After their eventful day, they crashed early, however sleep refused to come for Artemus. First one hour, then a second passed with him merely lying there looking to the ceiling. His mind too active for his body to process everything and hope to sleep, he needed to think things out to their spider’s web of conclusions. Carefully he slipped free of Dakota’s nuzzling form, albeit reluctantly, and dressed quietly. A simple white A-shirt and then a pair of shorts, he put on the el-cheapo tennis hoes he wore when Dakota found him.
Like a wraith, he glided through the house with only the sound of a few creaking boards to let anyone know he left. Moving toe to heel, the way he’d been taught as a boy, he slipped out the front door. Starting easy, he set off at a steady lope up the street he let the distance expand before him like a great tunnel. He had a specific location in mind, just hoped the old man was still alive. The course offered him plenty of time along the way.
Small homes bleed into monolithic towers of glass and brick as he wove the course through town towards a denser portion of the swamps. While the bayou surrounded the populated areas, there were sections that connected in strange ways. Each inhale of breath carried thoughts of Dakota with them. Flashes of memory about how they began in a string of images straight to their parting of ways.
He thought of how at first they couldn’t stand each other, how he thought she was so annoying. Like a five year old with the body of a porn star. Each snarled ingratitude that upset her. Every night she crawled into his bed when lightning disrupted the sky; the nights, where no words could get through as nightmares of the vampire bitch Lilah ensnared Dakota’s mind and all he could do was but rock her like a scared child. The three-way engagement with Illassa, Dakota, and Trea because he didn’t want to choose between the super model, the Spanish kitten, and the whimsical fae.
Artemus thought of the night he ate Cologrio’s heart. How it felt like a piece of the Nimir-Raj passed on to him, a trait that was irreplaceable no matter the shell. He thought of his old Pard; not just the leopards but also all of them. Lightfoot the were-lion who could go from oversized teddy bear to mauling mountain in the batting of a lash. Jatt, the Nimir-Ra who fell in love with a hyena who could never decide whether she wanted to lead, or be led. He thought of Beryl Artois, the only rogue leopard he’d ever dealt with. How she attacked friends and enemies alike, yet always managed to elude punishment until pack and pard both held a gauntlet to mete out justice.
Pavement gave way to marsh as the beast led every step, its senses focused outward while the man continued to look inward. His sides all ready aching, stomach churning with a warning that it would need to empty soon. Gliding from stump to stump he moved easily at first, pausing when the cat sensed something hiding in the reeds. Still the images played through his mind as man and beast moved in a harmony few ever found. He’d seen others fight their animals, the ones that bested theirs naming themselves alphas, the ones that could not control the animal becoming everything under the bar. He never understood that. Why control that side? Why fight it? Each could benefit from the other, beast and man compensating for the other’s weaknesses. This pause proved the difference between life and death as an owl swooped down to snatch up a small rodent darting between logs only to become the aperitif of a gator.
Smiling faintly at the display he set off again, the beast acting more cautiously now with its movements. Hands going up into the trees to swing from the branches that would support him and ignoring the angry hiss of pissed of pythons and other dangers until he broke through a line of brush to stand before a dilapidated plantation house. No lights to indicate anyone being home didn’t mean a thing as Artemus stopped to catch his breath.
A slower pace led him up to stand before the large wrap-around porch. Wooden carvings of owls decorated the roof and rails of the deck. “Guess he doesn’t want any pests to come by,” Artemus quipped remembering the protective symbol from a few different sources saying it warded against all sorts of vermin.
Knuckles had just begun to rise when the door creaked open revealing man well past his prime. Spine bent, he looked up at Artemus with the eyes of a snake, smiling warmly. “Back from death’s door I see. Then again, knew you would. Like me, ya are boi. Like me you will always survive.” Cackling, the strange old man ushered Artemus inside.
“I know better than to question, Uncle Lowel,” shaking his head, the younger man stepped through the door.
“Now what brings you out mah way? Bit o’da shine? Or maybe you gots some questions for meh?” Keen eyes look Artemus over before turning away. “Yah alls ready knows ye’d have mah blessin. Just wanted to hears it didn’t ye? And stop that ‘Uncle’ nonsense save that for ya folks, pair of knuckle heads.”
“Yeah I did need to hear it I guess,” True to his words, Artemus didn’t question the door closing of its own accord behind them. “ Grandpa.”
(post inspired by 'Like Nobody Else' from My Darkest Days)
-- Edited by ARTEMUS KURGEN on Saturday 16th of July 2011 02:16:55 AM
-- Edited by ARTEMUS KURGEN on Saturday 16th of July 2011 02:18:03 AM
Sunrise found Artemus walking free of the swamp with a lighter step. Smiling a little, he tossed a cloth bag no bigger than a hacky sack up and caught it, smelling the grave dust and bonemeal within. He wouldn’t be caught unawares ever again. Artemus could be a fair person, but he wasn’t afraid to cheat and fight dirty to get his way. It was little over an hour before he found the way back to Dakota’s.
Sneakers slap against the curb to knock off dried mud as best he could. If she asked where he went, Artemus resolved to say ‘a walk’. His hunt for Amaris had introduced the former pard leader to many secrets, the most advantageous being able to lie to your own. True, lycans held many tricks to, literally, sniff out deception but when the person believed every word that came out of their own mouth, it increased the odds in the favor of the liar.
He didn’t want to resort to keeping secrets, but Lowel was a skeleton in the very back of the family closet. Not that he was a bad guy, he just dabbled in dangerous things. Lowel lived alone by choice, and Artemus knew why. He smelled the lurching dead beneath the house, and the salt and blood that kept them locked away.
A few extra minutes taken to scrape the last vestiges of mud from his shoes Artemus headed into the house; taking the muddy shoes off before padding to the bathroom Dakota had shared with Alex. Shoes set just inside the door and gris-gris on the sink; he turned on the water and waited for it to get as hot as possible. Peeling out of sweat soaked clothes; he stood under the cascade of steaming water for a few moments, breathing in the vapors to get the swamp gasses out of his lungs.
‘Arrogance and ignorance walk hand in hand as children o’da foo’, boy. Don’t be forgettin’ dat in Detroit you were top cat. Down here, ya gots to climb the ladda all ova, ya be surrounded by stronger animals, so ya best be learnin from’em’. Truer words, Artemus thought while thinking over Lowel’s parting advice. Exhaling heavily, he killed the water once every ounce of mud and swamp fled his body.
Stepping from the shower, Artemus let the air dry his body naturally while wiping steam from the mirror. He barely recognized himself just then. Lines around his mouth and eyes arched down from trouble and worry. His hair felt thinner and looked the part. It would need a cut soon as, being a hand length below his shoulders. Definitely too long, that was certain.
Drifting through the house just as he’d left, Artemus slipped back into bed beside Dakota with lighter thoughts. Quietly he slipped the gris-gris under the mattress before slipping his arms around Kota. Nuzzling gently he closed his eyes and did his best to get some sleep before she woke him up in a matter of hours. Hopefully the bag would do its job and he’d not see those eyes in his dreams.
For the second night in a row, Artemus found himself strolling through Nola. Unlike the first where he'd gone to see Lowel, this one remained aimless. He felt the atrophy in his muscles...and his beast. The first he could get back up with little trouble, however the second would take months. That kind of work was something he couldn’t openly practice or it might get misconstrued. New cat in town getting stronger was a political nightmare.
True, he told Jess that he didn’t care who was in charge, and Artemus meant that. He didn’t give a shit about power plays and the pecking order…as long as he was left the fuck alone. That, unfortunately, was the flip side. Something always came along to fuck with you. That’s when muscle became a necessity. The constant requirement to prove repeatedly you’re a predator, not food.
“Can’t keep slinking off to see Lowel even if his place is perfect for training. Plus things to train…on,” That possibility was something to think on another night. Moreover, sneaking off to see his grandfather would mean telling Dakota about him…eventually. It wasn’t until he came across the smell of freshly turned earth that Artemus noticed he’d wandered into the heart of the cemetery.
“Irony?” Looking from stone to marker he walked between a few rows where he couldn’t read the names before coming to stand before a stretch of Mausoleums. In that moment, he was a five-year-old boy again. It was as if a conveyor carried him to the last one. Kurgen etched in wide lettering and below it were the birth and death of his grandmother, Imiline.
Sifting through the box of things he'd asked Dakota to keep helped him pass the time while she worked in her studio or wrote out different songs. Good thing for it too, because he had a lot of rebuilding to do. Picture of Lowel set aside he spread out the contents on the floor.
To the left went the tech goodies. His external hard drives that contained every bit of research he'd done on therianthropes and various other supernatural nasties. Admitted much of it was sparce and sorting fact from crap was most of the work. "I wonder if they took down the Imaginarium?" Something more to be worked through later. Stacking the Maxtor 180s neatly, he went through some old manuals deciding they were junk when something small fell from between the last book's pages. Holding up the diskette case he actually snickers. "Of all the things to survive this box...you'd be the one." With a shake of his head, Artemus set aside his copy of the Anarchist Cookbook.
In front he took out three leather cases, carefully unrolling them to let each set of throwing knives shine brightly. He took them all out and examined intimately to see whichneeded resharpened, though he'd more than likely take them all to the stone and oil. One case was all silver, the second cold iron, while the last was a mixed alloy of the two. These weren't his best knives, but they'd do for now. Finally he took out the case with his family crest on it and slid the set of throwing cards into his palm. With deliberate care he shuffled them in his palm, feeling soft burn of silver against his fingertips. While mostly for show and flash he still felt complete again with them in his hands. Holding up the Queen of Diamonds he looked at the gap in the middle of the card meant for holding it like a bladed brass knuckle.
"Guns are just so impersonal, any idiot can point and squeeze a trigger. Just something poetic about getting up close and feeling the blade cut through flesh," he commented whistfully to himself before giving the deck another one-handed shuffle. "Should put these away before I get nastalgic."
Each knife and card returned to its proper place as he worked on the pile to the right. His different journals and notes covering different topics from dealing with zoathrope leaders and their methods of leadership. Which ways seemed to work and which ways proved to be land mines waiting to happen. To proper ettiquette when interacting with those groups. The pride of Tigers and Lions, the focused importance of children. How the pack structure of lycanthropes was so far removed from actual wolf packs. Even a book entirely on leopards discussing no definable origin to where the Nimir title came from though linguisticly it was either South American, Aztekian, or Middle Eastern. Of course he also had two or three on his different adventures with vampires and notes on the bloodlines. His plan at one point had been to turn these notes and observations into a single piece that could be passed from one Pard leader to the next."Maybe Jessica'll get more use out of these than I ever did..."
Carefully he put everything back in the box except for the journals and the manauls that could be thrown away. The diskette of the AC would find a home elsewhere considering the nature within. Wouldn't do to have that kind of distructive knowledge fall into irresponsible hands.
-- Edited by ARTEMUS KURGEN on Tuesday 2nd of August 2011 03:23:50 PM
“Jess is hooking you up at the clinic shouldn’t that be enough to help out?”
Ruminating over that question, Artemus sat and looked through a few different classifieds. He could try and get back into journalism, maybe apply at some local papers, but that kind of work he wasn’t up for yet; too haggard and demanding. Plus he’d never get back in shape running around town taking photos. Good for cardio, but little else. Then he saw it. A small column at the very bottom of the page, easy enough to be overlook.
“Help wanted, Gretna looking for evening laborers. Call for positions.” Clicking his tongue, Artemus cut out the article with his exacto knife and put it off to the side. Right next to the clipping he saw for New Orleans Sherriff station looking for deputies.
