05-19-2013, 12:28 PM
Jack wiles away the day in Roxborough until the moon begins to show itself. When the sun begins to set his listless wanderings take him, like they does so many recreational hikers, to the homestead and its water spigot. Since setting down roots in Colorado Jack spends most of his time in the Sept of Forgotten Questions, though weekly forays into the city aren't unheard of. Some of the Garou would know of the last's result.
This leaves his hygiene, unsurprising for one of his tribe and – some might say – especially unsurprising for one of his breed, with much to be desired. So along his trek he gathers the right clay dust, the right fine dirt, into the coffee jar that hangs off his belt on a length of heavy chord through holes punched in its hull.
He approaches the spigot he'd found set into side of the building one particularly parched day previous. The last few visitors from a mundane world filter away from the building, and it's when he's alone the biker begins by shedding his leather vest, next pulling off the sweatshirt and BBQ restaurant souvenir crew neck beneath it, the heavy duck-yellow canvas work dungarees after jackboots and socks are kicked off.
All but the vest soak beneath the flow of liquid from the pump, the whine of its metal lever rising and falling to coax it forth. Sodden, the weight allows them to be beaten on the closest broad and flat rock or boulder, the fabric then twisted, fingers and arms flexing to do so until a steady stream of water is wrung to a trickle and then to only drops, then laid out in the dry breeze and what remains of the sun.
When that is finished he kneels beside it, palm and fingers cupped to throw the precious water over his frame's bulk. His muscles are fat and broad, sinewy only on his arms and legs, the definition framing muscles only noticeable in the light pucker of skin from where they rise. Once he's sufficiently dampened, his hand dips into the popped coffee can and draws out handfuls of the sandy grit earth. He slaps it in clouds onto his skin, again and again until he is a golem, an elemental of the earth caked with the stuff.
The hunting knife finds itself in his hand next. The flat back end of the blade, with its gentle curve near the tip, finds the contors of his flesh. Draws across the mud, it scrapes the stuff into a dingy hunk of buildup that further serves to clean his skin before it is too much and he whips the excess off the blade. The process is repeated Every now and then it gets a rinse. The method of cleansing leaves long streaks like a squeegee, lines of mud that dry quickly in the breeze once they've thirstily soaked up the water. It would be harsh on some skin, but his windburnt and sunbaked flesh stands up to it rather well, and instead the grit acts as an exfoliant.
He continues washing up, casting the water over himself again to rinse off what's left. His head hangs under the spigot, the now empty can filled and dumped over his head, then his neck and shoulders, then his front and back down his torso to his legs as he stands upright.
The only pieces of clothing he pulls on are that leather cut and those canvas pants. The latter dries faster than the rest, left where they lay to take the night and do so. Sun has fallen. The park should be empty. His instincts and the senses they feed off tell him this is true. Those same senses catch the sound from the meadow, not too far, but not too close.
Jack is no stranger to the sounds of camaraderie, no stranger to songs around the fire, and in a moment he is a dark mottled wolf yipping and barking and howling the whole way to the gathering.
Jack does not know the song. That doesn't much matter. He howls and yips along with it anyway, and while his front paws are posted into the ground, his hindquarters hop and thump and stomping into the earth as he bucks back. Where the Garou delineate themselves by tribe, Bone Gnawers joining with the most initial exuberance, he is drawn. Greeting those he has already come across and those he hasn't with equal fervor. When Raspberry Sky claps, his jaws snap happily. Kicking up dirt. Rolling and tumbling in the tall grass before righting himself and hopping again. Undoing his work at cleaning himself without thinking. And most importantly?
Without caring.
This leaves his hygiene, unsurprising for one of his tribe and – some might say – especially unsurprising for one of his breed, with much to be desired. So along his trek he gathers the right clay dust, the right fine dirt, into the coffee jar that hangs off his belt on a length of heavy chord through holes punched in its hull.
He approaches the spigot he'd found set into side of the building one particularly parched day previous. The last few visitors from a mundane world filter away from the building, and it's when he's alone the biker begins by shedding his leather vest, next pulling off the sweatshirt and BBQ restaurant souvenir crew neck beneath it, the heavy duck-yellow canvas work dungarees after jackboots and socks are kicked off.
All but the vest soak beneath the flow of liquid from the pump, the whine of its metal lever rising and falling to coax it forth. Sodden, the weight allows them to be beaten on the closest broad and flat rock or boulder, the fabric then twisted, fingers and arms flexing to do so until a steady stream of water is wrung to a trickle and then to only drops, then laid out in the dry breeze and what remains of the sun.
When that is finished he kneels beside it, palm and fingers cupped to throw the precious water over his frame's bulk. His muscles are fat and broad, sinewy only on his arms and legs, the definition framing muscles only noticeable in the light pucker of skin from where they rise. Once he's sufficiently dampened, his hand dips into the popped coffee can and draws out handfuls of the sandy grit earth. He slaps it in clouds onto his skin, again and again until he is a golem, an elemental of the earth caked with the stuff.
The hunting knife finds itself in his hand next. The flat back end of the blade, with its gentle curve near the tip, finds the contors of his flesh. Draws across the mud, it scrapes the stuff into a dingy hunk of buildup that further serves to clean his skin before it is too much and he whips the excess off the blade. The process is repeated Every now and then it gets a rinse. The method of cleansing leaves long streaks like a squeegee, lines of mud that dry quickly in the breeze once they've thirstily soaked up the water. It would be harsh on some skin, but his windburnt and sunbaked flesh stands up to it rather well, and instead the grit acts as an exfoliant.
He continues washing up, casting the water over himself again to rinse off what's left. His head hangs under the spigot, the now empty can filled and dumped over his head, then his neck and shoulders, then his front and back down his torso to his legs as he stands upright.
The only pieces of clothing he pulls on are that leather cut and those canvas pants. The latter dries faster than the rest, left where they lay to take the night and do so. Sun has fallen. The park should be empty. His instincts and the senses they feed off tell him this is true. Those same senses catch the sound from the meadow, not too far, but not too close.
Jack is no stranger to the sounds of camaraderie, no stranger to songs around the fire, and in a moment he is a dark mottled wolf yipping and barking and howling the whole way to the gathering.
Jack does not know the song. That doesn't much matter. He howls and yips along with it anyway, and while his front paws are posted into the ground, his hindquarters hop and thump and stomping into the earth as he bucks back. Where the Garou delineate themselves by tribe, Bone Gnawers joining with the most initial exuberance, he is drawn. Greeting those he has already come across and those he hasn't with equal fervor. When Raspberry Sky claps, his jaws snap happily. Kicking up dirt. Rolling and tumbling in the tall grass before righting himself and hopping again. Undoing his work at cleaning himself without thinking. And most importantly?
Without caring.