07-05-2013, 04:13 PM
"Jack," he grunts in the affirmative when Tamsin spots him and says his name. Well, maybe Jack'd hoped to be able to get clean before telling the story. But if he's being accused of chasing a garbage truck or getting hit by one (Jack doesn't quite get the joke) he decides to settle that first.
"Ain't that bad," he begins. And it ain't (isn't). It doesn't seem to slow his walk or have effected his mental faculties. He doesn't even wince. That's just his face. The wound is just... there and is having a greater effect on them than it is on him.
"Had to swim to get to the shit," saying it with that veteran's intonation he'd learned from Pops. "Through a river. Of shit," the smell of him making the transition from proverbial to actual fairly easy. It's like he's going to begin the tale, like he's going to tell them it in Smell-O-Vision, but he is not a Galliard, no, so the next part isn't as graphic as the first part smells.
"Got sent by the Sept. Fuckin' snake. Big fuckin' snake. Been huntin' people. Dead fuckin' snake," pulling up the side of his sweatshirt to show where two half-dollar-size puncture wounds have stopped bubbling, liquified flesh erupting out in chunks when he pokes his side.
"Battlesister," not packmate, no, but someone he'd fought alongside and brought here. Here, instead of the Sept where there were any number of other Garou who would be happy to cleanse them.
Looking up at the two, Jack then tosses his head toward Ingrid. There's a certain modesty to his way, now that he's pulled her into the telling. Letting the Galliards take rough dictation for later polishing end embellishment, he does not speak of his own deeds. Saying the snake's dead is enough boasting for him. "She done snuck better than me. Didn't see her. Put a sword in it like a shish kabob from behind. Pinned it. Easy after that," and then, he looks to Hector with a wild and toothy grin that breaks out on his face.
"...Dude," and it isn't a mockery of his usage. He's just stolen it. Added it to his vocabulary. He'll figure out proper usage later.
"Ain't that bad," he begins. And it ain't (isn't). It doesn't seem to slow his walk or have effected his mental faculties. He doesn't even wince. That's just his face. The wound is just... there and is having a greater effect on them than it is on him.
"Had to swim to get to the shit," saying it with that veteran's intonation he'd learned from Pops. "Through a river. Of shit," the smell of him making the transition from proverbial to actual fairly easy. It's like he's going to begin the tale, like he's going to tell them it in Smell-O-Vision, but he is not a Galliard, no, so the next part isn't as graphic as the first part smells.
"Got sent by the Sept. Fuckin' snake. Big fuckin' snake. Been huntin' people. Dead fuckin' snake," pulling up the side of his sweatshirt to show where two half-dollar-size puncture wounds have stopped bubbling, liquified flesh erupting out in chunks when he pokes his side.
"Battlesister," not packmate, no, but someone he'd fought alongside and brought here. Here, instead of the Sept where there were any number of other Garou who would be happy to cleanse them.
Looking up at the two, Jack then tosses his head toward Ingrid. There's a certain modesty to his way, now that he's pulled her into the telling. Letting the Galliards take rough dictation for later polishing end embellishment, he does not speak of his own deeds. Saying the snake's dead is enough boasting for him. "She done snuck better than me. Didn't see her. Put a sword in it like a shish kabob from behind. Pinned it. Easy after that," and then, he looks to Hector with a wild and toothy grin that breaks out on his face.
"...Dude," and it isn't a mockery of his usage. He's just stolen it. Added it to his vocabulary. He'll figure out proper usage later.