03-16-2016, 09:14 PM
Wolf gets the text while he's lurking around the Cathedral. Frowns at the little bright square of a screen on his little scratched-up brick of a phone. Taps something back:
I'm good. I'll go pick Morg up.
--
But first, a stop at Hooked on Colfax. Not for coffee, but for a certain blue-eyed witch. Stands in the doorway scaring the entering patrons until girl notices him and comes over. He takes her outside; tells her he's gotta go for a few days. Be back soon though. Tells her to help herself to his place. Kisses her goodbye in that grumbly growly way, one distrusting eye on the rest of the cafe as though he expects someone to come shoo him away. Or try.
Oh yeah, and also: borrows back the bag.
--
Would smell like her when he goes pick Morgan up, except girl doesn't smell like anything at all. So Morgan just smells him, raw and crackling with rage. He drives a car, doesn't make her sit on his goddamn motorcycle. It's a decent car, nothing flashy, some late-model sports sedan that's more sedan than sports. In the back seat is a messenger bag, the sort you can wear over one shoulder or crosswise over the chest. It's pretty small, but that appears to be his only luggage.
On the way there, no music on his stereo. Asks Morgan, though -- "Know what the challenge is?"
--
They meet Avery at Forgotten Questions. Isn't wolf's first time here, but close enough. He doesn't know where anything is, has to follow his packmates. Is cagey and on-edge when they get to the moonstone. He hasn't taken one of these since he was a cub, and didn't like it then. He's the last one through. Puts his hand on Morgan's shoulder as she's stepping on -- for balance, or possibly for reassurance.
--
Yellowstone's remote darkness splits open in a flash of light, a sound like thunder. Wolf stumbles through on the heels of his packmates, disoriented and motionsick; all those miles flying past in a blur, that sense of motion-without-motion. He dry-heaves. He looks like he wants to sit down. His hand is gripping Morgan's shoulder rather hard; the other one has a deathgrip on the strap of his bag.
He lets the first loose. Loosens the second. Dry-heaves again behind closed lips, grimaces.
"I'm okay," he mutters -- perhaps more for himself than anyone. "I'm fine."
I'm good. I'll go pick Morg up.
--
But first, a stop at Hooked on Colfax. Not for coffee, but for a certain blue-eyed witch. Stands in the doorway scaring the entering patrons until girl notices him and comes over. He takes her outside; tells her he's gotta go for a few days. Be back soon though. Tells her to help herself to his place. Kisses her goodbye in that grumbly growly way, one distrusting eye on the rest of the cafe as though he expects someone to come shoo him away. Or try.
Oh yeah, and also: borrows back the bag.
--
Would smell like her when he goes pick Morgan up, except girl doesn't smell like anything at all. So Morgan just smells him, raw and crackling with rage. He drives a car, doesn't make her sit on his goddamn motorcycle. It's a decent car, nothing flashy, some late-model sports sedan that's more sedan than sports. In the back seat is a messenger bag, the sort you can wear over one shoulder or crosswise over the chest. It's pretty small, but that appears to be his only luggage.
On the way there, no music on his stereo. Asks Morgan, though -- "Know what the challenge is?"
--
They meet Avery at Forgotten Questions. Isn't wolf's first time here, but close enough. He doesn't know where anything is, has to follow his packmates. Is cagey and on-edge when they get to the moonstone. He hasn't taken one of these since he was a cub, and didn't like it then. He's the last one through. Puts his hand on Morgan's shoulder as she's stepping on -- for balance, or possibly for reassurance.
--
Yellowstone's remote darkness splits open in a flash of light, a sound like thunder. Wolf stumbles through on the heels of his packmates, disoriented and motionsick; all those miles flying past in a blur, that sense of motion-without-motion. He dry-heaves. He looks like he wants to sit down. His hand is gripping Morgan's shoulder rather hard; the other one has a deathgrip on the strap of his bag.
He lets the first loose. Loosens the second. Dry-heaves again behind closed lips, grimaces.
"I'm okay," he mutters -- perhaps more for himself than anyone. "I'm fine."
BECAUSE OF LIGHT AND DUTY AND REASONS.