The gruff and unsightly little lump of muscle and biker's cut leather, Carhartt canvas welder's pants and worn jackboots, enters with the second cadre of returning Guardians. Nina, not as unfamiliar as the rest, had taken up with them after Champion of Honor had claimed the Sept's prisoner, and Jack had joined as well. His bike had been pulled up downstairs upon their arrival. Its saddlebags are draped over his left shoulder, the junk inside rattling with each step.
"Rabid Jack," if it weren't readily apparent to some that's who he is, or at least the name sewn in a black-outlined square of white on his worn leather vest (the sleeves had been unzipped and removed with the final onset of a warmer season). The tag is similar to what one might find on a bowling shirt or mechanic's coveralls.
Jack isn't surprised when eyes (and questions soon after) start falling on him even before Saturday morning comes. When a kinsman of Stag had been so inquisitive as to ask, Why was she so interested in you? Have you met her before? He had known, or at least guessed, it wouldn't be the end of it.
He wonders if the damn fine Philodox with a cleaner cut, a popped collar and khaki cargo shorts like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, had mentioned his side of the story. Or at least what he'd said of it. That she wanted a wolf-born. Said she wanted to make him into someone else she knew. A lupus with a beard.
He makes his introductions: Law in War. Rabid Jack Rabbit to the apes he loves, but wolf-born. Philodox, yes. Cliath, yes. Bone Gnawer... No shit.
"Bitch-cub wannabe bastard from Gunnison; wanted a wolf-born. Wanted my help. Said the Metis had black hair like Th'nak'vis," snarl wrapped uncomfortably around the word. "Yeah, I think she did in River of Clouds. Yeah, that or she's the honey pot. Or was, and she's just aping whatever Wyrm-rite they did to him. Said I'd need a beard to match D'stok. Lost packmates? Trying to remake them, maybe, even if it's out of spare parts. Trying to dance the spiral, maybe. Maybe."
Shares what else she'd said: First step, second step, can't go back now. Then I'll be one and I won't be alone again. And all the rest, or what he can remember of it, hoping Nina will help fill in the bits and pieces of maddening drivel he doesn't.
The bulk of fur and muscle, a stout ball of sinew, looks no more or less comfortable in the wolf form he wears once that's done with. But he's much more comfortable on the bedroll he lays out (a certain odor comes with the pad of fabric) and settles into in some corner of the residences. Rests his head on his paws and mulls on the other words she'd said:
We'll kill you one by one if we have to. Maybe they'll let me keep you for a little while. We don't want to. Just believe in us. Have a little faith.
And waits to be summoned. Or disturbed to once again introduce himself. To once again share the facts of the previous night. Or at least his side of the story.
"Rabid Jack," if it weren't readily apparent to some that's who he is, or at least the name sewn in a black-outlined square of white on his worn leather vest (the sleeves had been unzipped and removed with the final onset of a warmer season). The tag is similar to what one might find on a bowling shirt or mechanic's coveralls.
Jack isn't surprised when eyes (and questions soon after) start falling on him even before Saturday morning comes. When a kinsman of Stag had been so inquisitive as to ask, Why was she so interested in you? Have you met her before? He had known, or at least guessed, it wouldn't be the end of it.
He wonders if the damn fine Philodox with a cleaner cut, a popped collar and khaki cargo shorts like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, had mentioned his side of the story. Or at least what he'd said of it. That she wanted a wolf-born. Said she wanted to make him into someone else she knew. A lupus with a beard.
He makes his introductions: Law in War. Rabid Jack Rabbit to the apes he loves, but wolf-born. Philodox, yes. Cliath, yes. Bone Gnawer... No shit.
"Bitch-cub wannabe bastard from Gunnison; wanted a wolf-born. Wanted my help. Said the Metis had black hair like Th'nak'vis," snarl wrapped uncomfortably around the word. "Yeah, I think she did in River of Clouds. Yeah, that or she's the honey pot. Or was, and she's just aping whatever Wyrm-rite they did to him. Said I'd need a beard to match D'stok. Lost packmates? Trying to remake them, maybe, even if it's out of spare parts. Trying to dance the spiral, maybe. Maybe."
Shares what else she'd said: First step, second step, can't go back now. Then I'll be one and I won't be alone again. And all the rest, or what he can remember of it, hoping Nina will help fill in the bits and pieces of maddening drivel he doesn't.
The bulk of fur and muscle, a stout ball of sinew, looks no more or less comfortable in the wolf form he wears once that's done with. But he's much more comfortable on the bedroll he lays out (a certain odor comes with the pad of fabric) and settles into in some corner of the residences. Rests his head on his paws and mulls on the other words she'd said:
We'll kill you one by one if we have to. Maybe they'll let me keep you for a little while. We don't want to. Just believe in us. Have a little faith.
And waits to be summoned. Or disturbed to once again introduce himself. To once again share the facts of the previous night. Or at least his side of the story.