01-03-2010, 05:17 PM
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@&#&$"Scheme" was certainly a good word for it. Although he yet remained ignorant to AniWaya's horse breeding operation and the farming of food animals in Phoenix Valley, perhaps something had permeated the collective consciousness of their peninsula: it was time to hop on the trade bandwagon. No longer was holding down the fort enough--the packs needed more than just land, food, and water if they wished to participate in the "global" market of their modern world. To the less feral Europeans it was business as usual, perhaps, and the number of immigrants to settle in Nova Scotia seemed to be on the rise. Hazy skills he taught himself from books had been in their families for generations and already perfected to an art form. If he couldn't be an expert carpenter, blacksmith, or tailor, he'd just go for the next best thing--he'd find a form of "currency" with which to buy the tradesmen's time and labour.
@&#&$And who didn't love drugs? They were not regulated or stigmatised as they were in the time of the humans, and it was easy to find time to toke up for even the busiest of individuals. It took him less than an hour to do his morning exercises, maybe four to do all of his rounds for the day, and, if he kept alert for food in addition to foes during that time, only one more to catch himself a passable meal. Even if he slept for half the day, that left a wealth of time to tend to the gardens, bullshit with the locals, or study up on some new skills. That didn't mean that everyone preferred the same substances, however--thus his interest in expansion. Smoke and drink were the two most common vices that he knew of, so when the Russian mentioned a home distillery his ears shot forward with interest. The supply left behind by the humans was dwindling by the day, growing harder to find as the most popular bars were sucked dry. "That certainly fits the bill for me, friend," he said, tongue snaking out to lick his black lips, which, through some combination of the drug and excitement, had grown dry.
@&#&$Once the greyscale man departed, he went on his own little mission. He figured it would be so brief he needn't lock the garage--the supplies he was interested in were remarkably easy to come by in old human dwellings. Across the street, a faded plastic tricycle was tipped over on its side. He would try here first. The building itself was still in pretty damn good shape--he'd almost wonder why Maz hadn't established herself here instead of the garage until he recalled her car fetish. He stepped onto the faded and frayed welcome mat and tried the door. Locked. Fuck. His black-tipped ears fell back before he gave it a good shake and a pounding, but like a long lost soldier who never got the message the war had ended, it remained tall and proud, committed to its intended duty. As he turned around to stake out his other prospects, a small black box stuck to the bottom of the mailbox caught his attention. He'd never seen one before and he couldn't help but poke at it--it looked like some kind of misplaced rectangular barnacle that had glued itself to the cold, rusted metal. Boy, wasn't he surprised when a small golden key fell out?
@&#&$The key clicked into place and his tail swung behind him triumphantly as one final shove finally knocked the door open. The air inside was musty and he didn't care for the stuffy atmosphere, so he decided to be quick. Something about invading these residential buildings always felt stranger to him than going into a bar, department store, or office complex. The ghosts of the owners past stared at him vacantly from faded pictures on the wall--why had he come to disturb their peace? The sensation only grew worse when he stumbled upon four skeletons in the back room. The mother was holding her child and the father had his arms around both. On the floor, the family dog lay quietly, empty eye sockets looking on. A shudder coursed through his body and he jerked open a drawer to the desk in that same room. Inside was crumpled paper money and shiny golden rings much too small to fit on any luperci's finger: worthless.
@&#&$After grabbing five sheets of paper, an old marker whose function he confirmed, and--as an added bonus--several plastic sheet covers he was gone. He locked the door behind him and exhaled, not having realised he'd been holding his breath as he made his way back toward the front door. He decided to keep the key, however--maybe he'd have another use for that place someday. The entire ordeal had taken less than ten minutes and he made it back just as Rurik might have reached his HQ. Already he began to scrawl some messy notes onto one piece of paper--his handwriting was shaky and basically chicken scratch, but as he used print instead of cursive, it was at least approximately legible. He guessed that if as much went into brewing alcohol as went into successfully growing plants, having written records would be helpful. When he made it through about a page his hand began to cramp up, and here he sighed, stopped, and packed the bowl he'd promised. His muscles weren't used to being exerted in such a way.
@&#&$Just as he sprinkled the last bit of green on top, Rurik appeared in the door. "Good timing," he said with a grin, as if it were something the Russian had planned and not mere coincidence. The stash promised at the start of the transaction remained on the table, and he supposed the other male would grab it as he left. "Can you at least sort of read this?" he wondered, holding up the paper with his notes for Rurik. So far he'd only gotten through watering requirements; he wrote how to tell if they were being watered too much or not enough, as both could cause problems. That left lighting and fertilisation, although the last one was pretty easy.
mall-caps;font-weight:bold;text-align:right; border-top:1px solid #AB360D">SoSuWriMo +1041
@&#&$And who didn't love drugs? They were not regulated or stigmatised as they were in the time of the humans, and it was easy to find time to toke up for even the busiest of individuals. It took him less than an hour to do his morning exercises, maybe four to do all of his rounds for the day, and, if he kept alert for food in addition to foes during that time, only one more to catch himself a passable meal. Even if he slept for half the day, that left a wealth of time to tend to the gardens, bullshit with the locals, or study up on some new skills. That didn't mean that everyone preferred the same substances, however--thus his interest in expansion. Smoke and drink were the two most common vices that he knew of, so when the Russian mentioned a home distillery his ears shot forward with interest. The supply left behind by the humans was dwindling by the day, growing harder to find as the most popular bars were sucked dry. "That certainly fits the bill for me, friend," he said, tongue snaking out to lick his black lips, which, through some combination of the drug and excitement, had grown dry.
@&#&$Once the greyscale man departed, he went on his own little mission. He figured it would be so brief he needn't lock the garage--the supplies he was interested in were remarkably easy to come by in old human dwellings. Across the street, a faded plastic tricycle was tipped over on its side. He would try here first. The building itself was still in pretty damn good shape--he'd almost wonder why Maz hadn't established herself here instead of the garage until he recalled her car fetish. He stepped onto the faded and frayed welcome mat and tried the door. Locked. Fuck. His black-tipped ears fell back before he gave it a good shake and a pounding, but like a long lost soldier who never got the message the war had ended, it remained tall and proud, committed to its intended duty. As he turned around to stake out his other prospects, a small black box stuck to the bottom of the mailbox caught his attention. He'd never seen one before and he couldn't help but poke at it--it looked like some kind of misplaced rectangular barnacle that had glued itself to the cold, rusted metal. Boy, wasn't he surprised when a small golden key fell out?
@&#&$The key clicked into place and his tail swung behind him triumphantly as one final shove finally knocked the door open. The air inside was musty and he didn't care for the stuffy atmosphere, so he decided to be quick. Something about invading these residential buildings always felt stranger to him than going into a bar, department store, or office complex. The ghosts of the owners past stared at him vacantly from faded pictures on the wall--why had he come to disturb their peace? The sensation only grew worse when he stumbled upon four skeletons in the back room. The mother was holding her child and the father had his arms around both. On the floor, the family dog lay quietly, empty eye sockets looking on. A shudder coursed through his body and he jerked open a drawer to the desk in that same room. Inside was crumpled paper money and shiny golden rings much too small to fit on any luperci's finger: worthless.
@&#&$After grabbing five sheets of paper, an old marker whose function he confirmed, and--as an added bonus--several plastic sheet covers he was gone. He locked the door behind him and exhaled, not having realised he'd been holding his breath as he made his way back toward the front door. He decided to keep the key, however--maybe he'd have another use for that place someday. The entire ordeal had taken less than ten minutes and he made it back just as Rurik might have reached his HQ. Already he began to scrawl some messy notes onto one piece of paper--his handwriting was shaky and basically chicken scratch, but as he used print instead of cursive, it was at least approximately legible. He guessed that if as much went into brewing alcohol as went into successfully growing plants, having written records would be helpful. When he made it through about a page his hand began to cramp up, and here he sighed, stopped, and packed the bowl he'd promised. His muscles weren't used to being exerted in such a way.
@&#&$Just as he sprinkled the last bit of green on top, Rurik appeared in the door. "Good timing," he said with a grin, as if it were something the Russian had planned and not mere coincidence. The stash promised at the start of the transaction remained on the table, and he supposed the other male would grab it as he left. "Can you at least sort of read this?" he wondered, holding up the paper with his notes for Rurik. So far he'd only gotten through watering requirements; he wrote how to tell if they were being watered too much or not enough, as both could cause problems. That left lighting and fertilisation, although the last one was pretty easy.
mall-caps;font-weight:bold;text-align:right; border-top:1px solid #AB360D">SoSuWriMo +1041