Trowel Versus Garou

[Michael Carroll] It is cold and dark outside.

Not the sort of weather conditions that prompt gardening, and yet Michael does just that. His packmates project was a noble one, and he recently discovered he enjoyed the simple labor. It didn't compare to the manipulation of his fiddle and bow, but it had a similar effect on the young Fiannas state of mind. As did the whiskey and weed that could almost always be found up here.

At this moment he kneels amid a large patch of peatmoss insulation, barechested despite the frigid winds. His work is intense, causing rivulets of sweat to pour down his shaved head and along his jawline. A particular grate has been giving him hell for quite awhile now. It has only just begun to pry loose under his straining muscles when his grip slips, causing him to drop backwards. As luck would have it, a trowel lays just behind him, in perfect position to be sat on after his fall. "OwFUCK you fuckin'pieceo'shit thing right in m' GAWDDAMNED ASS!"

[Imogen Slaughter] There is a moment of perfect silence after his outburst - then the roof's door opens with a certain deliberation that makes it rather clear that whoever was on the other side had heard the outburst.

Imogen steps out a second or so later, eyeing him with some form of amusement, as she flicks open her bronze cigarette case.

"Fer a moment I thought we were under attack," she observes, her gaze moving shrewdly to the trowel, then back to Michael, "Though in a way, I suppose you are."

She's dressed in charcoal silk slacks, a dark sweater over a lighter blouse. Still, she tightens her arms toward her body in an effort to keep the warmth in. The wind up here is relentless. It tugs at her braided and coiled hair immediately, loosening strands to flutter free.

[Michael Carroll] He growls and comes to his feet in a blur of motion, trowel in hand. With a sharp snap of his arm the tool flies across the roof, spinning end over end until it makes heavy impact on a pallet of sod. He points at it, facing Imogen with pain-widened eyes and a sheepish grin. "That fuckin' thing owes me dinner and a few drinks!"

A quiet groan escapes Michaels lips as he walks over to his piled up clothing. His right hand remains on his injured posterior, attempting to massage the pain out as he reaches for his shirt with the left. "If y' ever find need t' tell this story t' someone, leave out th' part where I was violated with a gardening implement please."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's eyebrow arches, a cigarette caught between her fingers, partway to her mouth. "I'll be sure t'tell everyone tha' it's a cursed trowel," she assures him, "Bloody tainted and yeh were only protectin' the Brotherhood."

[Michael Carroll] Michaels grin becomes a wry smirk as he pulls the tshirt over his head. "You're a good friend t' be tellin' such a believeable tale for th' sake o' my pride. It's greatly appreciated. What brings y' up t' the roof tonight, Doctor? Other than the strict no-smoking policy down below."

Near the pile of clothing lays a lunchbox and a water bottle, which he uses to rinse the grime from his hands. He pulls his jacket on next, unconcerned with the sweat that collects on the fabric. It's not like he's going to get sick from being cold and wet. Fully clothed once more, he produces a sandwich from the box. "Corned beef. Want half?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts him a narrowed glance at the word friend but does not correct him, instead fitting the cigarette between her lips and lighting up. "That would be the only reason," she says. "I'm certainly not 'ere fer the landscaping, am I?"

[Michael Carroll] She does not accept the offered sandwich, and so he proceeds to devour it. Gardening can build up an appetite evidently. After half of his meal has disappeared, he looks around the rooftop. "It don't look like much now, but give it time. Owens pretty damn sharp when it comes t' this sort o' thing. So what has y' at the Brotherhood? I didn't really think this place was your cup o' tea."

[Imogen Slaughter] She had shaken her head at the offered meal, and while he eats, she smokes, her eyes turned toward the lake, the caern.

He didn't think it was her cup of tea - "It's not," she says mildly, turning her attention away, "But sometimes it's necessary."

She draws her arms toward her ribcage, keeping her forearm flush to her body as she lifts the cigarette back to her lips. A deep inhale, her eyes drawn back to the water. She blows out smoke again. "Don't seem much like a gardner, yourself," she observes, her eyes flicking toward him, then toward the work he'd been doing.

[Michael Carroll] "Yeah, turns out I'm shit at it." He shrugs and rewraps the remaining half of his sandwich before stowing it back in his lunchpail. A few small, homemade cookies are withdrawn and popped into his mouth, then washed down with water. His meal complete, Michael next produces a small pipe from his pocket and lights it with a Bic. The scent of cherry-vanilla tobacco begins to fill the area briefly beforing being scattered by the wind.

"I'm startin' t' think it won't be long b'fore Owen kicks me off th' project. Or he'll just make me stick to the grunt labor, like movin' sod palettes around." A few puffs punctuate his thoughts. The smoke billows out and fades away rapidly, hardly having time to leave an impression. "What about you? Got a bit o' a green thumb?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth twists faintly. "I could," she says. "But I've not got the interest. Nor the patience. I can buy what I eat from a grocer, and I'm not particularly one fer aesthetics in my surroundings."

A brief lift of her shoulders, "And while I understand the statement somethin' like this makes, it always seems t'me that there are bigger things with which we should concern ourselves."

[Michael Carroll] Now it is his turn to regard her with arched brow, pipe clenched between his teeth. It is unusual, at least around here, to see a man in his early twenties puffing away on such an old-fashioned device. He does it like a professional though, carefully savoring the flavor of the smoke before letting it slip past his lips into the night air. "There will always be bigger things, Doctor. But spending every wakin' moment o' every day engaged in those larger things would drive someone t' madness, don't y' think? And so th' smaller statements, th' ones that give us just a moment o' peace in a day but still accomplish something...those are th' things that we gotta hold on to."

He shrugs after his miniature diatribe. The pipe is traded temporarily for his beloved flask, bringing a harsh grimace to his face as smoke and alcohol burn the lining of his throat. "I dunno. Maybe that's just hopeful talk an' wishful thinkin'. Might just be a weak excuse for dodgin' responsibility. What about you? Y' don't find ways t' unwind?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She appears to think about this for a moment. Perhaps a little longer than one should. "I run," she answers. Her mouth twists slightly.

"And smoke."

[Michael Carroll] "That's a bizarre combination of hobbies, Doctor." He grins and takes a seat on the peatmoss, using the raised edge of the roof as a backrest. The smile remains as he leans his head back to stare up at the sky, perhaps to search for the ever-elusive shooting star. His pipe returns to his lips, and the interior of the bowl is filled with a bright red glow as he resumes smoking. "I know y' got a fondness for music, too. The Gothard Sisters will be playin' nearby next week, if you're interested I'm lookin' for some company."

[Imogen Slaughter] His grin is met with a vague smirk before her attention turns away again. Once more, toward the lake, the caern, not upward toward the sky. She taps cigarette ash from her cigarette, lifting it back to her lips again.

When he speaks of her fondness of music, she turns to look at him, her eyebrows lowering, her eyes considering.

Kinfolk like her are rare - almost unheard of. The direct way her eyes fix on him. The unflinching way she regards him. The study, the consideration, lingers for seconds.

"I'll ha' to see," she says. "Don't hold yer breath."

[Michael Carroll] He turns his head to the side to meet her bold gaze as she considers his offer. She answers. He should not hold his breath. A small chuckle escapes his lips and his eyes return to the sky. "I never do, Doctor. Saves me from bein' terribly disappointed when things don't work out the way I'd like. Just give me a call should y' decide you wouldn't mind m' company for a bit."

There is a heartbeat of silence from the Irishman. When he speaks again his voice is low, as if he doesn't want to further disturb the evening with his words. "My packs dissolving. Th' idea was a noble one, but ultimately doomed. 'Specially with an Alpha who's got his ass on his shoulders and a Beta who's in love wi' the idea o' bein' in love." He regards her thoughtfully once more, this time with an apologetic grin. "I know y' don't really care t' hear these things, but that actually sort o' makes y' a good listener."

[Imogen Slaughter] She looks at him as he speaks, an eyebrow arching.

"You are more fortunate than some," she says a moment later, lifting her cigarette back to her lips. The drag is quick and sharp.

[Michael Carroll] "In what way?" The simple question is followed by a quick nip from the flask. They are an odd pair on the roof, each indulging their vices as they converse about the ways of monsters and music. Michaels eyes trace the invisible lines of what few constellations he can recognize. "That y' don't mind listening t' me ramble?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, her gaze fixed now toward the river, and not on the Fianna. "There were some last year that lost their entire pack. And then some."

[Michael Carroll] He is silent for a long time after she speaks. They do not look at one another. She stares towards the river, he watches the sky. The wind blows around them, pushing the occasional piece of small gardening debris across the roof. When he speaks his voice barely carries above the constant breeze. "I lost my entire pack two years ago. It's not an uncommon tale. But you're right, I am fortunate. I didn't remain in this pack long enough t' watch us led straight t' destruction."

[Imogen Slaughter] Another long silence. She smokes her cigarette while he smokes his pipe. Eventually, she turns slightly, crushing the cigarette against the wall against which she leans.

"Pretty bloody careless o' me," she says almost off-hand, "t'assume yeh came 'ere having never experienced loss." A tilt of her head as she turns slightly to look at him, her gaze direct and even. "It just seems t'me tha' most Full Bloods do."

Come here without having experienced loss. Bright-eyed, bushy tailed. Warriors fed on a cub's dogma, too young, too new to realize the truth.

It might be an apology. Certainly, the closest he'll get.

[Michael Carroll] If he was offended, hurt, or otherwise upset by her assumption he does not show it. Instead, he takes another pull from the flask and offers another slight shrug. His words echo her thoughts. "I've noticed th' same thing. Seems like a lot o' cubs come here t' make a name for themselves, not knowin' what comes next. Certainly seems t' be th' problem with half th' others in my pack. That and they're love o' forbidden fruits."

[Imogen Slaughter] Her fingers slip into the slit of her slack pockets, sliding the cigarette butt in. She straightens from the wall. "I don't want t'know, I'm sure."

She reaches for the door. "I'll leave yeh t'yer gardening. Try not t'lose t'anymore implements, yeah?"

[Michael Carroll] (Just because its bothering me..."their", not "they're")

[Michael Carroll] He chuckles as she moves towards the exit, lifting his hand in a small wave. "Oh, I didn't lose that first one. Trust me, I knew exactly where it was when it was tryin' t' make me it's lady-friend. Have a good night, Doctor."

[Michael Carroll] ((Edit))

"Oh don't worry, I believe I put th' fear o' God in the rest o' 'em when they saw what I did t' their friend."

[Imogen Slaughter] "And you." With that, the door shuts behind her, and Michael is left with his garden and tools just waiting for his moment of weakness.