There will always be another.
Monday, 21 November 2016 09:40![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trace_logs
21 November, 2016
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (55% full).
Morning finds Trace in the kitchen with the door open to the bigger room, plates on one side of the table in front of him which were clearly breakfast, with more breakfast (some sort of egg scramble with a lot of meat that is mercifully not burnt) still on the stove. Right now though, the ahroun is paying more attention to his phone, tapping away at the screen at what seems to be text messages.
Slug comes up the stairs with a a milk crate held in both hands, his every step accompanied by the rattle of glass on glass. The Gnawer has a good hundred dollars or so in vodka in the box— more, if they're premium brands. From one corner peeks out a few cartons of cigarettes, a small brown bag wedged between them and the bottles. He sets the bottles down on the first open space he finds and sighs, looking around the space.
Trace turns at the sound of the door opening, pushing himself up from his seat, though the metaphorical hackles settle almost as soon as they're raised. There's a nod of greeting that follows. "Hola," he offers, and then furrows his brows, hunting for recognition of the clearly familiar face. His gaze goes from Gnawer, to vodka, to Gnawer again. "I'm Trace. I uh." Pause. "Don't think we've really met properly?"
Slug has the sort of face that not even a mother could forget; or half of one, anyways. He jerks his head in the direction of the Ahroun, then pauses to fetch himself a cigarette from a softpack in his pocket. "Stuff for the Alpha. Can't buy it himself, you know." Slug says. "No. Can't say that we have. I'm Slug, Finds-His-Way. Ragabash, member of Sagacity, Elder of the Gnawers. And an Adren."
Trace reclaims his coffee cup from the table, and then leans against the door frame. "Yeah," Trace says, nodding. "You challenged the Gaians who played hot potato with it, sí?" There's a quiet snort as though he finds something amusing. "I'm otherwise called Six-Shooter. Fostern and ahroun, packed under Coyote, yadda yadda yadda… Spent most of the summer out in the woods, so that's probably got something to do with that not having met people outside of moots thing."
"I did." Slug says, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his lips worrying the filter. "I didn't know people would be so interested. Guess a lot of people wanted to handle that one. Maybe I should have put my challenge on ebay." He shrugs. "So, why did you spend so much time out in the sticks?"
Trace takes a long sip from his coffee, and shrugs. "Ebay for shifters… someone ought to market it." There's a grin. "It was more interesting than it would have been without the hand-off," he says, then lifts his shoulders one more time. "Guardian duty," Trace says. "Didn't realise how long I'd be out there when I stepped up, and didn't feel right stepping back when it was needed. When I got here, it felt like what was needed, what with everything going on." He tugs at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. "Or maybe I just needed the space to think."
"Better ebay than pornhub," Slug says, as dryly as possible. "I was a guardian myself, for a long time. Six months or so. Helped clear my head, showed me a few things I didn't know about the world. More city wolves should spend a little time in the raw parts of the world, and vice-versa. Better in the winter than in the summer, though. Less bugs."
Trace nods, managing to not have much of a visible reaction to Slug's first comment, other than, "There's more coffee still in the coffee maker." His free hand pushes hair out of his face, though it doesn't work very well, before he continues, "Yeah. Not sure I'd willingly spent so much time away from the city again, but it… was worth it. Plus," Trace says, grinning, "if I hadn't, there's no way I'd have gotten to know the Bawn and the surrounding woods, honestly. I missed hot showers something bad."
"I'll take it." Slug says. He shuffles around over toward the coffee pot and, after fishing around for some sugar and some strong-flavored creamer. he dresses himself up a cup and pours until its full. "Showers, hot food at the push of a button. Phones. Beds. Money, and everything attached to it. You never know how much you miss all of it, until it ain't there."
"Yeah," Trace agrees once again, and his look gets distant. "Or until it's gone forever," he adds, and then the moment of bitterness passes, and the Walker looks momentarily sheepish. "Ain't lettin' that shit happen here," he murmurs. "Coffee." There's a snort. "Was damn hard making decent coffee out in the woods, honestly. I'll settle for the better of the instant sludge types, but nothing compares to properly brewed coffee. With hot water."
"It isn't so bad if you get the right kind of pot. Hardest part is finding water, and grind to go with it. So long as you can get someone to run you both…" Slug takes a swig of his coffee. "Not much peppermint cream and donuts out there, though. Or whipped cream. Or chocolate syrup. Or… anything fun like that."
Trace nods, looking at his now-empty coffee cup for a minute. "Or ice cream. That in particular doesn't usually survive very well," he says. "So, you've been around here a while, I take it?" the Walker asks, eventually. "St. Claire, that is."
"The only way that'll work is if you keep a fridge out there, or… if you keep an ice cream maker out there. I guess you could keep the milk in the waters of a stream, especially in winter." Slug considers it for a moment longer. "I was born here. Spent most of my life here, but I travel now'n then. Been up and down the west coast, out east once, but not long."
Trace snorts. "And run the fridge on what, a generator? Maybe you could run it on deep cycle marine batteries though or something. Would have been nice some of those summer days, though." He shrugs. "Certainly not a likelihood in any case." There's a nod. "I grew up down in L.A. Went up to Western Eye after everything that but never felt right there, came up here after that." Whatever previous bitterness doesn't creep back in now, rage doesn't threaten to boil back up to the surface, and Trace seems to have it pretty together, for the moment at least. "Still need to get myself a place, though."
"Eat what you make, only make it when you're ready to eat. Certain gifts can make some machines work, you know, just for a little bit…" Slug trails off. "Sorry about what happened down south, in L.A. I knew people there. Around there. I don't know how you like it here, but… I'm glad you are here. We could use the bodies, and you could use a place to lay your head. I hope you like it here."
There's a faint smile, a real smile, that Trace offers to the older Garou for a moment, before moving over to fill his coffee cup again. "It's a good place," Trace says, setting his coffee on the table and clearing his dishes over to the sink, before continuing. "If I'm going to be anywhere, it might as well be here. Plus, I've got a pack and everything, could be a lot worse…" There's a pause, and Trace tilts his head to one side for a moment. "Scale of one to ten— once the moon's smaller, of course— how bad of an idea is it to prank this place a bit? No more glitter, I promise." It's hard to tell if that promise is serious, though.
Slug lifts up a hand and makes a pinching gesture. "Depends on the prank, and depends on the target. I wouldn't go doing anything to Salem or Thane right now, or Mouse, but… there are others. The important thing to do is to make sure it isn't anything that is too… hm. Pushy? Angry? Nothing too mean, or too far. Take it from a Ragabash, the best stuff comes from a soft touch."
Trace nods, purses his lips a little. "Was honestly thinking of more 'general' stuff, less targeted at any one person in particular. Nail polish on the bars of soap, googly eyes on the food in the fridge, whoopee cushions in the couch… harmless crap like that." He grins. "I mean, I've been on the receiving end of it too, you know?"
"Just keep in mind that the wrong joke at the wrong time can be a very bad thing," Slug says. He puts the last of his cigarette out on one of the Walker's ashtrays, then empties his cup, and refills it with sugar and creamer and, almost as an afterthought, coffee.
Trace nods. "I've gotta do something," Trace points out. "But I try to not put… como se dice…" He pauses and furrows his brow for a moment, "put my foot in my mouth, too much." There's a grin. "The end goal is that it's funny," he says, "not that anyone tears anyone a new one, or frenzies, or that shit. That's less funny."
Slug sloshes his coffee around in the cup and takes a shot, then turns, sitting on the table, folding one long leg over the other at the knee. "I guess it boils down to knowing your audience, more than anything else. Especially with Garou."
Trace takes another sip from his coffee and then sets it down on the counter, standing at the sink and beginning to rinse the dishes. "Yeah," he agrees. "That makes sense." A more-or-less easy silence follows as Trace rinses the accumulated dishes and puts them into the dishwasher— after all, technology is useful— and then reclaims his coffee and fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I'll figure it out, got some time to do so in anyway." There's a grin. "Being out in the sticks was damn good for having a lot of time to think, that much is true. Didn't get caught up, mostly, in the every day crap."
"Lonely out there, though. Sometimes. Can be good to have a think, but give it long enough, and that sort of thing starts to drive you batty. At least if you're in a pack you can have a little chat over the mental mind link thing, back and forth, yada-yada-yada." Slug peels back his hood and checks the time on his phone, or something like that. "Feels good not to have the tower looming over us now. Still work to be done, but it feels like the Sept and city got some breathing room now. Ain't had that in a while."
Trace pulls out a lighter, flicking it idly a few times before also pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The ahroun continues to fidget with the lighter after though. "Lots of things can drive a man batty, though," he muses. "Some worse than others."
"Most of them, women," Slug says, smirking just a tiny bit. He eyes Trace's lighter a little bit, then looks elsewhere. "Just think. All we've got to do is deal with a mysterious thing that's taken over a nuclear power plant, and the city will be nice and safe, and we'll all have nothing to do."
"Boredom is not on my list of 'fates worse than death'," Trace notes, with a slight snort. "Although my mother did always say that whole thing about idle hands, when I was growing up." There's a pause. "When she was there, at least," Trace corrects. "And yes, I have a list."
"Boredom is a bad thing, not because it sucks, but because it makes you do stupid things just to make it go away," Slug says. The Charach would know. He sets his cup down and crosses his arms across his chest. "I stopped worrying about that sort of stuff a few years ago. No sense tormenting yourself, thinking about the awful way you're going to die. No matter what, it'll be bad."
Trace snorts, again. It's almost laughter, and it seems to dissipate at least some of the natural tension for a brief moment. "Yeah," Trace says. "Bad for them." He takes a long drag of his cigarette. "Last several things that tried to kill me got a rather unpleasant surprise." Ah, the invulnerability of youth.
"Don't worry," Slug says. "There will always be another. When God kills an assassin, he hires a mercenary— or something like that." Slug says, his smile flat, thin. "I'm sure Hanford has all sorts of things that will try to kill everyone involved in new and exciting ways."
Trace purses his lips, cigarette in hand, "Yeah. Can't say as I really understand all of what's going on with that, actually, other than that what used to be one of the worst pits around is being taken over by something even worse? It's all very less than concrete," he says, and shrugs. "In the mean time, there's plenty of things want to kill us closer to home, too." This doesn't seem to be a complaint, though.
"It isn't… easy to explain. It involves a whole lot of spiritual stuff and theories and nobody really knows the whole truth of any of it. But… yeah. You don't want to get that stuff on you, and you don't want to have it climb into your driver's seat. Pretty sure that's a one way ticket, sure as the Spiral, one you don't come back from."
The ahroun listens, and nods, and furrows his brow for a long moment. "Yeahhhh, the spiritual stuff isn't exactly my best area," Trace notes, "an' I tend to leave most of it beyond the immediate to other people." There's another pause, and Trace says, clearly quoting something, "'You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad.'" He grins.
"Yeah, well. I am not exactly a Theurge myself, but I kind of joined a Chimera pack, and I've always been curious, so after a while… I just sort of ended up thinking about a lot of crap most Garou don't really think about and I guess I must have learned something." Slug coughs. "Not very much, though. No reason you couldn't broaden your horizons a little!"
Trace grins, nods, purses his lips and is silent for a long minute as he takes a long drag off his cigarette. "Pack totems bring out parts of ourselves," he says, eventually. "So there's that, yeah. What's Chimera like, anyway? Only totem I've ever packed under has been Coyote." The grin turns a touch feral, a touch more dangerous.
Slug thinks on that question for a time, his head tilting to the side in a somewhat owlish expression. "Introspective," he says, at long last. "I guess a lot of Garou wouldn't have tha patience for her. Most have called it "navel gazing", but, eh. We're half spirits. Being a little spiritual can't hurt."
"Patience isn't exactly a common trait we tend to have," Trace admits. "Although I try, I've been working on it and such. That whole thing where people suddenly expect me t' be all responsible because I'm Fostern, or something like that." He shrugs.
"Yeah, getting a little boost in power and responsibility will do that to a guy," Slug muses, winking his scarred eye at Trace. "I used to be a completely realm-and-blood kind of guy, all action and skin and not really thinking things through. Didn't really work out."
Trace gives the older Garou a look that is incredulous but not so much as to be disrespectful, just along the lines of 'really?'. "'s long as what you've got going now is working out," he says, and then moves back towards the dishwasher, pushing a few buttons and setting it to start. "Doesn't do me much good to load the dishes if I don't actually set the thing going." He grins. "It's kind of the reverse of the acclimation period from being out in the sticks, to being back here…" He shrugs. "Seriously though, I'm going to go apartment hunting this weekend, I think. I know that the tribe used to have an apartment building but it's since abandoned. I figure I'll go with whichever building the manager doesn't run screaming or tell me to get out."
"You could always live here, with the Tribe— or you could think about taking over an abandoned place and sprucing it up. The city is just plain full of buildings where nobody ever goes anymore, and asbestos isn't so bad when you can regenerate, you know. You just need to be a little handy, and creative enough to steal or make some electricity without shocking yourself." Slug's lips purse. "You're a Walker. I'm sure you could manage a little wiring, maybe some… inventive plumbing. And cable."
Trace grins. "That's a thought," Trace says. "I've always been one for having my own place to some degree," he continues, and shrugs. "Space, a bed, a punching bag, and a fridge. I mean, J was tryin'a' get me to stay at the Library with them, but same as here, it's just not… mine enough. Good to–" He's in the middle of saying something when his phone starts playing some anime soundtrack type of music, and Trace ducks a nod to Slug. "That's my parents, I gotta take that, if you'll excuse me?" He picks it up, and walks off into the other room. "Anyoung haseyo, jal jinaesseoyo?" It's certainly not Spanish, that's for certain.
The moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (55% full).
Morning finds Trace in the kitchen with the door open to the bigger room, plates on one side of the table in front of him which were clearly breakfast, with more breakfast (some sort of egg scramble with a lot of meat that is mercifully not burnt) still on the stove. Right now though, the ahroun is paying more attention to his phone, tapping away at the screen at what seems to be text messages.
Slug comes up the stairs with a a milk crate held in both hands, his every step accompanied by the rattle of glass on glass. The Gnawer has a good hundred dollars or so in vodka in the box— more, if they're premium brands. From one corner peeks out a few cartons of cigarettes, a small brown bag wedged between them and the bottles. He sets the bottles down on the first open space he finds and sighs, looking around the space.
Trace turns at the sound of the door opening, pushing himself up from his seat, though the metaphorical hackles settle almost as soon as they're raised. There's a nod of greeting that follows. "Hola," he offers, and then furrows his brows, hunting for recognition of the clearly familiar face. His gaze goes from Gnawer, to vodka, to Gnawer again. "I'm Trace. I uh." Pause. "Don't think we've really met properly?"
Slug has the sort of face that not even a mother could forget; or half of one, anyways. He jerks his head in the direction of the Ahroun, then pauses to fetch himself a cigarette from a softpack in his pocket. "Stuff for the Alpha. Can't buy it himself, you know." Slug says. "No. Can't say that we have. I'm Slug, Finds-His-Way. Ragabash, member of Sagacity, Elder of the Gnawers. And an Adren."
Trace reclaims his coffee cup from the table, and then leans against the door frame. "Yeah," Trace says, nodding. "You challenged the Gaians who played hot potato with it, sí?" There's a quiet snort as though he finds something amusing. "I'm otherwise called Six-Shooter. Fostern and ahroun, packed under Coyote, yadda yadda yadda… Spent most of the summer out in the woods, so that's probably got something to do with that not having met people outside of moots thing."
"I did." Slug says, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his lips worrying the filter. "I didn't know people would be so interested. Guess a lot of people wanted to handle that one. Maybe I should have put my challenge on ebay." He shrugs. "So, why did you spend so much time out in the sticks?"
Trace takes a long sip from his coffee, and shrugs. "Ebay for shifters… someone ought to market it." There's a grin. "It was more interesting than it would have been without the hand-off," he says, then lifts his shoulders one more time. "Guardian duty," Trace says. "Didn't realise how long I'd be out there when I stepped up, and didn't feel right stepping back when it was needed. When I got here, it felt like what was needed, what with everything going on." He tugs at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. "Or maybe I just needed the space to think."
"Better ebay than pornhub," Slug says, as dryly as possible. "I was a guardian myself, for a long time. Six months or so. Helped clear my head, showed me a few things I didn't know about the world. More city wolves should spend a little time in the raw parts of the world, and vice-versa. Better in the winter than in the summer, though. Less bugs."
Trace nods, managing to not have much of a visible reaction to Slug's first comment, other than, "There's more coffee still in the coffee maker." His free hand pushes hair out of his face, though it doesn't work very well, before he continues, "Yeah. Not sure I'd willingly spent so much time away from the city again, but it… was worth it. Plus," Trace says, grinning, "if I hadn't, there's no way I'd have gotten to know the Bawn and the surrounding woods, honestly. I missed hot showers something bad."
"I'll take it." Slug says. He shuffles around over toward the coffee pot and, after fishing around for some sugar and some strong-flavored creamer. he dresses himself up a cup and pours until its full. "Showers, hot food at the push of a button. Phones. Beds. Money, and everything attached to it. You never know how much you miss all of it, until it ain't there."
"Yeah," Trace agrees once again, and his look gets distant. "Or until it's gone forever," he adds, and then the moment of bitterness passes, and the Walker looks momentarily sheepish. "Ain't lettin' that shit happen here," he murmurs. "Coffee." There's a snort. "Was damn hard making decent coffee out in the woods, honestly. I'll settle for the better of the instant sludge types, but nothing compares to properly brewed coffee. With hot water."
"It isn't so bad if you get the right kind of pot. Hardest part is finding water, and grind to go with it. So long as you can get someone to run you both…" Slug takes a swig of his coffee. "Not much peppermint cream and donuts out there, though. Or whipped cream. Or chocolate syrup. Or… anything fun like that."
Trace nods, looking at his now-empty coffee cup for a minute. "Or ice cream. That in particular doesn't usually survive very well," he says. "So, you've been around here a while, I take it?" the Walker asks, eventually. "St. Claire, that is."
"The only way that'll work is if you keep a fridge out there, or… if you keep an ice cream maker out there. I guess you could keep the milk in the waters of a stream, especially in winter." Slug considers it for a moment longer. "I was born here. Spent most of my life here, but I travel now'n then. Been up and down the west coast, out east once, but not long."
Trace snorts. "And run the fridge on what, a generator? Maybe you could run it on deep cycle marine batteries though or something. Would have been nice some of those summer days, though." He shrugs. "Certainly not a likelihood in any case." There's a nod. "I grew up down in L.A. Went up to Western Eye after everything that but never felt right there, came up here after that." Whatever previous bitterness doesn't creep back in now, rage doesn't threaten to boil back up to the surface, and Trace seems to have it pretty together, for the moment at least. "Still need to get myself a place, though."
"Eat what you make, only make it when you're ready to eat. Certain gifts can make some machines work, you know, just for a little bit…" Slug trails off. "Sorry about what happened down south, in L.A. I knew people there. Around there. I don't know how you like it here, but… I'm glad you are here. We could use the bodies, and you could use a place to lay your head. I hope you like it here."
There's a faint smile, a real smile, that Trace offers to the older Garou for a moment, before moving over to fill his coffee cup again. "It's a good place," Trace says, setting his coffee on the table and clearing his dishes over to the sink, before continuing. "If I'm going to be anywhere, it might as well be here. Plus, I've got a pack and everything, could be a lot worse…" There's a pause, and Trace tilts his head to one side for a moment. "Scale of one to ten— once the moon's smaller, of course— how bad of an idea is it to prank this place a bit? No more glitter, I promise." It's hard to tell if that promise is serious, though.
Slug lifts up a hand and makes a pinching gesture. "Depends on the prank, and depends on the target. I wouldn't go doing anything to Salem or Thane right now, or Mouse, but… there are others. The important thing to do is to make sure it isn't anything that is too… hm. Pushy? Angry? Nothing too mean, or too far. Take it from a Ragabash, the best stuff comes from a soft touch."
Trace nods, purses his lips a little. "Was honestly thinking of more 'general' stuff, less targeted at any one person in particular. Nail polish on the bars of soap, googly eyes on the food in the fridge, whoopee cushions in the couch… harmless crap like that." He grins. "I mean, I've been on the receiving end of it too, you know?"
"Just keep in mind that the wrong joke at the wrong time can be a very bad thing," Slug says. He puts the last of his cigarette out on one of the Walker's ashtrays, then empties his cup, and refills it with sugar and creamer and, almost as an afterthought, coffee.
Trace nods. "I've gotta do something," Trace points out. "But I try to not put… como se dice…" He pauses and furrows his brow for a moment, "put my foot in my mouth, too much." There's a grin. "The end goal is that it's funny," he says, "not that anyone tears anyone a new one, or frenzies, or that shit. That's less funny."
Slug sloshes his coffee around in the cup and takes a shot, then turns, sitting on the table, folding one long leg over the other at the knee. "I guess it boils down to knowing your audience, more than anything else. Especially with Garou."
Trace takes another sip from his coffee and then sets it down on the counter, standing at the sink and beginning to rinse the dishes. "Yeah," he agrees. "That makes sense." A more-or-less easy silence follows as Trace rinses the accumulated dishes and puts them into the dishwasher— after all, technology is useful— and then reclaims his coffee and fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I'll figure it out, got some time to do so in anyway." There's a grin. "Being out in the sticks was damn good for having a lot of time to think, that much is true. Didn't get caught up, mostly, in the every day crap."
"Lonely out there, though. Sometimes. Can be good to have a think, but give it long enough, and that sort of thing starts to drive you batty. At least if you're in a pack you can have a little chat over the mental mind link thing, back and forth, yada-yada-yada." Slug peels back his hood and checks the time on his phone, or something like that. "Feels good not to have the tower looming over us now. Still work to be done, but it feels like the Sept and city got some breathing room now. Ain't had that in a while."
Trace pulls out a lighter, flicking it idly a few times before also pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The ahroun continues to fidget with the lighter after though. "Lots of things can drive a man batty, though," he muses. "Some worse than others."
"Most of them, women," Slug says, smirking just a tiny bit. He eyes Trace's lighter a little bit, then looks elsewhere. "Just think. All we've got to do is deal with a mysterious thing that's taken over a nuclear power plant, and the city will be nice and safe, and we'll all have nothing to do."
"Boredom is not on my list of 'fates worse than death'," Trace notes, with a slight snort. "Although my mother did always say that whole thing about idle hands, when I was growing up." There's a pause. "When she was there, at least," Trace corrects. "And yes, I have a list."
"Boredom is a bad thing, not because it sucks, but because it makes you do stupid things just to make it go away," Slug says. The Charach would know. He sets his cup down and crosses his arms across his chest. "I stopped worrying about that sort of stuff a few years ago. No sense tormenting yourself, thinking about the awful way you're going to die. No matter what, it'll be bad."
Trace snorts, again. It's almost laughter, and it seems to dissipate at least some of the natural tension for a brief moment. "Yeah," Trace says. "Bad for them." He takes a long drag of his cigarette. "Last several things that tried to kill me got a rather unpleasant surprise." Ah, the invulnerability of youth.
"Don't worry," Slug says. "There will always be another. When God kills an assassin, he hires a mercenary— or something like that." Slug says, his smile flat, thin. "I'm sure Hanford has all sorts of things that will try to kill everyone involved in new and exciting ways."
Trace purses his lips, cigarette in hand, "Yeah. Can't say as I really understand all of what's going on with that, actually, other than that what used to be one of the worst pits around is being taken over by something even worse? It's all very less than concrete," he says, and shrugs. "In the mean time, there's plenty of things want to kill us closer to home, too." This doesn't seem to be a complaint, though.
"It isn't… easy to explain. It involves a whole lot of spiritual stuff and theories and nobody really knows the whole truth of any of it. But… yeah. You don't want to get that stuff on you, and you don't want to have it climb into your driver's seat. Pretty sure that's a one way ticket, sure as the Spiral, one you don't come back from."
The ahroun listens, and nods, and furrows his brow for a long moment. "Yeahhhh, the spiritual stuff isn't exactly my best area," Trace notes, "an' I tend to leave most of it beyond the immediate to other people." There's another pause, and Trace says, clearly quoting something, "'You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad.'" He grins.
"Yeah, well. I am not exactly a Theurge myself, but I kind of joined a Chimera pack, and I've always been curious, so after a while… I just sort of ended up thinking about a lot of crap most Garou don't really think about and I guess I must have learned something." Slug coughs. "Not very much, though. No reason you couldn't broaden your horizons a little!"
Trace grins, nods, purses his lips and is silent for a long minute as he takes a long drag off his cigarette. "Pack totems bring out parts of ourselves," he says, eventually. "So there's that, yeah. What's Chimera like, anyway? Only totem I've ever packed under has been Coyote." The grin turns a touch feral, a touch more dangerous.
Slug thinks on that question for a time, his head tilting to the side in a somewhat owlish expression. "Introspective," he says, at long last. "I guess a lot of Garou wouldn't have tha patience for her. Most have called it "navel gazing", but, eh. We're half spirits. Being a little spiritual can't hurt."
"Patience isn't exactly a common trait we tend to have," Trace admits. "Although I try, I've been working on it and such. That whole thing where people suddenly expect me t' be all responsible because I'm Fostern, or something like that." He shrugs.
"Yeah, getting a little boost in power and responsibility will do that to a guy," Slug muses, winking his scarred eye at Trace. "I used to be a completely realm-and-blood kind of guy, all action and skin and not really thinking things through. Didn't really work out."
Trace gives the older Garou a look that is incredulous but not so much as to be disrespectful, just along the lines of 'really?'. "'s long as what you've got going now is working out," he says, and then moves back towards the dishwasher, pushing a few buttons and setting it to start. "Doesn't do me much good to load the dishes if I don't actually set the thing going." He grins. "It's kind of the reverse of the acclimation period from being out in the sticks, to being back here…" He shrugs. "Seriously though, I'm going to go apartment hunting this weekend, I think. I know that the tribe used to have an apartment building but it's since abandoned. I figure I'll go with whichever building the manager doesn't run screaming or tell me to get out."
"You could always live here, with the Tribe— or you could think about taking over an abandoned place and sprucing it up. The city is just plain full of buildings where nobody ever goes anymore, and asbestos isn't so bad when you can regenerate, you know. You just need to be a little handy, and creative enough to steal or make some electricity without shocking yourself." Slug's lips purse. "You're a Walker. I'm sure you could manage a little wiring, maybe some… inventive plumbing. And cable."
Trace grins. "That's a thought," Trace says. "I've always been one for having my own place to some degree," he continues, and shrugs. "Space, a bed, a punching bag, and a fridge. I mean, J was tryin'a' get me to stay at the Library with them, but same as here, it's just not… mine enough. Good to–" He's in the middle of saying something when his phone starts playing some anime soundtrack type of music, and Trace ducks a nod to Slug. "That's my parents, I gotta take that, if you'll excuse me?" He picks it up, and walks off into the other room. "Anyoung haseyo, jal jinaesseoyo?" It's certainly not Spanish, that's for certain.