1/28/2005

08:38 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Converted Warehouse - Shadow's End(#3589RAJh)

Track lighting along the 30 foot skylighted ceiling in this spacious complex accents the smaller sconces along the walls every 10 feet or so, keeping the entire area adequately lit, even while allowing shadows to play in odd areas during the night. Over all, the entire effect is dark and post-modern in places, warm and inviting in others. On one side of the lower floor, a spiral staircase leads up to a mezzanine that stretches along one entire side of the place. Two suites with separate baths can be found there, nearly a perfect match to the two downstairs. One of the downstairs suites is larger than the rest, though all of them seem excellently appointed. The end of the apartment nearest the entrance contains a large rec room with a comfortable-looking sofa, several leather recliners and a high-end entertainment system. The other end of the apartment contains an impressive workout room, complete with free weights, and other assorted fitness equipment. The center of the lower floor contains an open kitchen area. A sprawling, dark-grey counter surrounds a set of expensive-looking burnished appliances. Charcoal grey carpeting covers the floor and huge, vertical blinds hang near the workout area, covering windows that stretch halfway to the ceiling and overlook the river.

Contents:
Lucas
Obvious exits:
Elevator

[look Lucas]
Lucas is a handsome Caucasian teen that looks to have a heritage that might be eastern European, but a bit too unclear to really peg him as anything but an American. His hair is cut short and generally set in an array of messy, rougish spikes. Eyes are a sharp, unmistakable blue set under dark brows, but there's an unease in them that tends to unnerve most viewers. A deep, simmering anger and feralness that can't be fully hidden. It lends an age and maturity to his face, making him seem older than he is, with a few days stubble on his face at any given time. Physically, he's athletic and well built, both strong and stable. He has a typical variety of scars from sports and fights, and one more noticeable scar low across his chest where a knife got a bit too close in a brawl. More distinct is an area of netted scars on his abdomen, healed over wounds that look like they were very deep. The clothing he wears might seem a smidge too trendy for him, undeniably Old Navy and very cool, and kept very clean and tidy, but as of late more and more black is being added in a turn for the rugged and dark. On his right hand he wears a large emerald in a ring of brilliant gold.

Lucas hasn't moved, if his body would even be capable of it. In homid, his skin is still bruised and patched with spots of stained blood. He sits on the ground near the far well, his arms tied back behind him and to a roughly six-hundred pound dumbell to keep him from going anywhere, but with as much morphine is in his system, he's lucky he can still remain concious. For now, though, his chin is drooped down against his chest, the Ahroun's breathing slow and calm.

Stalking up like a cat, Kenneth peers down at the ahroun with cold, but wary eyes. A 6 foot something, Glabro-shaped cat, but quiet nevertheless. Eventually he stoops down, simply watching the ahroun with tightened lips. A thick finger reaches out to poke him.

The battered form that is Lucas doesn't move. There's not even a twitch of reaction when the Philodox pokes him. Slowly, though, one blue eye opens and is turned to face him, and he mumbles out in a faint, almost incoherent voice. "D'n p'ke me." He tries to move, shifting his hands that are bound to the free weight behind him.

Kenneth curls his upper lip slightly on the side, given the ahroun's waking. "You fucked up big time Sleeping Beauty," he rumbles lowly, eyeing the weight that holds down the ahroun. The halfmoon rocks back, and finally simply sits, witholding a wince of the pain from his own injuries.

"L've me 'lone." Lucas gurgles out again in a slurred rasp and lets his head turn away and droop against his shoulder. He's so drugged he can barely move, the morphine dulling down the pain and every other sensation, even those required for movement.

The buzzer on the intercom goes off, Dillen's voice follows. "Hey. Can I come in?"

Kenneth leans back, and then pushes up to his feet to go answer the intercom. "Come on up. Jarred's not in," he replies, his voice gutteral and low in the near-man. Rolling his shoulder uncomfortably, Kenneth walks back over to the ahroun and sits back down right on the floor. This time, he bridges his fingers and puts chin to it, looking somewhat pensive.

Lucas just continues to sit there slack and listless, blue eyes turned at a very normal patch of the carpeting though his gaze is largly unfocused and indirect.

The elevator moves into motion and eventually Dillen stands behind opening doors. His hands pushed into his pockets as he steps out and looks over at the two. "How are you two?"

The blood cleaned up for the most part (Jarred likely forced Kenneth into it), the loft looks much as it was before this whole question of Lucas' sanity had come up. Now, with the ahroun drugged and weighted down, and Kenneth sitting beside his tribe brother with bandages and supernatural healing working on him, the philodox answers question with question. "What do you think?"

Dillen rolls his eyes and growls. "Look, shithead. I think you are both pretty fucked up after what happened last night." His hands coming out of his pockets. "If you don't want me around, say so. But if you want me to be your packmate and friend and give a shit, then let me know." His eyes glare at Kenneth as he turns and heads for the door. He turns back for a moment. "This is gonna be a great pack. But there has to be some kind of work between us, even if it is called trust."

Kenneth snaps his head up right at 'shithead', blackened gaze staring at the Get's back. "Great? What's so great about a pack where the alpha is a crazed cannibal?" The Philodox looks as if he were about to say more, but just as quickly shuts up and goes back to stewing in his own mulled thoughts.

"He needs help. I'll admit it." Dillen says, crossing his arms over his chest. "As for Alpha, I believe either you or I needs to take that position until he is ready to reassume it... Which I have every confidence in him with being able to do someday."

Lucas gives a faint growl. At least, it may be a growl, it sounds largly just like air he expells. He tightens up his jaws, a look of frustration on his bloodied, purple-bruised face. "...ca'...co'l-d...fi't it." He pauses, breathing a bit harder, like the strain of trying to talk over the numbing drug was draining.

Kenneth looks back to Lucas, not understanding his mumblings and not really caring to. "And how do you propose we go about doing that?" he asks of the Get. Mood subdued but showing hints of restlessness, the Philodox doesn't quite seem like he wants to get into another fight - yet.

Dillen lets out a deep breath and moves over to the kitchen, filling a glass of water. He steps over to Lucas, lifting the glass to his lips for a drink should he want it. "I will take it, unless you have a problem with it." Dillen doesn't even look at Kenneth. "It is nothing more than taking the reigns until we figure out where we are going, or how to help Lucas." Then he turns his head to look at Kenneth, "And you... I want a healthy pack. Mind and body." The glass is lifted to Lucas again if he wishes.

Kenneth doesn't lift his eyes from the ahroun, even if he looks to be staring right through Lucas and beyond the carpeted floor. "I don't have a problem with it," he replies. "But I also don't know what the hell you mean by 'healthy pack'."

Lucas doesn't even try and drink as he falls quiet again, it all takes just way too much effort, even no amount of morphine can dull the entire fatique of one's body. Numb and drown the pain, but never replace lost energy and will.

Dillen sits down next to Lucas and looks to Kenneth. "Your rage against the world, something has to make you feel as if you can accomplish something. And Lucas... We know his problem. There has to be a rite or something that can help him. Something. Anything." He looks down at the glass of water. "We can't be a strong pack if we don't know what the other might do, so we have to get to a point where we can depend upon each other."

Kenneth sighs out, half growl-half genuinely Tired Of It sigh. "I just don't see it, alright? I don't see what the hell it's all for. We'll fight, we'll die, we'll go fuckin' crazy killing ourselves. And for what? For 'power'? For 'respect'? For some semblance of standing in some social pecking order? Fuck man, I'm not a ragabash. I'm a philodox. I'm supposed to uphold these Traditions and these Ways, but Every. Fucking. Thing. Is so fucked up there isn't any which way I'm supposed to see through it. And what Jarred talks about... captain of your own ship bullshit... What good is being a captain when there's not even a fucking crew?"

Dillen nods his head and looks at Kenneth. "So we depend on ourselves." Dillen shakes his head. "Dude. We are what we are. There are times I wish I wasn't like this as well. But what do we do? Sit back and just watch because we feel like that the whole world we are in is nuts? Or do we go out there and prove ourselves to those that are around us? We prove to those people that look down at Shadow Lords that there are at least two that are fucking great and deserve their fucking respect. Man. I see it in you two. Potential to be fucking awesome... I just wish you could see it in yourselves."

Kenneth shakes his head again, a stubbornness nailed into the philodox that has become him. "Self-righteous bullshit," he mutters. "And a dayjob that I hate, but at the same time it's better than gettin' fired." There's still bitterness in his sidelong glance at the Get and other Lord, but Kenneth just grumbles mainly to himself than to them. "Whatever. I hate how it's all a fuckin' game of prancin' through clouds." He moves to stand, pushing himself up even though his arms scream at him for it. "If something needs to get done, then it better get done. What more is there to it?"

"For you to get off your pity pot. Poor little me. I don't like my life so I am gonna make everybody else miserable." Dillen growls and shakes his head. "I know your dick got cut off but I am pretty sure you still have balls." Dillen knows he is hitting a sensitive spot. "Move on with life. Make it better for yourself or be miserable. Your choice, brainaic."

Kenneth snarls here, indeed that sensitive spot poked as if with a red hot poker as his temper flares. "And will you Fucking get the fuck over Me? What the hell am I, your ex's kid reject? I don't want, don't need, don't invite fuckin' pity or charity from anyone so Stop fuckin' babying me like I can't take a piss on my own! Jesus Fuckin' Christ on a broomstick." He turns abruptly, headed towards the kitchen.

"Then stop acting like we are supposed to." Dillen jumps to his feet. "I'm not babying you. I'd like to smack the shit out of you every time you start talking like that." His head shakes, "I probably should, actually. But right now it wouldn't b a fair fight by any means."

Again, there's another airy sound from the bound and drugged Ahroun. Lucas lifts his eyes slowly, looking first to one, then the other with a narrowed gaze before he drops his chin back down, shutting his eyes, and letting out a long breath.

Kenneth whirls back around, both eyes staring at Dillen like he's telling the Get he's perfectly Fine to handle himself in a fight with the galliard. The sheer look of Rage that lies waiting to be unleashed surges so hard that the philodox's eyelid muscle twitches visibly. Then he snorts rather loudly, turns off in the direction of the couch and seats himself roughly. The black cloud around him hasn't faded - rather, it hangs and grows bigger with the continued brooding.

Finally, fight it as he may, the physically and spiritually weakened Lucas can't hold up to the strength of the drugs, and by the time anyone looks at him again, he's gone still again and his breathing has slowed. Asleep, even if all he has are nightmares when his eyes are closed.

Dillen shakes his head and takes a deep breath. "I'll be back tomorrow." As he heads for the elevator door and as it opens he lets out a breath. "Just... Lighten up, man." A last glance to Lucas and he shakes his head. "We will make this work."

"Get off my back," Kenneth hisses in reply, considerably taking the effort Not to let his Rage run up on him again. He doesn't look back at the Get or even wave, instead staring at the black television screen and his dim reflection in it.

Dillen raises a brow. "Or what? Or you will do what?" Dillen turns and comes back in. "Pout more? Or get off your ass and do something about it?"

Kenneth grinds his teeth together, likely shearing off a minute layer from the crowns as he tenses and swallows down an immediate reply. Still he doesn't look to the Get. Standing up slowly from the couch, the glabro'd halfmoon starts off once more, pacing off and away, trying hard to hold himself steady in the storm of his withheld anger at the galliard's questions.

"Well?" Dillen rests his hands across his chest. "Gonna answer me?"

"Given a choice? No," Kenneth finally retorts with a fleeting look at the Get before he turns away again, eyes measuring how fast he should take the stairs up to his room.

Dillen runs a hand over his hair and grunts. He watches as Kenneth storms up the stairs. He grumps and walks to the elevator, pressing the button and stepping inside, turning to look back into the room as the doors close.

Kenneth storms - or rather, like a thundercloud ascending, thumps back upstairs without further word to the Get. As the elevator doors close, a loud Slam of the philodox's room door jolts the frame of the wall there, and leaves the room in an aftermath of silence.