07-01-2013, 02:18 PM
The man begins spilling the beans to Jack, more of a heaping helping than he had given in return to his question of the Philodox's lineage as Ratling, and it is enough to earn his trust.
Jack comes at the man with an open hand, reaching out with his own sausage-fingered mitt to shake his, leaning in with an introduction as the other's palm slaps down on Marcellus' shoulder. "Rabid Jack Rabbit, Cliath, called Law in War. Born t' wolves under a half moon," and then, the description of a moon, maybe he's not entirely sure the kin will understand it. "Philodox," almost an afterthought, and as much an affirmation that all he's sharing is something he cares about.
"Yeah. Not a damn thing good about them. Found two of the flock cannibalized one of Rat's kin, Gerhart. Some kind of fuckin' Wyrm cult, 'n' wouldn't be surprised were the Black Spiral Dancers runnin' it, the way they seem t' twist Man's Good Book. I ain't never read the thing, but seem t' be they're usin' church like a cover."
Some of the things he mentions seem to take Jack closer to the edge. His gruff tone takes on a growling and snarling underbite as his own teeth snap together, his lips chuffing and puffing with blasts of angry breath, nostrils flaring as he describes what he'd discovered. "Tuskegee," wrapping his jowls around the unfamiliar word. "Syphilis? Think one o' my brothers had to go to the clinic with that one time. We're lookin' into it. But another pair of eyes can't hurt.”
He looks up and down at the man, like that army camoflage and his own grizzled countenance gives the lupus some idea what history this kinsman might have in common with his own father. "You tryin' to soldier up, or just want to keep us in the loop?" He doesn't sound like he would be upset by either answer, just that he wants to know how much Marcellus is willing to commit to this fight.
Jack comes at the man with an open hand, reaching out with his own sausage-fingered mitt to shake his, leaning in with an introduction as the other's palm slaps down on Marcellus' shoulder. "Rabid Jack Rabbit, Cliath, called Law in War. Born t' wolves under a half moon," and then, the description of a moon, maybe he's not entirely sure the kin will understand it. "Philodox," almost an afterthought, and as much an affirmation that all he's sharing is something he cares about.
"Yeah. Not a damn thing good about them. Found two of the flock cannibalized one of Rat's kin, Gerhart. Some kind of fuckin' Wyrm cult, 'n' wouldn't be surprised were the Black Spiral Dancers runnin' it, the way they seem t' twist Man's Good Book. I ain't never read the thing, but seem t' be they're usin' church like a cover."
Some of the things he mentions seem to take Jack closer to the edge. His gruff tone takes on a growling and snarling underbite as his own teeth snap together, his lips chuffing and puffing with blasts of angry breath, nostrils flaring as he describes what he'd discovered. "Tuskegee," wrapping his jowls around the unfamiliar word. "Syphilis? Think one o' my brothers had to go to the clinic with that one time. We're lookin' into it. But another pair of eyes can't hurt.”
He looks up and down at the man, like that army camoflage and his own grizzled countenance gives the lupus some idea what history this kinsman might have in common with his own father. "You tryin' to soldier up, or just want to keep us in the loop?" He doesn't sound like he would be upset by either answer, just that he wants to know how much Marcellus is willing to commit to this fight.