[personal profile] kiananlogs
Wednesday, 30 November 2016
The moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (10% full).

A day or two later, and Rina is at the hub, finishing off a workout. Or perhaps taking a nap, since she's stretched out in shavasana. One thing is plain that wasn't, before. She's wearing lean stretch knits: a close-fitting tank with a scrappy back that reveals the extent of both muscles and scars, and black yoga pants that reveal a definite baby bump. Small enough that it could have been missed under a bulky jacket and loose shirt, but large enough that it can't be mistaken for much else. It explains, too, the look of gaunt fatigue.

The door to the stairs, thankfully, is fairly quiet. That's a good thing, given the odd hours of comings and goings at the Walker compound. This time, it's Trace coming back after a day of being off doing who knows what. He glances around as he comes in, unbuttoning and removing his jacket, and tossing it on the couch before sitting on the edge of it to take off his shoes. He's humming to himself, although it's quieter once he gets inside. And it's off-key.

It's a while before Rina says anything. When she does, her hoarse voice drops into the peace and quiet. "You're terrible, y'know that?" She's sitting by then, crosslegged.

Mercifully, the humming doesn't last overly long, and gets quieter at the moment anything is said. "Actually, ," Trace says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I can't sing either, according to my packmate. Who's a galliard, so he should know." Shoes are set next to the couch and his jacket is set on top of them after he's emptied the contents of his pockets into one of the interior pockets of the jacket. And although he's clearly trying not to stare, the ahroun's gaze keeps going back to Rina. It's averted to the ceiling, then, after a moment, and the last things to be set on the jacket are a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, covered with a sleeve.

There are more scars than easily counted: a gunshot star on the back of one shoulder, carvings that swirl down her arms, a few cuts visible through the straps of the cage-back top. Between the body, the looks, and the way she moves… it'd be hard not to stare, really.

Rina unfolds from the floor with an easy grace, rising in a smooth movement and heading to the kitchen to get some water. "He is absolutely right. You couldn't carry a tune if they put it in a suitcase with wheels on it. I mean, damn."

"I try not to subject people to it too often," Trace says, grinning a little bit more, and then shrugs his shoulders. "But actually I kind of like singing."

From the chill outside, the ahroun had been wearing a sweater, which comes off and finds its way on top of the pile of his stuff, and the button down shirt after that, before he gets up and moves over towards the workout area, stretching somewhat and suppressing a yawn. Under the button down shirt is a tank top, which clearly shows some of the various battlescars on his right arm and shoulder. And the tank top shows the tattoos as well: an armband of bare tree branches and a few leaves, and an equally intricate compass star made out of circuitboard on his shoulder reaching towards his collarbone. "I can keep rhythm pretty well though," he adds.

"Pretty ink," she says, leaning idly against one of the counters with a glass in one hand.

Trace turns his head over his shoulder and grins a little bit, ducking a nod. "Thanks," he says. The ahroun gets to the mat— and bows to it before stepping on and then settling down to kneel and sit on his heels, an almost unconscious clearly habitual motion. Thirty seconds or so of sitting, palms on his knees and his breath visibly settles, tension lessens a notch or two.

She lets him be, then, settling into quiet meditation in a different corner. Centered, calm, her energy like an anchor in the room.

Minutes pass in actual silence this time. Trace doesn't even fidget aside from taking some time to move his hands into the mudra that goes with the meditation. It looks somewhere between dedication to the practise, and the force of routine.

Centre found, though, and another deep breath out, he tilts his head slightly to one side to glance over at the kin. "How've you been?" he asks, and then almost hastily amends the question with, "I mean, since Monday." It's an attempt, clearly, to not be overly solicitous. It almost even works.

"I'm good," she answers, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Sorry, I… figured you'd want some peace and quiet. You use mudras for meditation?"

Trace nods, just the slightest motion, and the same slight barely detectable motion— not enough to disturb the pose or the balance— forms a shrug. "One of my teachers when I was a cub made me do yoga," he says, somewhere between bitterness, wistfulness, and simple recollection. "It stuck, and so did the hand position things." He purses his lips. "Dunno quite why, but it always makes me feel more connected to the whole thing, so I just go with it."

"Good for balance," Rina murmurs. "I'll leave you to it, though. Silence is better."

The acknowledgement is a twitch of a grin, one corner of his mouth creeping upward, before Trace settles back down. The minutes pass again, the ahroun moving from the meditation into a series of kneeling and floor poses interspersed with twists, culminating with kapotasana. The yoga clearly did stick, at least inasmuch as the movements seem to be almost as natural as breathing to the ahroun, who folds forward and into child's pose once again.

Another minute, and there it is again, a quiet off-key humming. Off-key enough that it's entirely unrecognizable as to what tune it's actually supposed to be, and it stops less than two bars in with a bit of a sheepish chuckle following. "I know, I know," follows a few breaths after. "Can't carry a tune for shit."

Rina's eyes flicker open slowly, and she smiles a faint, tired little smile. "There's a lasagne in the freezer, if y'hungry."

That gets another grin, that much of his expression can be seen even before he sits up. "Usually, there's no one around t' be bothered by me humming when I'm doing yoga," Trace says. The hint of his native Spanish continues to colour the words. "Whereas over at th' Gnawer's place I get all sorts of shit with J asking me if it's like, humping dog pose or whatever he's come up with on the day in question." For all of the grumbling, Trace sounds like he doesn't mind this either, as he gets to his feet. "And yeah, I'm hungry. So, well, I'm always hungry? But still."

She seems completely at ease, sitting crosslegged on the floor. Perhaps unconsciously, one hand rests over the curve of her belly. "There's usually somethin' in the freezer… I try t'keep it stocked. And if somebody mocks your yoga, I think you owe it to Patanjali to kick their ass. Ahimsa's got its place and all, but seriously."

Trace grins a little bit more, pulling out one of the portions of lasagne from the freezer and then getting a plate out from the cabinet to go about heating it up. "Honestly, I eat a lot of pizza and a lot of Chinese food take-out," he says. "Stuff's that's not that's very good. Especially middle of the night wanting food but not wanting to make too much noise, or make a mess." He leans against the doorway to the kitchen then. "I've kicked J's ass a few times, and yeah, he deserved it. I try not to start shit, though…" he pauses. "If I listened to every time the little voice in the back of my head wanted to hit something or blow shit up or shoot something I'd'a run into something I couldn't've, real fast."

Frowning a little, Rina rises again, watching him. "Who's J?"

'Oh'. The expression is clear on Trace's face and he lets out a little huff of a breath. "Justin. My packmate," he explains. "Gnawer, ahroun. Also Felix, the galliard. An' Watcher, Uktena lupus galliard. Under Coyote. Who told us back when I joined to think of a new pack name and then there was all the stuff with the tower an' such that we never actually got around to it, but…"

Rina raises both eyebrows. "Justin? Huh. I couldn't see him as a Coyote kinda guy." She gives him a wry smile and comes in to refill her glass.

Trace moves such that he's not blocking the doorway when the kin enters the kitchen, one part of him almost always hyper-aware of seeming as unthreatening as possible… for a six foot tall ahroun, that is. And Rina's statement earns her a slightly quizzical look, before Trace shrugs. "Felix was one've the first people I met out here, actually," he explains. "Talked me into joining the pack, an' the fact that it's Coyote didn't hurt much. Y también kept me sane— a.k.a. brought me cigarettes and booze— while I was out on the bawn."

The Kin nods, drinking down half the glass of water. "Pack's a good thing," she murmurs, almost distractedly.

Trace glances back at Rina, and moreover to the fact that she's, well, pregnant, but whatever curiosity remains at that and nothing more. "Yeah," he agrees. "Much as sometimes, J an' I butt heads, it is. Don't know I'd have stayed around long without a pack."

Her smile turns lopsided and wistful; when she looks over to him, he might even pick up on a trace of grief in the shadowed eyes. "Hang on to 'em, then," she says quietly.

Trace watches the kin for a long minute, a not quite easy silence following her words. And then the microwave beeps, and he's moving to get his plate, but also speaks. "Are you alright?" he asks, quietly.

The woman blinks, a flicker of surprise in her expression. For a moment she's caught, taken aback, without smooth words at hand to answer. Then she recovers, giving him a swift, crooked smile. "Yeah, I'm good," she answers. "Why?"

It gets a moment of consideration while Trace fishes a fork out from the drawer, and takes a few bites of the lasagne even while he's carrying it over to the table to sit down. On a chair, even. "You looked a little sad. And, uh. Estás embarazada, so." There's a slight gesture towards her stomach, as if to punctuate the Spanish.

Rina's smile twists a bit at one corner, wryly. "That cracks me up about the romance languages. Y'not pregnant, you're embarrassed. Or in an embarrassing condition." She fills the glass again— someone's being responsible about hydration!— and comes out to join him. "I'm fine," she reiterates, this time flashing him a smile with enough charm to stop traffic.

There's a grin, in between bites of lasagne, and a nod. "I did the thing you hear about English language learners doing once, in school," Trace says, shaking his head a bit. "My first grade teacher was saying that she was embarrassed, and, well. I thought that she was actually embarazada and went up and looked at her and asked some stupid question that I've thoroughly blocked out of my memory." He tugs at his lip with his teeth for a moment. "I mean, the argument could be made that English is the one with the problem of not making sense though."

"Oh, English is fuckin' awful," Rina agrees. "Most messed-up kindergartner's collage ever." She drinks down another swallow of water. "You got a place, or are y'stayin' here?"

Trace points, more-or-less through the wall instead of the doorway, towards one of the spare rooms. "Here for now, though now that it's a reasonable time of month I really need to look into getting a place," he says. "I'd have gone when I got back to the city, but I didn't want to end up getting th' cops called when I showed up to look at the place. Somewhere near the Industrial sector that our pack claims as territory'd be best, that's my current 'plan' as much as it is."

Rina nods. "You want help, gimme a call, yeah? I'd be happy to help you set it up."

Another nod. "I might just take you up on that," Trace says, with a grin that verges more on the sheepish end of grateful than amused. "I've never actually done the whole getting a place entirely myself, before. Western Eye I stayed with a friend and just kind of couch surfed with various sept members while I was there."

"And there's not many Kin here," Rina says. "We moved some people out when all the Tower shit started happening."

Trace takes the last bite of lasagne from his plate. "That was really good," he says, and then nods. "Yeah. I— I," there's a pause, a flash of grief that pushes almost to the surface, and the words that follow do somewhat to explaining why. "It's why I haven't made arrangements for my parents— Haley's parents, really, but I'm all they have left now— to move up here. Though I will, soon."

Rina gives a small, serious nod. "Well, y'need anything, just get in touch. My email and stuff is around here somewhere… or I can give you a card with my number, I probably got one somewhere."

"Thanks," Trace says again, getting up to clear his plate to the sink, and stifling another yawn. "Means a lot." The ahroun doesn't seem inclined to carry the conversation further, instead going about the cleaning up in an easy enough silence, with another nod of thanks and tucking the contact information provided into his pocket, before heading off towards the previously indicated room, and presumably to bed.
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Kianan Rowan Abrams

July 2017


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