(no subject)
Feb. 25th, 2012 08:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 13:03 Pacific Time on Sat Feb 25 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (23% full).
Country House
An unassuming gravel lane leads up and up the hillside, allowing vehicle access to Suchandsuch whateveritis street. Surrounded by a semi-landscaped stand of stately, mature second-growth Douglas fir trees, this old country house is unremarkable, yet somehow slightly imposing. Perhaps it's the Victorian features of the 1920s-era construction, the nigh-weathered dark brown paint of the exterior, or the haphazard angles of the limestone masonry creating the ground level walls and chimney. The house has two floors, and is modestly sized. On one side, the driveway passes beneath a large carport, constructed of sturdy cedar. This seems to be a later addition to the original structure. The front door sits in a deeply recessed Roman arch, and all the lower-level windows are obscured by greatly overgrown madronas and rhododendrons.
Inside, one immediately comes to a small foyer, and a sunroom with leaded glass windows, perfect for the plants of all sorts that make their home there. Past the foyer, the space opens up into a great room, the stone fireplace and hearth dominating the space there. On one side, creaky wooden stairs curve up to the second floor. Here there is a master bedroom, two other bedrooms, and a vintage bathroom, complete with separate taps for hot and cold water and a claw-foot bathtub. And downstairs, on the other side of the hearth, French doors open to the dining room. Beyond that are the kitchen, the back door, and a spacious closet large enough to have been made over into a spare sleeping space. The backyard boasts wild patches of rosemary and lavender, lending a pleasantly crisp and sweet fragrance to the area. Numerous footpaths weave from the overgrown garden, into the trees beyond.
Obvious exits:
Out
All seems quiet at the unassuming house when the car pulls up. There's a single older BMW parked just past the carport. The outside light is on and those blinds half-raised, indicating which door they're to use. Once inside, Shelby closes the door firmly behind the pair, her eyes flicking quickly over the kin before lingering on the boy. "Anything more you'd like to add?" she invites pleasantly, her accent far from home. The question isn't aimed at either of them specifically.
Athletic without having the outrageous build of someone who works out religiously, this teenager, none the less, possesses some quality about him that is not easily ignored, despite his average height. The lack of hair on his head exaggerates the discrepancy between his refined features and the row of earrings marching down the outer lobe of his right ear. A short, well groomed beard conceals his jaw, with the hair above his thin lips shaved off. The dark brown eyes set on either side of his aquiline nose watch the world with all the arrogance, or perhaps confidence, of a prince surveying his subjects.
That same clash that exists between his noble features and the junk marring his ears is found in his clothing. He appears to have reached over the side of his bed with his eyes still shut and thrown on the first thing his hands could reach. An indigo turtleneck with an obscene amount of wrinkles clashes with the bright red surfer shorts, that smell like they were fished from the dirty laundry, and Reef sandals on his lower half.
The colorful mouth of some mythical beast on peeks out from his left sleeve, the fangs reaching just past the back of his wrist.
The bright pink Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren is left idling beside the BMW, the older male that was driving it apparently assuming that this would be something quick, though he doesn't look like he is in any hurry to leave. What he looks like is a man who has just endured the ride to hell only to be let off early, and the teenage boy suspiciously eyeing the interior of the house as he boldly walks in front most likely has something to do with that. "Yes," the older man replies slowly, dropping his voice to a low whisper, his eyes drifting again and again to the boy with obvious concern. "He thinks he is here to see a specialist about his behavioral issues. It was the easiest way to get his mother to let him go, and I didn't want to... upset him on the ride down here so I haven't corrected that."
Shelby lifts a dubious eyebrow at that, but turns and suggests in one of those tones that isn't a suggestion, "Aqil, why don't you go through to the kitchen and get us something to drink. I'll take tea. You'll find everything in the cupboard to the right of the stove." It's clear from her tone that she believes she'll be obeyed. "Mr. Stewart and I have some things to discuss."
The bald headed boy, turns his head so he can glance over his shoulder at the woman, quirking his own eyebrow upwards at her. "Whatever," he mutters and moves on into the kitchen, though he doesn't go too far, lingering just by the entrance, but out of sight, in hopes of catching bits and pieces of what is said. Brian Stewart shakes his head, sighing loudly as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You all are going to help him, right?"
"Of course, Mr. Stewart," claims the woman who must be the receptionist or something - surely she's too young to be a psychiatrist? She holds up a 'just a minute' finger and treads after the boy, smiling brightly as she comes around the corner and looking not at all surprised to find him lurking. "Did you have a question, Aqil?"
Mr. Stewart relaxes somewhat as she says that, a small smile of relief spreading across his worn features. He gives a small nod of his head as she excuses herself, turning his attention to the decor while he waits.
The boy does not exactly jump, but his body does stiffen, eyes widening as the women suddenly rounds the corner and catches him. This is quickly covered by an angry scowl. "Don't act like you fucking care," he snaps.
Shelby merely smiles calmly. "While you're in this house, Aqil, you can be treated like an adult, or like a child. Your behavior makes that choice. Now, as I need to speak to Mr. Stewart about some things privately, you have the choice of making tea as I asked, or sitting out in the car like a misbehaving toddler. Which is it going to be?"
"Wow," Aqil says, sarcasm dripping from his words thick as molasses. "Fuck you, and fuck your tea." Having eloquently expressed his feelings on the manner, he moves to exit the kitchen.
The older Ragabash doesn't give way, forcing him to either walk into her or walk around. In either case her smile doesn't falter, but as soon as he's within reach a fist lashes out, catching the boy behind the ear. She does, at least, grab an arm to somewhat gently lower him to the ground, instead of just letting him fall, but then she turns straight back to Mr. Stewart as if the last few seconds didn't just happen. "So. His mother isn't clued, but you are? Or how does that work? I assume he doesn't know anything either?"
The now unconscious boy, who barely had time to be surprised at being decked by a receptionist-whatever, was totally crowding Shelby's personal space as he tried to get past.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stewart is trying his best to ignore what's going on, turning back back around only once the woman addresses him, his eyes making a point of not looking at the unconscious teenager. "Yes, that would be the gist of it. The father departed as soon as he found out she was pregnant, and I was... asked to step in." There is a slight wince, a crinkling at the corner of his right eye as he says this. "And, no, Haytham does not know anything. Not consciously... His grandmother used to tell him stories when he was little, before she died, but he probably just thinks that's all they are. I doubt he even remembers them."
Shelby steps back and over the fallen teen, watching where she places her feet. Just the one step, just enough to keep an eye on him. "So... the biological father is Garou? Or they were both kin?" She casts a thoughtful look at the boy before adding, "I'm Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, by the way. Apologies for not introducing myself earlier. Fostern Ragabash. I'll call your phone with my cell in the next day or two so you have my number, not just the house."
"Kin," the man, who bears absolutely no resemblance to the unconscious boy, replies rather quickly. "Highly valued for his linage." As the woman introduces himself there is a noticeable change in the man's manner, the deference he had showed the boy as they were coming in the house now transferring to the Fostern. "Is that all then?"
"I know how that goes," she says drily. "His lineage would be nice, if you have it - or can find out. He's Ragabash, that much I know." Shelby tilts another thoughtful eye at the boy at her feet. "His paternal grandmother is the clued one? Does his mother really know nothing?"
Mr. Stewart gives a quick nod of his head, "It's back at the house. I was in a rush coming down here, otherwise I would have brought it with me." The question about the grandmother receives another nod, while the second one gets a wry grin. "She's clueless. I doubt she could handle it if someone did bother letting her know what was going on. She had a problem with the stories his grandmother was telling him, got nannies to come in and take are of the boy for fear she might pollute his mind with bullshit."
Shelby purses her lips looking, for the first time, less than either pleasantly calm or positively cheerful. "Mmnh," she adds unhelpfully. Then, "All right. Thank you for bringing him, Mr. Stewart. We may not be able to keep you informed about what's going on. He won't be allowed a phone or any way of communicating for some time. Do you have any questions for me?"
"Progressive minded," Mr. Stewart mutters as an afterthought. A thoughtful look comes over his face at the question. "Whenever his is allowed to communicate with us, could you let me know so I can call him? I don't want him thinking 'we've' abandoned him, or didn't know what was going on." His right hand rustles about in his pocket, then comes out with a business card that is eyed to ensure it has the correct information on it before he hands it over. "That's my contact information."
"We're Silver Fangs, not Wendigo," she says, amused. "And yes, of course." She steps just as carefully over the boy this time to take the card, likewise giving it a quick look before sliding it away. "And I'll call or text you as I said. If you'll close the door behind you, I'm going to take Aqil to the basement."
Again, there is the slightest of crinkling about the corner of the man's right eye. "Thank you," he leans to the side a bit, trying to get one last look at the boy before he turns away, closing the door gently behind him. A few moments later the sound of the Mercedes tearing off down the gravel lane can be heard.
As soon as the door is shut Shelby's bending, but it isn't the soft hands of the young woman that close around Aqil's shoulders: they're Crinos claws. In this form it takes little effort save bending so she doesn't smack her head on the ceiling to get the boy into the basement. Once there, and once back in Homid she goes through his pockets and removes wallet, cell, and anything else that could be used as a method of escape.
Continues here
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (23% full).
Country House
An unassuming gravel lane leads up and up the hillside, allowing vehicle access to Suchandsuch whateveritis street. Surrounded by a semi-landscaped stand of stately, mature second-growth Douglas fir trees, this old country house is unremarkable, yet somehow slightly imposing. Perhaps it's the Victorian features of the 1920s-era construction, the nigh-weathered dark brown paint of the exterior, or the haphazard angles of the limestone masonry creating the ground level walls and chimney. The house has two floors, and is modestly sized. On one side, the driveway passes beneath a large carport, constructed of sturdy cedar. This seems to be a later addition to the original structure. The front door sits in a deeply recessed Roman arch, and all the lower-level windows are obscured by greatly overgrown madronas and rhododendrons.
Inside, one immediately comes to a small foyer, and a sunroom with leaded glass windows, perfect for the plants of all sorts that make their home there. Past the foyer, the space opens up into a great room, the stone fireplace and hearth dominating the space there. On one side, creaky wooden stairs curve up to the second floor. Here there is a master bedroom, two other bedrooms, and a vintage bathroom, complete with separate taps for hot and cold water and a claw-foot bathtub. And downstairs, on the other side of the hearth, French doors open to the dining room. Beyond that are the kitchen, the back door, and a spacious closet large enough to have been made over into a spare sleeping space. The backyard boasts wild patches of rosemary and lavender, lending a pleasantly crisp and sweet fragrance to the area. Numerous footpaths weave from the overgrown garden, into the trees beyond.
Obvious exits:
Out
All seems quiet at the unassuming house when the car pulls up. There's a single older BMW parked just past the carport. The outside light is on and those blinds half-raised, indicating which door they're to use. Once inside, Shelby closes the door firmly behind the pair, her eyes flicking quickly over the kin before lingering on the boy. "Anything more you'd like to add?" she invites pleasantly, her accent far from home. The question isn't aimed at either of them specifically.
Athletic without having the outrageous build of someone who works out religiously, this teenager, none the less, possesses some quality about him that is not easily ignored, despite his average height. The lack of hair on his head exaggerates the discrepancy between his refined features and the row of earrings marching down the outer lobe of his right ear. A short, well groomed beard conceals his jaw, with the hair above his thin lips shaved off. The dark brown eyes set on either side of his aquiline nose watch the world with all the arrogance, or perhaps confidence, of a prince surveying his subjects.
That same clash that exists between his noble features and the junk marring his ears is found in his clothing. He appears to have reached over the side of his bed with his eyes still shut and thrown on the first thing his hands could reach. An indigo turtleneck with an obscene amount of wrinkles clashes with the bright red surfer shorts, that smell like they were fished from the dirty laundry, and Reef sandals on his lower half.
The colorful mouth of some mythical beast on peeks out from his left sleeve, the fangs reaching just past the back of his wrist.
The bright pink Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren is left idling beside the BMW, the older male that was driving it apparently assuming that this would be something quick, though he doesn't look like he is in any hurry to leave. What he looks like is a man who has just endured the ride to hell only to be let off early, and the teenage boy suspiciously eyeing the interior of the house as he boldly walks in front most likely has something to do with that. "Yes," the older man replies slowly, dropping his voice to a low whisper, his eyes drifting again and again to the boy with obvious concern. "He thinks he is here to see a specialist about his behavioral issues. It was the easiest way to get his mother to let him go, and I didn't want to... upset him on the ride down here so I haven't corrected that."
Shelby lifts a dubious eyebrow at that, but turns and suggests in one of those tones that isn't a suggestion, "Aqil, why don't you go through to the kitchen and get us something to drink. I'll take tea. You'll find everything in the cupboard to the right of the stove." It's clear from her tone that she believes she'll be obeyed. "Mr. Stewart and I have some things to discuss."
The bald headed boy, turns his head so he can glance over his shoulder at the woman, quirking his own eyebrow upwards at her. "Whatever," he mutters and moves on into the kitchen, though he doesn't go too far, lingering just by the entrance, but out of sight, in hopes of catching bits and pieces of what is said. Brian Stewart shakes his head, sighing loudly as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You all are going to help him, right?"
"Of course, Mr. Stewart," claims the woman who must be the receptionist or something - surely she's too young to be a psychiatrist? She holds up a 'just a minute' finger and treads after the boy, smiling brightly as she comes around the corner and looking not at all surprised to find him lurking. "Did you have a question, Aqil?"
Mr. Stewart relaxes somewhat as she says that, a small smile of relief spreading across his worn features. He gives a small nod of his head as she excuses herself, turning his attention to the decor while he waits.
The boy does not exactly jump, but his body does stiffen, eyes widening as the women suddenly rounds the corner and catches him. This is quickly covered by an angry scowl. "Don't act like you fucking care," he snaps.
Shelby merely smiles calmly. "While you're in this house, Aqil, you can be treated like an adult, or like a child. Your behavior makes that choice. Now, as I need to speak to Mr. Stewart about some things privately, you have the choice of making tea as I asked, or sitting out in the car like a misbehaving toddler. Which is it going to be?"
"Wow," Aqil says, sarcasm dripping from his words thick as molasses. "Fuck you, and fuck your tea." Having eloquently expressed his feelings on the manner, he moves to exit the kitchen.
The older Ragabash doesn't give way, forcing him to either walk into her or walk around. In either case her smile doesn't falter, but as soon as he's within reach a fist lashes out, catching the boy behind the ear. She does, at least, grab an arm to somewhat gently lower him to the ground, instead of just letting him fall, but then she turns straight back to Mr. Stewart as if the last few seconds didn't just happen. "So. His mother isn't clued, but you are? Or how does that work? I assume he doesn't know anything either?"
The now unconscious boy, who barely had time to be surprised at being decked by a receptionist-whatever, was totally crowding Shelby's personal space as he tried to get past.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stewart is trying his best to ignore what's going on, turning back back around only once the woman addresses him, his eyes making a point of not looking at the unconscious teenager. "Yes, that would be the gist of it. The father departed as soon as he found out she was pregnant, and I was... asked to step in." There is a slight wince, a crinkling at the corner of his right eye as he says this. "And, no, Haytham does not know anything. Not consciously... His grandmother used to tell him stories when he was little, before she died, but he probably just thinks that's all they are. I doubt he even remembers them."
Shelby steps back and over the fallen teen, watching where she places her feet. Just the one step, just enough to keep an eye on him. "So... the biological father is Garou? Or they were both kin?" She casts a thoughtful look at the boy before adding, "I'm Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, by the way. Apologies for not introducing myself earlier. Fostern Ragabash. I'll call your phone with my cell in the next day or two so you have my number, not just the house."
"Kin," the man, who bears absolutely no resemblance to the unconscious boy, replies rather quickly. "Highly valued for his linage." As the woman introduces himself there is a noticeable change in the man's manner, the deference he had showed the boy as they were coming in the house now transferring to the Fostern. "Is that all then?"
"I know how that goes," she says drily. "His lineage would be nice, if you have it - or can find out. He's Ragabash, that much I know." Shelby tilts another thoughtful eye at the boy at her feet. "His paternal grandmother is the clued one? Does his mother really know nothing?"
Mr. Stewart gives a quick nod of his head, "It's back at the house. I was in a rush coming down here, otherwise I would have brought it with me." The question about the grandmother receives another nod, while the second one gets a wry grin. "She's clueless. I doubt she could handle it if someone did bother letting her know what was going on. She had a problem with the stories his grandmother was telling him, got nannies to come in and take are of the boy for fear she might pollute his mind with bullshit."
Shelby purses her lips looking, for the first time, less than either pleasantly calm or positively cheerful. "Mmnh," she adds unhelpfully. Then, "All right. Thank you for bringing him, Mr. Stewart. We may not be able to keep you informed about what's going on. He won't be allowed a phone or any way of communicating for some time. Do you have any questions for me?"
"Progressive minded," Mr. Stewart mutters as an afterthought. A thoughtful look comes over his face at the question. "Whenever his is allowed to communicate with us, could you let me know so I can call him? I don't want him thinking 'we've' abandoned him, or didn't know what was going on." His right hand rustles about in his pocket, then comes out with a business card that is eyed to ensure it has the correct information on it before he hands it over. "That's my contact information."
"We're Silver Fangs, not Wendigo," she says, amused. "And yes, of course." She steps just as carefully over the boy this time to take the card, likewise giving it a quick look before sliding it away. "And I'll call or text you as I said. If you'll close the door behind you, I'm going to take Aqil to the basement."
Again, there is the slightest of crinkling about the corner of the man's right eye. "Thank you," he leans to the side a bit, trying to get one last look at the boy before he turns away, closing the door gently behind him. A few moments later the sound of the Mercedes tearing off down the gravel lane can be heard.
As soon as the door is shut Shelby's bending, but it isn't the soft hands of the young woman that close around Aqil's shoulders: they're Crinos claws. In this form it takes little effort save bending so she doesn't smack her head on the ceiling to get the boy into the basement. Once there, and once back in Homid she goes through his pockets and removes wallet, cell, and anything else that could be used as a method of escape.
Continues here