It's...well. It's late. Really late. But, there's still light coming from within the Iron Church. Damion doesn't always sleep these days. He can get away with it due to one of his Contracts. He spends a lot of time running the gym, so sometimes he doesn't have the opportunity to exercise himself. Right now the big dragon is on a bench, grunting softly now and then as he does presses with a heavily laden bar, which seems like it should take more effort to lift than what he's displaying. He's wearing a tanktop and shorts, sneakers on his feet. There's a layer of sweat on his scaley red skin, which is kind of weird if you think about it. There's nobody else there at the moment.
There's some sort of law that if you are a disaffected antihero with a death wish, you must wear a leather jacket. Teagan just knows it's in the by-laws. A leather jacket, hanging open over a t-shirt that reads 'Fuck It' in faded yellow lettering, ratty jeanss, worn shitkicker boots. It's practically a uniform. There's a backpack slung over their back, and the door's pulled open with one hand. Teagan's natural sleep cycle means 4 AM is natural for them, so, here they are. All shadows and shifting expressions -- literally, Mirrorskins are weird -- and they scuff their way into the Iron Church, planting their feet at the edge of the mat and folding their arms across their chest. "Hunh."
Damion heard the door open when Teagan entered, and glances towards them. He doesn't recognize the other Summer, other than noting their aura puts them in the same Court. He nods once in greeting, but that's all for a while. He continues his set, pumping that iron several more times before settling it back in the cradle. Then he raises to a sitting position, grabbing a towel set nearby and wiping off his head and face. The former shines a bit. Eventually he raises a hand towards them and calls out, "Hey there. You're here late." Then he's raising to his feet, stretching. Average for a man means that he towers over the Darkling.
Hell of a Mantle, too: shimmering heat, the distant static of radios going off, occasional spatters of automatic gunfire, the scent of copper or blood. You don't get much more Summer than them. Teagan waits, not about to interrupt a fellow Summer in the pursuit of physical self-improvement. Instintively, their hand reaches into their pocket for a vape, takes it out, puts it back again.
Teagan's average height for a man, too, but they're far more lithe, so the physical mismatch remains the same. "Uh, well, it's about noon for me," they point out drily, in an accentless voice somewhere between an alto and a tenor. "You're the one here late."
Damion wipes off his arms next, then tosses the towel down onto the bench. "Well, I live here. Name is Damion King. Summer. Harvestman. Member of the Fate's Harvest Freehold. You would be?" He studies the androgynous Summer curiously as he starts to walk towards them, coming to a stop a few feet in front of them. He offers an oversized hand, complete with rough palm and sharp looking black nails. If they take it, he gives a firm but not overpowering shake. Obviously strong, but seemingly not feeling a need to try and show off.
"That doesn't much explain being up so late. But yeah, sure, you live here." Teagan's arms stay crossed across their chest, eyes narrowing, considering. "Teagan. Broken Bough." Oh goody, a Martyr. Aaaaand that seems to about cover it. When the oversized hand is offered, a slender, long-fingered hand with close-cropped nails is offered. Despite the scars, the skin's too smooth, as if it were just created a few minutes ago. Fucking Mirrorskins. They return the handshake exactly as given. Not quite as strong as he is, but determined to hold their own. "My fucking car broke yesterday, and Clio shoved me at the Wayhouse to get a shower after she broke my nose." No malice there. "So I guess I'm here."
Damion shakes then releases their hand. "Mmm. Those things happen." Whether he's talking about the car or the broken nose is hard to say. "You could have broken down in a worse town though. It's not too bad around here. People are pretty friendly. There's some cool people in the Freehold." He glances around the gym. "This place is pretty open to Lost by the way. Stop by if you ever need anything. Where do you usually hang your hat?" He moves back towards the bench he was on before, starting to remove the weights from the bar and place them back on the racks. Once that's done, he wipes down the bench.
"All the fucking time." The sad truth of life as a Harbinger. You live in a perpetual 'was that a sign?' weariness. "So everyone keeps telling me. I haven't been able to get a decent bar fight -- freaking llama stepped in bleating about his 'collective' or the shit ever -- but the wings are okay and the cops haven't got on me for sleeping in my car yet." Well, that answers at least one of those questions. Sort of. "Good. I'll come by if I need stuff." Teagan's arms cross across their chest again, and they shrug, an easy roll of their shoulders. "I don't. Broken Boughs go where they're needed. Me, Baby, the beater of the month, someone's couch or bed, take out the trash, get another call." Beat. "What the fuck's a Harvestman? Ain't that like the shitty spiders that ain't spiders?"
"They're a group within the local Freehold. They're the more...martially inclined members. The soldiers, basically. Soldiers and scouts." He considers her. "I THINK there are rooms you can stay at in the Wayhouse? I never stayed there myself so I'm not sure. If not, if you ever need somewhere to stay for the night you can come here." He stretches again, loosening up. "Who's Baby?"
Their eyebrows arc up, and Teagan says, simply, "Hunh." Beat. "They any good, or just a bunch of stepdicks who want to be important, present company potentally excepted on account of I don't know you?" Their tone seems to indicate that they find it equally likely that option A or option B is the reality of the situation. "Yeah, there are rooms there." Their shoulders hunch up slightly. "Not a big fan of being where people might sniff my ass at any moment." Their eyebrows rise again, and Teagan asks, "What's it cost?" To stay there, apparently. And then Teagan's hand goes back over their shoulder, patting the backpack gently. "Baby is my machete." Right. They did say they were a Broken Bough. Of course they have their weapon on them.
Damion shrugs, "I've found most of them to be good folks. And decent in a fight. It's a volunteer thing, so you get varying levels of ability. Training is something you can get too." He quirks a brow at them. "Sniff your ass? And nothing. I just like to help out when I can." He glances at their pack, and his lips quirk. "Ah, of course. I shold have known.
"Eh well. People can always get better." Whether Teagan includes themselves in 'people who can get better' is questionable. "I dunno if I'm staying, so, Freehold shit not so much yet." There's a sort of resigned quality there, for whatever reason (Harbinger, the reason is Harbinger, nothing happens without it fucking Meaning Something and that's just so TIRING). "Yeah, you know. 'Hi Teagan are you a danger to yourself and others by a definition that is subject to the whims of someone whose mental health is as good as any of us maybe'. Ass-sniffing." They click their tongue against the roof of their mouth, and the idea that it costs nothing seems to genuinely surprise them. "Hunh." What were they expecting? "Yeah, probably." A look over their shoulder. "Anyway. You ain't a Darkling, so I shouldn't stay forever, crashing offer is nice and all but like." They don't believe it doesn't cost anything, maybe. "I'll come punch you tomorrow." Uh, thanks?
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