Fitz in Gnawertown

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:40 Pacific Time on Mon Dec 8 2014.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 38 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.00 and steady, and the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (90% full).

Old Condemned Library: Ground Floor(#868RJ)

The library's ground level is one large room punctuated by even rows of pier columns that confidently hold the weight of the upper floors. The building is old but solid, its lath and plaster walls dark with age. Here and there some of the plaster has worn off to reveal the wooden slats beneath. Heavy, dark grained and decorated mahogany wainscoting runs the length of the walls, complimented by thick, ornate crown molding along the ceiling and each of the columns. It's clear from the dilapidated condition that the building's been abandoned for decades. There is a somber, sepulchral quietness to the place, even when alive with people, that is perhaps a ghostly echo of the rigid, required silence that its wardens demanded when the library was in its heyday.

Though clearly it has been vacant for decades, the building's function remains clear. Everywhere there are floor to ceiling bookcases that neatly divide the room by making use of the columns' symmetry. Their shelves are not packed, but there are a variety of books that got left behind when the library moved. These lost and forgotten relics of the printed age seem frozen in time. There are old paperback westerns from the 1950's, and a nearly complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica. There are medical books, and law books, and old National Geographic magazines, as well. Most are damaged, torn, or slightly moldy.

Fitz, dressed in the same battered jeans he's been wearing forever -- and despite a rough wash are still stained in places with blood and river mud and other things -- and a threadbare red flannel shirt open over bare chest, wanders aimlessly through the maze of bookcases, half-yelling, half-singing bits of Neil Diamond in a hoarse voice. "SWEET CAROLINE... BAH BAH BAAAAH... GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD. I'VE BEEN INCLINED... BAH BAH BAAAAAH... TO BELIEVE THEY NEVER WOULD..."

The doors upstairs swing open and shut, followed by footsteps that echo through the old abandoned library. Justin is lugging over his shoulder a large duffle bag that clinks and clanks with various items crammed wthin them. The door to the downstairs opens and he starts down it with a creak of the steps, listening to the loud voice. "Hello?" He grumps out as he lobs the bag to the ground in front of his bare feet.

There's a rattle somewhere between two of the floor to ceiling shelves and a thump of a heavy book hitting the floor. "HELLO," the voice calls back, sing-songy. A different tune now. "IS IT ME YOU'RE LOOKING FOR?"

Growing to a stand still, Justin perks upwards again as he listens. Soon, he responds with, "I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES. I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR SMILE! YOU'RE ALL I EVER WANTED!" Lugging the bag up again, he unzips it, and takes out what appears to be a collapsible potato gun made out of PVC pipe. After locking it into place, he reaches into the bag and slips in what appears to be a large pair of D-Cell batteries. Click-Clack. He lock and loads, then holds the weapon up as he starts to round the shelves to find the mystery guest.

"AND MY ARMS ARE OPEN WIDE." Another thump. "Ahh, no, fuckit, that song sucks." Fitz has climbed halfway up one of the tall bookcases, clinging to the shelving with bare feet and one hand while the other shuffles around through a collection of moldy paperbacks. He maybe took a shower a couple of days ago. Maybe. He definitely hasn't shaved since then.

Swinging himself around the corner, Justin takes aim for a moment, then squints his eyes. "Yeah, that song does suck. So, uh, are you the guy that's crashing at our place because you fucked up in the park?" He asks warily.

Shaggy brown hair and darker brown eyes frames this young boy's face. Justin has a slightly tanned complexion with a hint of Puerto Rican from his mother's side, Caucasian from his father's. He has a fairly lanky build that could use a bit of bulking upas he is built like a high school track runner. He wears loose fitted 'destroyed' blue jeans, simple tank tops, and worn down sneakers that are about five months in need of replacement, and during the cold, a thick green military jacket from his Grandpa. He looks like your average, ordinary American young teen that plays outside and is fairly active. Tall at five foot ten, he is a few inches higher than most his age for now.

Fitz glances briefly down at Justin, then resumes pawing through the old paperbacks, checking out the titles and what's left of their covers (the ones that still have covers, of course). "Yeah, probably."

"Dude, you are so borked. What the fuck were you thinking?" Justin asks with a smirk on his face as he puts the plastic rifle against his shoulder. Glancing down at the books, he plucks a few up and starts to stuff them into the lower shelves.

Fitz picks up a thin, water-damaged copy of _Othello_, considers it, then shoves it into the back pocket of his jeans. "You a halfmoon?" He starts climbing down.

"Nope, thank the stars for that. Full Moon." Justin says with a tap tap of the gun against his shoulder. "You don't wanna meet the half moons here. You got Salem, who is the scariest mother fucker in the world. He's been around for like three hundred years and doesn't fuck around. The guy can look at you and your heart will stop. He's a Glass Walker. Then you got Brom, who pretty much is a mountain of Get of Fenris and he doesn't talk much but when he does I pee a little in my pants. Sides' that? I don't think there is anyone else about that I know of. I know the Gnawers ain't got one laying 'bout." He flashes a dirty toothed grin to him. "So, what made you do it? Everyone is saying you just got in some guy's face, then lost your shit and went furry in the fountain. What'd he say to you that got you all riled up?"

Fitz jumps down the last couple of feet, landing solidly, and straightens up to look Justin over with half-lidded eyes and crooked, lazy smile that shows no friendliness and a bit of teeth. "Hey, babyface. Who're you that I should give a crap about answering your questions? If you're not a halfmoon, what are you? You can't be anyone's elder -- you look like you only just figured out how to count to ten."

"Oh, I get it now. You're a big mouthed idiot who shoots off way too much. But, yeah, I'm fresh off the boat, but.." Justin glances him up and down briefly. "But, I think I can put your ass in the can if I wanted. I'm not your Saturday morning special kinda Gnawer. So, what 'bout you? Who're you?" He says as he rocks his shoulders back and forth, smirking at him.

Fitz raises his hands to the level of his shoulders to thereabouts, palms forward in a half-assed and not really sincere gesture of surrender. And if the body language doesn't make that obvious, the mocking tone certainly does. "Yep, you got me, totally got me down one hundred per cent. Insightfulness beyond your tender years, my mind is blown. Wow."

Rolling his eyes at him, Justin dismantles the gun in a quick series of motions, then stuffs it back into his duffle. Hefting it up again, he smirks, "You're like ... a crappy version of an Internet troll. Hilarious." Heading out into the main area, he takes a few sniffs of the musty air in the room. "Anyways, I got what I need. I'm going to head back up top. I'd say nice meeting you, but, you know."

Fitz drops his hands, the mocking smirk curdling into a full-on sneer. He stays in the stacks while Justin heads toward the main area. "Likewise, junior."

Thumping up the stairs, Justin yanks the door open to the outdoors, then steps out. The duffle bag is lobbed over his shoulder and back, clutched by one handle with his fist.

Slug comes down from somewhere upstairs, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. The Gnawer's got a duffel bag hung from his shoulder, and it bounces with every step that he takes down the ancient stairs.

Eventually, from another part of the stacks, Fitz's rough voice drifts upward, tunelessly sing-talking "Sweet Caroline" though not half as loud or attention-grabbing as it was earlier.

Slug looks over his shoulder at Justin, and scratches his face with a sort of contemplative look. He thinks about calling out to him, but goes with a wave instead. Less noise. Good thing on a full moon. The Gnawer then turns back around and looks down at Fitz, continuing to walk at a leisurely pace. "Hey," he says, waving.

Fitz, still barefoot, just jeans and open red flannel (no t-shirt) sits with his back against a bookshelf, his backpack propped up next to him. He looks up from flipping idly through the water-damaged copy of _Othello_ to eyeball Slug for a long moment before answering. "What."

Slug's frame is tall and lanky, somewhere in the neighborhood of six feet tall and just under two hundred pounds... But it's hard to really pin down the particulars. His semi-loose, dull orange hoodie hides much of his body and breaks up his frame, hiding the outline of his body. The hood is almost always up, and he takes pains to use it to obfuscate as much of his face as possible... And it isn't hard to see why. The right side of this young man's tan face has been torn up something awful. Deep troughs of keloid tissue run from just beneath his wild red bangs, across his high cheek, and terminate somewhere on his slender, stubbled jaw. It's hard to tell when he's got his yellow sunglasses on, but not both of his blue eyes move. It's likely the right one is severely damaged in some way, or false.

Beneath the hoodie's neckline, one might get a flash of the white tank beneath, especially on a hot day. The zipper on his hoodie has been rubbed with grit and dirt to take the shine out of it, and so has every other bit of metal on him, from hoodie right on down to his black zip-up boots. His jeans are significantly tighter than his hoodie, and often stained with something or another. On his hands he wears a pair of black fingerless gloves, something cheap and throw-away.

"Oh, you know. Just saying 'Hey'." Slug says. "I'm Slug, Black-Light, Fostern Bone Gnawer. Ragabash." He smiles a little bit, then breezes through the lobby on his way to the 'kitchen'. He grabs a can of coke, snaps it open, and takes a long pull from it. Once his thirst for caffinated sugar has been slated, he regards Fitz with a curious look.

Fitz tosses the book away from himself with a flip of his hand, sending it in a tumbling arc to land somewhere on the floor. "Also not a halfmoon," he says dismissively, getting to his feet. "Or a fucking Fianna. You alpha, warder, what?"

Slug's lips quirk, and he almost chokes. "No," he says. "Things would have to get pretty bad before... That happened." He scratches at his scarred cheek and sets his soda down on the counter. "Fianna are pretty thin on the ground these days. The Alpha doesn't leave the woods, and neither does the Warder, in general. I can arrange a ride out there, if you want."

Fitz's smile is purse-lipped, without warmth, the humor in it sharp and sarcastic. "Yes, that would be very fucking helpful, Stain-Spotter-rhya."

"Cool. I can do that. Might be a little while, but if no one comes to take you within a day, I'll go get something to take you myself." Slug hikes up to sit down on the counter, his legs crossed. He chuckles a little bit and bows his head. "For what it's worth, the mess wasn't too bad. Everything was cleaned up. Whatever the Philodox have in mind, it shouldn't be too bad. Not really a comfort, but better than knowing you're on the hook for something that carries a death sentence, I guess."

Fitz paces around, barefoot, backpack hanging from one hand by the straps. "Babyballs made a big deal about how hard your halfmoons are," he says dismissively. "Since he made a big deal about how hard /he/ was, too, I have to figure he's full of shit." He stops pacing and looks directly at Slug. "Lemme ask you, straight up, man to man..." The blue eyes go wide, the scruffy face all pseudo-serious. "Is he fucking his nerf gun?"

Slug thinks about that for a second or two, his head listing to one side. He puts his hand on his chin, and picks at the stubble on his chin. "Mmmmm," he pauses. "Well. We've got some traditionalist Philodox here. Off the top of my head, we've got a Walker, a Black Fury, and a Strider that won't push you too hard. They might not be easy, but they're fair. We've also got a Get of Fenris that I know is an asshole, a Shadow Lord, and some other people that I wouldn't be so sure about." Slug reaches into his pocket and comes up with a pack of smokes. He lights one up, takes a drag, and shrugs. "For what it's worth, I did something about the same as what you did. But worse. I got a slap on the wrist. Unless you try to piss them off, you should be alright."

Fitz grins and takes a few steps backward, swaying a little like he's still hearing Neil Diamond in his head. Full moon restlessness, perhaps. Or he's just that way. "Oooh, man. That sounds like fun. Tell 'em to give me the Shadow Lord. I'll call him 'Daddy'. He won't be, 'cause my daddy was a Ragabash, but it's always fun to do."

"He'd probably get off on that," Slug says with another puff of his cigarette. "I know I do." He finishes off the rest of his soda, and then tosses the can into a bin set aside for cans, and cans only. "The only person that I've met so far that was pissed off about it wasn't even a Philodox. So. What brings you here anyways? The place is kind of going to shit."

Fitz continues to do that restless little sway, not standing still. "Hate to break it to you," he says, suddenly slinging the backpack up onto his shoulders. "But the whole world's kind of going to shit. I came from Lone Oak, and I'm thinking the Dancers have already shat out what's left of the Sept there."

"Mostly America," Slug says, cigarette flaring. "That's where they're trying to execute the Rite. The Spirals, I mean. They're taking Caerns in a pattern to try and summon the Beast of War for a little party." He holds up his hands, fingers out and wriggling. "I guess the rest of the world will follow if they actually succeed, but America's leading the charge in the Wyrm department right now. Guess America still makes somethin' after all."

Fitz casts a look ceilingward. "Well, then considering you people still have a functioning caern and Sept -- you do, right? I'm assuming you do, and yeah, I know that makes me an ASS, but it's okay, I'm used to that -- but assuming you /do/ then you people are ten thousand times better off than everybody else." He pauses for effect. Or maybe for a breath. And he smirks. "Besides, everybody knows this Sept is made up of fuckwits and trash, so I figured I'd fit right in."

"Yeah, yeah, it works, but there is one thing you should know." Slug takes his cigarette and drops it into an empty bottle that's been left on the counter, just for that purpose. "The people that are responsible for this shit, at least partially, are here. And they're massing up to attack, or something. Soooo..." He smirks a little bit himself. "There's that. And unless this Sept of fuckwits and trash can figure out how to stop the Rite, America's going to sink into a sea of blood, end of the world, yada yada."

Fitz shrugs. "Don't care." That, at least, sounds sincere. "Above my pay grade, can't stop it, don't care." He starts buttoning up his flannel shirt.

Slug doesn't seem overly bothered by that. He just shrugs. "Just figured you'd like to know," he says. He slides off the counter and starts heading for the door, patting the bag under his arm. "There's some cold pizza in the cooler, if you're interested. I'm gonna go try to arrange your ride, and go hit on some stuff with a hammer."

"Yeah, yeah. Let me know when the limo gets here." Fitz leaves his buttoning undone about halfway through and wanders vaguely in the direction of the bathrooms.

Slug waves over his shoulder on his way out the door, which he takes care to close quietly.