
Ex finally deigns to stuff the switchblade into her jeans pocket so that she can more easily investigate the contents of the sandwich bag. Silly things like questions don't delay her from this, though her expression visibly sours. "Yes."
The long wait in the sandwich store overlaps well with the shorter wait that Riley had to endure further down the block. The ragabash rounds the corner of the sandwich store shortly after Ex has started to examine the bag of food. Riley's got a bag of her own, one that's opaque and grey. She's wearing a decidedly more awkward expression than her previous pissy one as she reigns herself in a few feet detached from the pair. Scratching an index finger awkwardly over her cheek, she gives her bag a swing and lofts it the few feet over to land approximately at the young woman's feet with an unremarkable 'swoosh'. Whatever's in there has some substance, but little weight. She squints, and turns, glancing over her shoulder in order to murmur a soft, but sincere, "Sorry." Then starts her second egress. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets and walks away, head down, shoulders up.
Moros has arrived.
Ky looks up when the bag lands near Ex, eventually finding Riley's back. "You sure you don't want a sandwich," he calls after her.
Ex startles as the second bag lands at her feet, and only just manages to avoid spilling the contents of the sandwich bag. She stares at Riley's retreating back, expression unreadable, and then gives the bag she delivered an experimental prodding with the toe of her worn sneaker, just enough to get a glimpse of the contents. Her eyes widen, and her eyebrows lift considerably.
Nope, she must not want that sandwich. She turns down a sidestreet in short order and doesn't get around to replying.
Ky shrugs to himself when Riley doesn't turn back around. Instead he turns back to Ex and regards the bag left on the ground in front of her.
Ex crouches down and quickly stuffs the sandwich bag inside the larger, Riley donated bag, then bundles it all up as tightly as she can. She does this in swift, hurried movements, though she does spare a darting glance to Ky and the street itself.
Ky takes a step back under Ex's glance, once again a corner of his mouth quirking upward into a grin. "Got somewhere to stay? There's a shelter, off Regan street, if you don't."
Ex shakes her head roughly and mutters, more to the bag than Ky, "No fucking shelters."
Ky nods slightly, consideration crossing his expression. "Well..." He trails off, taking a longer moment to think.
Ex hefts the bag carefully in both hands. Her jaw's working again, and her right hand's index and middle fingers have begun tapping repeatedly on the bag handles. Truthfully, the bag doesn't look remotely heavy. Whatever Riley bought, it was light.
"Got anywhere to go then," Ky asks almost abruptly, shaking out of whatever thoughts had crossed his mind.
The girl abruptly sets her bag down, opens it up, opens the sandwich bag up, and selects the first thing she finds on top. It isn't until she's unwrapped the sandwich and taken a massive bite that she answers the young Shadow Lord, with slightly narrowed eyes and a sidelong glance. "Why?" Oh, and a mouthful of food. Such manners.
Ky shrugs casually, rocking back on his heels. "Everyone's got to have a place to sleep at night," he answers. "Thought I'd see you safely back, so you don't get tossed into anything worse than the river."
Ex works her way through the large bite only to take two more in quick succession. "No," she says, still chewing, as she wraps up the rest of the sandwich and stuffs it back into the double bag.
Ky scuffs a foot against the walkway the sole of his shoe scraping rubbery against pavement. "Well, that sucks. So what do you do at night?"
The girl swallows the rest of her bite of sandwich. She's crouched over a bag-within-a-bag on the sidewalk--the largest, outer bag looks like a plastic one from a clothing store. The one inside that bag, faintly visible, is a paper bag from the sandwich shop they're standing outside of. While she's starting to dry, she's still utterly soaking wet, and the hood of the hoodie that she's wearing has been mostly torn away. "No," she says again, in response to Ky. It's a little tenser this time, the repeated tapping of her fingers against the plastic bag handle somewhat faster.
Ky nods slowly, taking another small step backward. No hurry, still maintaining his calm. "No," he agrees. "That's alright. --Here." He pulls one hand out from his pocket, and with it the change from his trip into the store. It's offered, palm up and with a small shrug. "In case you get hungry later."
Moros is visible from a distance, the big black-clad monster of a man striding down the sidewalk that they're sharing. His hands are stuffed in his coat pockets and his head's slightly lowered, greasy tendrils of black hair hanging forward over his face.
Ex's tongue pokes briefly out the side of her mouth, prodding at a stray crumb on her lip. She stares at Ky rather than the hand, eyes narrow, jaw slowly working back and forth, as she reaches forward and gingerly works her fingers around the offered coins. For the moment, she doesn't seem aware of the approaching giant, but that's not likely to last for long.
Ky's hand returns to his pocket after the change is taken, his head dipping into a nod. "It was nice meeting you, Ex," he says, grin again tugging upward briefly.
As for Moros, he's not much looking where he's going, though even on a busy sidewalk, this isn't much of a problem. He's the kind of man that people make way for, usually with an uneasy stare. But there are exceptions. Like the college-aged skateboarder in blonde dreadlocks and an Undertaker t-shirt that goes zipping by Ky and Ex, disrupting the flow of foot traffic far more than the black-clad behemoth. Who's right in the skateboarder's path.
Ex shoves the coins into her jeans pocket and yanks the plastic bag backwards, away from the Cliath. "/Shut up/," she snaps. There might be more, but the skateboarder suddenly has her scrambling backwards, all wide eyes and clutching the bag like a lifeline. The young woman has just enough time to suck in breath and hiss, "You stupid /fuck/," in the general direction of the disrupter before she gets a look at Moros. She stares, mouth slightly open. Her grip on the bag has gone white knuckled again.
Ky looks at the skateboarder in just enough time to jump back a step, cringing at the too-fast shift of weight required to keep from being run down. His gaze follows the kid, and possibly he's thinking things along the same lines as the girl's outburst. His gaze passes over Moros as he straightens, frown pulling at his brows.
The skateboarder, like Moros himself, is clearly used to people just getting out of his way, and it's only at the last moment that he yells out, "Hey!" The big black-clad monster snaps his head up and has only a second to brace himself before BAM! The dreadlocked youth's face smashes into the monster's broad chest, the skateboard goes shooting out from under his feet, and down he goes, crashing to the pavement ass-first. Ow.
Moros, who looks barely staggered by the collision, recovers from his surprise and bares his teeth in a snarl. He reaches down a massive hand to grab the skateboarder by the hair.
Ex remembers to close her mouth, but she's still blatantly staring. The girl tenses, as if preparing to spring away, though she stays in place for the moment.
Ky straightens as the collision happens. His attention remains on Moros and the skateboarder. And unlike the instance at the river, he makes no move to intervene.
Moros gets a good grip on the thick mass of dreadlocks and uses this to haul the half-stunned youth to his feet. His other hand, the right, is already curling into a fist and cocking back. Then he stops, tilts his head, and then looks up to survey the collection of witnesses. Yes, there are a lot of people staring right now. There's even a woman behind Moros stealthily recording things with her cellphone.
The skateboarder starts groaning apologizes, reaching up as he does so to try to dislodge the monster's iron grip.
It's not the impending punch, or even the staring people. Ex's gaze slips past Moros when he hesitates, and Ky's in a decent enough position to see her face go stark white. She springs up, bag in hand, and darts off down the sidewalk as though she'd just snatched someone's purse. Squidgy wet shoe prints trail behind her, and the one with the lose sole flaps hard against the pavement.
The abrupt movement of flight catches Ky's attention, and his gaze snaps to the fleeing girl. He almost goes after her, watching the direction she takes carefully, marking wet shoe prints and the path cut through other pedestrians. He looks at Moros one last time, before setting off after the girl at a slower pace. Chances are he'll lose her, but he'll make an effort to follow and learn all the same.
Moros' attention snaps past the nearby crowd to the fleeing girl and the boy going after her. His head slowly tilts to the other side... and then, with a grimace, he shoves the skateboarder off to the side, sending him sprawling. And then he, too, goes off in the direction of the pair, but he doesn't run and gets left behind rather quickly.
Direction is a rather strong word, as it turns out. Ex darts down side-streets and alleys without any real heed as to exactly /where/ she's going, and several times she actually ends up doubling back a block or two. Time, rather than distance, eventually slows her, and she drops back to a jog, and then a panting, jittery sort of walk. Only her white-knuckled grip on the shopping bag prevented it from spilling out all over during the run.
Ky loses the girl after a few too many turns. He lingers on the streets though, a slow and idle walk to keep him moving, and maybe find her again.
With the drama passed, the crowd slowly breaks up, its component parts moving along. The skateboarder stumbles off carrying his recovered board under his arm. The majority of injury is, fortunately, just to his pride.
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From: Ex Subject: Harbor Park Fountain change
To: Nicodemus, Val
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Someone has gone to the trouble of stealing every single coin left in the Harbor Park Fountain since last night, including any pennies. Greedy!
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Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Obvious exits:
Harbor Park Meadow
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.82 and falling, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)
It's a thin moon, and the overcast sky does a fair job of blocking out even that miniscule amount of light. With the threat of yet more impending rain, even most of the more hardy park dwellers have gone elsewhere for the night; but not, it would seem, all. The young woman from earlier has returned to the river bank, where she's currently perched ungracefully between the berm and a slightly larger than usual river stone. She's relatively dry now, but she's still wearing that ripped hoodie, the ill fitting jeans, and the woebegone sneakers. The shopping bag is tucked right nearby, and there's the telltale crackle of a wrapper as she sets about finishing off the last of the sandwich she started on earlier.
And there's that big guy from earlier, the one who came close to knocking the shit out of a careless skateboarder. Moros walks alongside the river, looking as surly now as he did earlier. At least he's paying more attention to his surroundings (now that there are far less people to collide into, or to collide with him), and so it is that he spots Ex. He stops dead. And then his head tilts to one side, a line furrowing between heavy brows. He's not wearing the sunglasses now that it's night, but his eyes are shadowed.
Moros is big. Really big. He stands seven feet tall exactly and appears to weigh over three hundred pounds, nearly all of it brawny muscle. His torso has more of a rectangular shape than the classic inverted triangle of a deliberate bodybuilder; his chest is broad, his middle thick without being flabby, and his shoulder-span is quite impressive. He has legs like tree trunks and massive hands. Just a huge monster of a man who looks almost too big to be real.
His face is broad and brutish, with heavy brows and a wide, flat nose. His skin is pale, not unhealthy but clearly he's not much of a sunbather. Nor is he much of a man for shaving, because his chin and jaw are covered in a scruff of black bristles. His hair is black as well and hangs in oily, greasy tendrils past his shoulders.
On top of being physically imposing, Moros has about him an aura of violence and rage that tends to make people ill-at-ease around him. The fact that he's usually entirely in black doesn't help things. He's currently dressed in a tight black tank-top, a pair of loose-fitting black jeans, and a pair of heavy black boots. Sunglasses and a knee-length black coat complete the outfit.
There's just no mistaking a seven foot giant. Ex notices him almost as soon as he notices her. She tenses, abruptly stuffs the rest of the sandwich into her mouth--it's too much, and her scarred cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's--and makes a grab for her bag. The woman doesn't bolt, not yet at least, but she watches Moros with a feverish sort of intensity as she works on chewing and wolfing down her hoarded mouthful.
Moros doesn't move closer, though the way he watches her, the way his head's tilted, is not exactly comforting. He looks like he should be wearing a hockey mask.
Ex chews vigorously, swallows. Chews. Swallows. Not once does she glance away from Moros. The first actual sound from her is on the last swallow--again it's a bit too large, and she finishes off with harsh cough. Gathering up her bag in one hand, she rolls onto her toes and squats in place. Her stare's just a little more deliberate now, a little more direct. It might actually be a bit defiant, despite the massive difference in size.
Moros lowers his head slightly, then snaps it up, flicking stray tendrils of greasy hair out of his face. Then he starts walking toward her. His hands come out of his pockets, empty and open, loose. It's perhaps as unthreatening as it's possible for him to be in this circumstance.
The woman's shoulders roll forward, and while she keeps her eyes locked on Moros, her head lowers a little as well. There's a distinct tic in her right cheek, followed by her jaw moving from side to side. Despite the nervous movements, she holds her ground, her eyes flicking from his face to his empty hands--pretty dangerous, even empty--and back to his face.
It's dark enough that it's still hard to see the big man's eyes, but when he gets close, close enough to talk, she might notice that they seem red. Not bloodshot, but with actual red irises. But maybe that's a trick of the thin moon and distant streetlights. Moros stops walking at this point and studies her for a second or two before speaking up. "I see that he didn't catch you." His voice is low and growly.
Ex tips her head and peers upward at his face, but any curiosity about his eyes is quashed by the question. "Who?" Her own voice sounds faintly hoarse, even in low tones.
"The boy," says Moros. "The one with the buzzcut." He's referring to Ky.
Ex's jaw works again, and her head jerks to one side. The motion doesn't seem to have any meaning attached to it. "No," she answers after a moment. "Don't know where he went."
Moros utters a thoughtful sort of 'hrrrn' noise. "You _are_ running, though," he says after a moment. "Who are you running from?"
The young woman's eyes narrow to sudden slits. "No one." Another facial tic. "I'm fucking eating."
The monster's eyes (they can't actually be _red_, surely) narrow for a second, and then his mouth twists into a slanted, cynical smile. "Sure," he says, nodding, clearly not believing her in the slightest.
Ex scowls at him, not missing the tone, as she clutches her bag to her chest. "What the fuck is with your eyes?"
The crooked smile vanishes. "Contacts," he answers brusquely. His weight shifts ever so slightly forward, not _quite_ taking a step toward her. "What the fuck is with those scars?"
Ex shrinks back just a little, just about the amount to match that slight forward lean. Abruptly, she scratches at the sleeve of her right arm, and there's no immediate answer forthcoming. Or, as it turns out, any answer, because the next words out of her are, "Were you going to crush his skull?"
Moros does that little movie-slasher head-tilt thing again. "Who?" And then the penny drops. "Oh." Broad shoulders lift and fall, and the big hands vanish back into his coat pockets. "I don't know." That, at least, sounds like an honest answer.
"Bet you could." Ex scratches at her forearm, /hard/, and then abruptly stops. "You're a fucking giant. Bet nobody fucks with you."
Moros scowls, his head lowering slightly, enough to cast his eyes back into the shadow of his brows. "Some do," he growls. "And sometimes I have to endure it."
Ex squints at Moros. She runs her sleeve across her mouth before dropping her arm again. "Who?"
Moros gives his head a sharp shake, making hair fall into his face. Slowly, he hunkers down into a squat, elbows on his knees. He's still _huge_, nothing can get past that, but he's not looming quite so much. And she can see his eyes again, and they're definitely red, and they're definitely intense. "Tell me who you're running from."
Ex's grip on the shopping bag relaxes ever so slightly at this change in posture. "Nobody. I don't know." And then she eyes him, and her tone becomes distinctly sharper, if no louder. "How do you know if I'm running?"
"Call it a hunch." The big man stands up again, slowly, rolling his shoulders as he does so. "But if you _are_, I'm at the Motel 6 off of 95. Room 138. For the time being, anyway."
Ex stares at him. It's not the intense stare of before, or even the somewhat more curious one from this afternoon. This one just seems bewildered. After a moment her jaw tightens, but she doesn't actually say anything.
The black-clad monster says nothing more to that and just... walks away.
