Post by Westernbullet on Nov 3, 2013 1:39:04 GMT
"Yeah--"
"Right."
"Of course, but--"
Caden sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. "I love you too, Mom. Stay safe." He ends the call, slipping the cellphone into the front pocket of his jeans, and casting a look out to the crowded street before emerging from the alley way and back into the autumn day. It was strangely warm for this time of the year, the wind is a meek breeze, and people sit on the front steps of their homes, enjoying the balmy weather, smoking cigarettes and talking with friends or loved ones.
It's a day that makes you glad to be alive, the type that has you counting your blessings and thankful to the marrow of your bones. Caden wishes he could enjoy it without the nagging sensation of worry and the weight of his mother's commands on his shoulders. The phonecall had ground out whatever hopes of peace he had for the day and he resigns himself to spending money that he shouldn't on a few beers, and some food that isn't cooked in a microwave.
He had learned long ago that arguing with werewolves was a futile effort. It got you nothing but frustration and a headache that couldn't be banished by aspirin alone. Most believed that their word was law and Caden was more than happy to let them think so. While they were satisfied in their disillusions, he would go on to do whatever he planned in the first place. It was a system that worked with just about anyone--except his mother, who wasn't so easily dismissed. She knew his games and the gleam he got when he thought he had pulled the wool over somebody's eyes. Even over the phone she couldn't be quieted with easy answers and agreement.
The supernatural community of New York was in trouble and nothing he could say could convince the Black Dog otherwise. She wasn't one to care for the troubles of others, and certainly wouldn't risk her own son's health to investigate said troubles, but Sabra feared that New York's problems would soon spread and become her's as well.
Caden shoulders through the sturdy doors of Highbury Pub, seating himself at the bar and ordering a beer from the bartender, a young woman that ignores his half-hearted smile and bustles away to take others' orders once his drink is in front of him. "To good weather and continued health." He toasts, taking a hearty sip of the froth and brew.
"Right."
"Of course, but--"
Caden sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. "I love you too, Mom. Stay safe." He ends the call, slipping the cellphone into the front pocket of his jeans, and casting a look out to the crowded street before emerging from the alley way and back into the autumn day. It was strangely warm for this time of the year, the wind is a meek breeze, and people sit on the front steps of their homes, enjoying the balmy weather, smoking cigarettes and talking with friends or loved ones.
It's a day that makes you glad to be alive, the type that has you counting your blessings and thankful to the marrow of your bones. Caden wishes he could enjoy it without the nagging sensation of worry and the weight of his mother's commands on his shoulders. The phonecall had ground out whatever hopes of peace he had for the day and he resigns himself to spending money that he shouldn't on a few beers, and some food that isn't cooked in a microwave.
He had learned long ago that arguing with werewolves was a futile effort. It got you nothing but frustration and a headache that couldn't be banished by aspirin alone. Most believed that their word was law and Caden was more than happy to let them think so. While they were satisfied in their disillusions, he would go on to do whatever he planned in the first place. It was a system that worked with just about anyone--except his mother, who wasn't so easily dismissed. She knew his games and the gleam he got when he thought he had pulled the wool over somebody's eyes. Even over the phone she couldn't be quieted with easy answers and agreement.
The supernatural community of New York was in trouble and nothing he could say could convince the Black Dog otherwise. She wasn't one to care for the troubles of others, and certainly wouldn't risk her own son's health to investigate said troubles, but Sabra feared that New York's problems would soon spread and become her's as well.
Caden shoulders through the sturdy doors of Highbury Pub, seating himself at the bar and ordering a beer from the bartender, a young woman that ignores his half-hearted smile and bustles away to take others' orders once his drink is in front of him. "To good weather and continued health." He toasts, taking a hearty sip of the froth and brew.
