The elderly house sits relatively on its own, back a bit from the road, behind a slightly-overgrown, winter-dying yard with a scattering of old growth trees which have long since shed their leaves upon it. Despite the impending Christmas season, the dark brown front door is undecorated. There are no lights on in the front windows, but the lantern-style light by the door is on and welcoming, and sheds its yellow glow over the brief set of steps. There is a note pinned to the dark wood, the paper folded in half to obscure the message, but with a large capital T inscribed on the visible front, in a distinctive and quite old-fashioned script. Unfolded, the note reads: 'Doorbell doesn't work. Door's unlocked, do come in. Kitchen is at the back.'
-> >> Teagan to Here << <-============================================
Rolled 3 Successes
< 1 2 4 4 9 9 9 >
============================-> >> Intelligence + Wyrd No Flags << <-
The door opens, the door closes. There's no one, but the door opens and the door closes. Footsteps, and the door opening and the door closing. Those footsteps track quietly -- but not silently -- back through the house to the kitchen. And it's only once they're all the way in the kitchen, and have spotted Rook, that Teagan appears again. Who doesn't Smoke everywhere? Teagan deffo does.
The kitchen is indeed at the back of the house, as promised. It's a spectacular mish-mash of eras, in terms of decor, which hasn't been updated in at least a couple of decades. But it's brightly, cheerfully lit, and perched atop the vintage (and still functioning!) Frigidaire, a slightly tinny, old radio plays muted oldies. Rook's at the stove-- half-turned toward the door while the disembodied footfalls track through the house. "Teagan," is all he says, warmly enough, and turns back to the stove when Teagan materializes. "A moment, and I'll have coffee ready." Crisp received pronunciation still marks his voice. There's an old-fashioned percolator coffeepot on the gas burner, just coming to the boil, and - oh, he does remember - a bottle of Jameson's on the counter, next to a pair of mugs. "How've you been keeping, then?"
"Hey, Rook," Teagan answers, finding themselves a seat and slinging their long-legged form into it. "I'm ... doing, man. Just... doing. Lots of shit to unpack, but that's for a formal session." Their fractured-mirror gaze flickers, and they wince slightly, as if they're shaking off an injury. "Listen, I, uh -- are you sworn in to the Freehold? Planning on it, or?"
"Planning on it," Rook replies, lifting his voice a touch over the increasingly-cheerful bubbling of the percolator. With a swift and elegant movement, he tips whiskey into both mugs, then slides the coffee pot off the burner and tops off the mugs. He turns then and carries both to the table, depositing one in front of Teagan. As he sits, he fixes them with a sharply inquisitive gaze, pale hazel to Teagan's fractured one. "Do you /need/ a formal session? I'm at your disposal, of course." Slender hands curl around his own coffee cup, soaking in the warmth.
A sniff from Teagan. "Aight. This is a good way to get involved, like, meet the Monarch and shit." They click their tongue against the roof of their mouth. "So, like, we did the Ashen Hunt recently, and ... " Their story trails off as the coffee's delivered, and they offer a half-smile along with a "Hey, thanks." Their long-fingered hands wrap around the mug, mirroring Rook's gesture, consciously or not. Plus, it's a nice warm mug. "Eh. I mean, it wouldn't hurt. But I'm doing okay, on the overall."
Rook smiles, a little crookedly. "Devil's in the details," he counters mildly enough. "Overall is all well and good but the cracks at the edges need tending, too. I trust you to know if and when you need my professional services." Rook pauses to take a long sip of his coffee, steam curling through the fine wisps of pale coppery hair at his temples and hairline. "I would like to hear about the Hunt, though, if you're in the mood to share. I haven't really settled in yet, so I haven't got a line on where to get the news."
"I cut a guy in half two days ago and it's not bothering me at all, because the fucker deserved it," Teagan answers, which may or may not be their answer about whether the edges need tending, or maybe they're putting that forward for professional consideration. "Like, in half." But as they sip their coffee, they don't look the least bit sorry. They look proud. Satisfied. Like a cat with a mouthful of fish. They click their tongue against the roof of their mouth. "So, that was at the Hunt. Which is why I came to see you. See... " A pause as their voice trails off. "There was this group of hunters. Humans. They had a pair of glasses, let them see us. I'm told the glasses were taken, destroyed. But they'd been hunting us for years, and then came here. Killed two of us -- I found one of the bodies -- and tortured a third. That's why I came to see you. That girl's gotta be fucked up."
The pause after Teagan goes quiet is marked by the quiet tick of a wall clock on the other side of the kitchen. "Sometimes," Rook finally answers softly, "the fuckers deserve it." The epithet sounds slightly off in his crisp tone. He settles back in his chair and lets out a heavy breath. "Of course I'll do what I can."
"He really fucking deserved it." With the sort of tone that intimates that they've been saying this an awful lot lately, they take a sip of their coffee, then sigh, "They were pulling her fucking claws out. And they dumped the first body in a public place." Another swallow of coffee follows as it cools. "Good. I'll intro you to Her Maj, and all that."
|
