08-02-2013, 02:35 PM
The dogs arrived a littler earlier then usual, probably a sign of a successful day of scavenging for food. The three had arrived without ceremony, as per usual, just waltzing onto what passed as his porch, within inches of him, and laying down. No hellos were shared, they didn't even really seem to acknowledge each other. Hood just sipped his beer and studied the people who walked or drove by.
The colourful punk was doing a good job of drawing attention to herself. He ignored the catcalling and swaggering punks that tried to catch the girl's attention. Most had learned to leave him the hell alone, and to keep their antics out of his line of sight. He watched the girl waltz past his humble abode of refurbished sea-cans, much as he had everyone else that walked by.
At first glance, she could easily be assumed to be a prostitute. The boots, the flashy style. Or a rave kid. Or a raver prostitute. But the boots were laced up, rather then flayed open with the laces dragging. She was fit too; not just skinny, but actually fit. Which meant she probably ate more regularly then the average prostitute. The way she walked was off too; less streetkid more real confidence.
It was on her second pass that he came to the conclusion she was one of the Atharim hunters that would be making use of his place for the next few days. His frown deepened; the hell was this about then? Was he supposed to be babysitting now? Maybe some sort of public image policy change? Appeal to younger audiences with working-girls turned hunters. Of course, that was probably exactly the image the kid was going for; pretty hard to mark the kid as a member of an ancient cult that hunted monsters.
There was also something off about how her t-shirt and jacket hung down her sides. Pistol holster with ammo pouches? Or two pistols, maybe.
He continued to nurse his beer as she walked up, then frowned faintly when one of the dogs suddenly stood up and wandered over to her. Bloody turn-coat. They were supposed to chase off unwanted guests, not go say hello. "Don't pet the dog, he might expect it from me."
Hood's tone was flat and dry. Sure, he was quoting Al Bundy from Married with Children, an old American sitcom that predated himself by a decade or two, but it was also a statement of fact. The dogs weren't pets. They were strays, that in this case just happened to like sleeping on his porch.
He remained seated, showing no immediate interest in abandoning his place on the step. "Mr Snow to you. Or Sir. Two cots in the living room, pick one. Shelf in the fridge is yours. Market back the way you came. Grand tour when the other one shows up."
The interior was still mostly unfinished; the insulation and drywall was up, but the finishing touches were yet to be completed. Coverings over the outlets, paint, etc. It was livable, but would be comfortable once finished.
The colourful punk was doing a good job of drawing attention to herself. He ignored the catcalling and swaggering punks that tried to catch the girl's attention. Most had learned to leave him the hell alone, and to keep their antics out of his line of sight. He watched the girl waltz past his humble abode of refurbished sea-cans, much as he had everyone else that walked by.
At first glance, she could easily be assumed to be a prostitute. The boots, the flashy style. Or a rave kid. Or a raver prostitute. But the boots were laced up, rather then flayed open with the laces dragging. She was fit too; not just skinny, but actually fit. Which meant she probably ate more regularly then the average prostitute. The way she walked was off too; less streetkid more real confidence.
It was on her second pass that he came to the conclusion she was one of the Atharim hunters that would be making use of his place for the next few days. His frown deepened; the hell was this about then? Was he supposed to be babysitting now? Maybe some sort of public image policy change? Appeal to younger audiences with working-girls turned hunters. Of course, that was probably exactly the image the kid was going for; pretty hard to mark the kid as a member of an ancient cult that hunted monsters.
There was also something off about how her t-shirt and jacket hung down her sides. Pistol holster with ammo pouches? Or two pistols, maybe.
He continued to nurse his beer as she walked up, then frowned faintly when one of the dogs suddenly stood up and wandered over to her. Bloody turn-coat. They were supposed to chase off unwanted guests, not go say hello. "Don't pet the dog, he might expect it from me."
Hood's tone was flat and dry. Sure, he was quoting Al Bundy from Married with Children, an old American sitcom that predated himself by a decade or two, but it was also a statement of fact. The dogs weren't pets. They were strays, that in this case just happened to like sleeping on his porch.
He remained seated, showing no immediate interest in abandoning his place on the step. "Mr Snow to you. Or Sir. Two cots in the living room, pick one. Shelf in the fridge is yours. Market back the way you came. Grand tour when the other one shows up."
The interior was still mostly unfinished; the insulation and drywall was up, but the finishing touches were yet to be completed. Coverings over the outlets, paint, etc. It was livable, but would be comfortable once finished.