Fox Talk

[hazlogs]

It is currently 09:48 Pacific Time on Sat Mar 28 2015.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.29 and rising, and the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (55% full).

Edgewood House: Garage(#1947RAJh)
This old and spacious building was once a fairly large carriage barn, but has been converted first as garage, and then into something else entirely. It once had massive two-story front doors, but they've been permanently closed, and a smaller door built into them. (It seems to have been reinforced at some point recently.) The walls, too, appear to have been reinforced in some way, making them stronger and somewhat soundproof. The size of about two large rooms, the first floor is undivided. It's got wooden plank flooring, and has exercise equipment dotting its expanse, with free weights in one area on the door's side of the building, a punching bag in a corner, and other equipment scattered about. There's a rough ladder up to the second floor loft, which is carpeted, but has unfinished walls, a few dangling light bulbs, and is apparently serving as a somewhat informal bunk area. The lighting is, understandably, somewhat inadequate. The floor mostly consists of mattresses, innumerable throw pillows and bed pillows, warm bedding, and the occasional glimpse of carpet. There are a few shoes resting against the wall near the ladder; clearly, people are expected to take their footwear off once they get up here. One can peer down from the ladder-opening, or from the edge of the loft. (There's about three feet of space between the edge of the loft floor and the barn walls.) A wooden door on the upper part of the garage leads into the second floor landing of the house. There is no exit to the house from the first floor of the barn.

Fitz is going at the ol' punching bag this morning, wearing the same dirty tshirt and jeans he's been wearing probably for weeks. Wearing and sweating in, like now.

Thomas can be heard singing outside at least a minute before he enters, a rough but not unpleasant tenor. The lyrics are obscured by the walls of the barn-turned-garage, and the tune itself is unfamiliar, if jaunty. He's apparently at the end of it by the time he opens the door and steps inside. The man's his usual self appearance-wise; old battered hat, duster, trimmed scruff.

A man that looks to be in his early to mid forties, Thomas stands at just a hair under six feet. His features are predominantly Asian (Korean, to those who can tell the difference), with almond shaped eyes dark enough to appear almost black, low eyebrows, and a slightly crooked nose. His skin color speaks mostly toward his mixed heritage; it's darkly bronzed and weather beaten, with laugh lines crinkling near the corners of the eyes. His hair is a silky black, worn long and pulled back into a neat ponytail. He also sports a goatee, kept only long enough to be somewhat bristly to the touch, the black liberally laced with a smattering of grey hairs. The man's build is lean and compact, and he carries himself with a certain athletic grace that's unmistakable.
He appears to favor simple collared shirts of various types (usually black or white), and loose fitting, well worn jeans and hiking boots, but above all, he seems quite attached to a long brown oiled canvas duster. Even in warm weather, he's rarely seen without it. Occasionally, he pairs this with a brown fedora so battered and used that it might actually appear older than the man wearing it. He's wearing what looks like small, hematite beads around his neck, but most of the necklace is tucked under his shirt and out of sight.

Fitz glances over, giving Thomas a hairy eyeball, lip-curled and suspicious. But he doesn't stop punching the bag.

Thomas returns that look with a small smile that's more impression than movement, and a tip of his hat. Neither of those mask his curious scan of the other, however, though he doesn't seem to be trying. "Mornin'. Ain't seen you around before."

"Fitz, mule, Fianna, Galliard, Cliath." The Metis rattles this off with no pride or fanfare, gives the bag a vicious kick at around groin-level, then steps back, hair clinging in sweaty strings to his forehead.

"Thomas Lee," the other man replies. "Uktena kinfolk, among other things," and the way he says that, it sounds rather habitual, if genuine.

Fitz squints. "The fuck does that mean, among other things?"

Thomas actually grins this time. "It means most people don't bother asking that question and I get to duck mentioning the other side. Ain't just kinfolk, I'm also a Fox." The capital letter is audible. "Actual Fox that is. Old habit. Until a few years back I worked on my own and didn't go letting Wolves in on what I was, but, things changed a bit around here. Got official permission'n all that nonsense."

Fitz blinks, visibly taken aback. "Fox, like... fuckin' Japanese nine-tail whatthefuck?" He grimaces, scratching at his stubbly chin. (Seriously, if he goes a few more days without shaving, it'll be a beard.)
"I thought you assholes were a myth."

"Pretty accurate," Thomas replies. "Short've the Japanese in my case. Nope, ain't a myth, though we're perfectly happy having lots've people believing that." He crosses into the garage further now, taking up a spot on a bench that's a polite (and safe) distance from the punching bag. "Kitsune's the official name."

Fitz leans against the weight bench near the punching bag, still staring at Thomas like he's not sure what to make of him. "So how the fuck are you kin if you're also fera?"

"Well," Thomas says, "that's a long story. Short version though, I'm Uktena on my mother's side, she was kinfolk. And my father was the Fox side. Had some Wendigo ties as well. My family tree's...something. 'Course, you can, and folk have, make the argument I don't count 'cause I'm also a shifter, but the locals've been accommodating."

Fitz scratches his belly under his shirt. "My daddy was a Shadow Lord and my mom was a Fianna, but I'm nothin' of the former and only barely the latter, so it sounds like you got it good, daddy-o." This is delivered with a thin smile that has no pleasantry or humor in it at all.

There's a sparkle of amusement in Thomas's eyes. "Well, I ain't complaining. So, if'n you got so little've them, what's the rest of you?"

"Shit," Fitz says, definitively, and shrugs.

Thomas considers Fitz quietly for a few moments, as if mulling this answer over. "Where'd you suppose that part came from?"

Fitz squints. "What, you foxy fuckers don't have metis or something?"

Thomas makes a so-so gesture with one hand. "We do, and we don't. If'n two of us get together and make a kid, sometimes they're Foxes, and then they're born'n that half and half form. Ain't no stigma, which a lot've mine'll tell you means we're more enlightened and shit, but truth is they ain't sterile or deformed, so that makes it real easy for them, doesn't it? Between you'n me and the walls, I don't think they'd be so much if our metis were more like you folks."

Fitz grins humorlessly, with teeth. "'Least you admit you guys are assholes."

Thomas waves that same hand dismissively. "Everybody's got their assholes, some more'n others and some less. I've just been around long enough I don't much care about contesting who's group is better'n who in that area." A beat. "Usually. In any case, I don't think it'd be quite the same; our rules list don't care about two Foxes making kids. But would a lot've us be assholes about it? That I'm sure of."

Fitz straightens up from his lean and steps back over to the punching bag to give it another kick, carelessly. "Yeah, well, we got rules about it, but that didn't stop Daddy Shadow Fuck from seducing Momma Moron Fianna 'cause he wanted to hurt her bigshot relatives at the Fens. You ever been to Boston? It's a shithole."

"Once're twice," Thomas replies. He produces a flat tin from an inside pocket of his duster (apparently his duster has those), and from that, a handrolled cigarette. The tin itself is then offered toward Fitz--there are several more inside. "Been a long while. And nah, it don't stop people doing it. Never has."

Fitz shakes his head, nose wrinkled. "They shit, I eat it. They punch, I take it. It's a fuckin' heirarchy of life, y'know?" His voice is gravel, and there's an easy cadance to his words. Galliard. "Everybody clawin' for the top, everybody up there punchin' down, punchin' down, 'cause it's a pyramid, and for Claws-of-Fuckballs to get up, he's gotta dig his claws in and drag Fangs-of-Shit down. That's the way it fuckin' goes, man." Revved up, he paces around the punching bag, occasionally smacking it with a fist. "Fuckers should be /grateful/ I'm around, 'cause if I wasn't, it wouldn't be me taking the shit, would it? It'd be someone else."

Thomas closes the tin and tucks it away again, and when his hand emerges he has a lighter instead. "Gotta admit," he says, "I know how it works with you folk, but I don't /know/ how it works in that way, if'n that makes any kind of sense. Ain't instinct with me like it is with you bunch. Figure it seems about as mad as the way we work must to you."

Fitz pauses to give Thomas a hard stare. "You ever get tired of being so goddamn reasonable, Foxhole?"

Thomas actually laughs at this, and it's enough to delay his attempt to light up. "Plenty," he replies at the end of it. "Now and then I gotta get a good old hate going to make up for it. But dealing with Wolves's good motivation to reign it in. I like my head where it is, after all."

Fitz doesn't seem to have any problem getting on a good old hate; it blossoms when Thomas laughs, and he snarls out a, "F-fuck you!" with more than a little spraying spittle. "The fffff... f-fuck right you have to ffffucking... to fffucking s-stand there..." He was pretty eloquent before (if foul-mouthed); now he can barely get the words out, and that's probably only pissing him off more.

Thomas's laughter fades, replaced by an expression that's far more serious than any he's had since entering. He doesn't respond; no, rather, he seems to be waiting for Fitz to finish, the still unlit cigarette in his mouth, and lighter in hand.

Fitz turns away and punches the wall repeatedly and viciously, until his knuckles are red with blood. This calms him down a little, but his hands are still trembling when he stops. He turns back to stare venom at Thomas. "Bes-st of both fuckin' worlds. F-fuckin' shithead. Fuck you."

"You're right," Thomas says seriously. "It ain't fair. But don't tell me you're punching that wall just because of some old Fox you just met. I ain't worth that."

"Fuck you," says Fitz again and sits down, back to the wall. Sullen, he watches the broken skin over his knuckles heal up, then licks at the blood.

Thomas rubs lightly at the scruff along his jaw with a thumb, then finally lights up; the smell of tobacco is sharp, but it's far less acrid than modern cigarettes typically are. "Arright," he says. "You wanna hit more'n walls?"

Fitz, sucking blood off his knuckles, squints up at Thomas. "What?"

Thomas gestures at himself. "Making an offer. You wanna hit at someone what's pissing you off? Mind, I hit back, but figure it's more cathartic. Or, if'n you're really wanting some violence, might be I could find something that needs a good mangling."

Fitz scowls. "I'm already in a shithole because some fucking Adren Fenrir couldn't hold her shit together on a new moon. I don't need the extra helping of 'oh my god you beat up the special magic fox-kinfolk'."

Thomas gets smoothly to his feet. "Believe I specified I hit back, ain't volunteering to be some sort've punching bag martyr. If'n you can land a hit on me, it's earned, and nobody else's business." He doesn't get into any sort of combat stance, but there's an easiness to how he's standing that suggests he probably won't have trouble moving if he wants to. "So what happened with this Fenrir?"

Fitz gets up slowly, grimacing, clearly suspicious of Thomas's motives. "Dipshit frenzied, I flipped lupus and bugged the fuck away, then took the shit because a couple of other dipshits decided to jump her, plus some fucking Shadow Lord decided to jump one of the ones who'd jumped the Get. Then it's all, 'Hey, Fitz, kiss our asses because we were nice to you.'"

"Sounds like a clusterfuck," Thomas remarks. He pushes his hat back, but he hasn't tried to set it aside yet. "That happen often?"

Fitz smirks. As before, there's little to no humor in it. "Which part?"

"Either," Thomas answers. "Both."

Fitz shrugs. "Been frenzied at before. Didn't expect it from an /Adren/ on a fucking /new moon/ but whatever. People getting mad because I ain't all kissy-kissy grateful mule just because they decided to be /nice/ to me? All the fucking time."

Thomas runs a thumb along his jaw again. "You thank 'em and they want more?"

Fitz grimaces. "The fuck I should thank 'em for something I didn't even ask for?"

Thomas's right eyebrow lifts. "Ain't that generally what folk thank others more over? Or's there Wolf etiquette I'm missing here?"

"I had it fuckin' handled!" says Fitz, and he steps forward and throws a roundhouse punch at Thomas. Nothing fancy, but with a good bit of pepper behind it.

Thomas doesn't bring up his arms to defend--no, instead, he seems to shift to one side and the punch whistles past his face a whisker's breadth away. "So you'd've preferred they all just stayed out then?" As if violence hadn't just started. And true to his word, he does hit back--his own punch lacks any fancy frills as well, but it's fast, and hard, and timed to when Fitz's balance is most invested in his passing blow.

Fitz takes it with a grunt and a step back. He's not overly muscular, but he is solid. "/Yeah/, if they were going to all crawl up my ass about it." He's got his fists up in a boxer's stance, shifting his weight and sidling around Thomas. "Goddamn Fenrir acts like a shit at this idiot Gnawer kid who thinks everything's a fucking feel-good 80s movie, I flip her off, call her a dingo-fucker, she goes berserk. Doesn't even try to stop herself." He feints high, punches low. "And the goddamn kid cries at me because he'd rather lick the Fenrir woman's asshole and then lectures me how I'm makin' him look bad."

"Hang on," Turtle says, but he clearly doesn't mean the fight, because he circles with Fitz. One arm comes up to counter the feint, but the actual punch strikes him, and he only just turns his hip into it to take the blow. His return punch is aimed right at Fitz's face and comes just as quickly as the last. "You were flipping off an Adren Get of Fenris because she was being a jerk to this Gnawer kid?"

Fitz ducks just enough to take a glancing blow in the cheek and steps back, fists raised defensively. "...Yeah," he says, a little reluctantly. "She was being sneery 'cause the kid's formed up this Coyote pack. It's his first pack, him and his packmates are all fuckin' adorable little baby cliaths, so fucking cute and idealistic it'll make you sick." His lip's curled, his gravelly voice heavy with scorn. "They're all so happy little shits, wanting to be fuckin' heroes it's fucking ridiculous."

Thomas continues to circle. His steps are light and measured, and somehow still a little casual. The cigarette in his mouth doesn't help that image. "Familiar with the type," he replies. "Doesn't sound like he asked you to step in. Why'd you do it? 'Cause she was punching down?"

Fitz hesitates, then shrugs, dropping his fists and the ready stance. "I dunno. I guess? I hate the little shit, but at least when I call him names, he can call me names back. It's /fair/, at least." He grimaces, looking uncomfortable, and looks away, scratching at his neck.

Thomas lowers his own fists a little slower. "Makes sense," he says. "Think he realized that's why you did it?"

Fitz shrugs again. "Nah, and why should he? I'm a fuckin' shitbag who mouths off at people higher'n me and gets a fuckin' seizure in the middle of a fight. I'm a toilet, a punching bag, that's my fuckin' job, my fuckin' place in life." He looks contemplative for a moment, rubbing his chin. "Only good fuckin' thing outta all this is that the little dweeb hates me now, which is good, 'cause he had some weird idea that I was some... I dunno, some kinda good guy with a crusty exterior. Like I said, 80s movies. Dumb fuck."

Thomas puffs briefly at his cigarette as he answers. "Don't see what any've that has to do with it. You stuck out for him, even if you hate 'im and you just hate the Fenrir a bit more, or you think things needed to be evened out a little. Anyhow, you might be a mouthy shitbag with a seizure issue, like you say, don't seem far fetched to me. But you ain't no punching bag; you like hitting back, even hitting first. Who called you a toilet?"

Fitz smiles humorlessly. "Ahhh, that's an old one. Heard that back in Boston. Happy cubhood days." The sarcasm, it drips.

Thomas says, enunciating clearly, "Well, fuck that piss-drinking jackass." He pulls the cigarette away from his mouth and turns his head to breath a fair cloud of smoke off to the side. "I've met plenty've Wolves in my time. Shitheads to heroes to everything in-between, traitors, cowards, you name it. Gaia made you. If'n some shit can't at least give you that due, he can take it up with Her." He stubs out the cigarette on the heel of his boot. "And I'd be happy to tell him so."

Fitz grunts. "Feel free. Just don't expect me to kiss your ass for it." He turns away and heads for the ladder up to the loft.

Thomas gives a short, rough laugh. "I like my ass unkissed, don't you worry. Later, kid."

"Whatever." Fitz disappears up into the loft.