Post by Victor Kay on Jun 9, 2020 22:29:55 GMT
[For the Bloodrose pack]
There was a crisp wind kicking up as Victor walked along the road, promising the change of seasons and fortunes as it carried whiffs of SIlverdale past his nose. He was glad he was wearing a t-shirt; never mind that one sleeve had been ripped off and there was a faded stain that was most probably blood along the once-white hem. He'd only put it on before heading to the nearby gas station because of that stupid "No shirt-no shoes" sign that had been rudely posted on the door a few weeks after the pack moved into town. Still, he thought now that in the absence of an apron, wearing a shirt was okay protection against grill splatter.
And the man planned to grill.
He carried a large, cloth shopping bag in each hand, and the veins in his forearms stood out as the bags swung weightily at his sides. He turned off the road at a long driveway that was more weed and potholes than dirt, disappearing from sight of the road among the trees as he walked the quarter mile up to the house. Or, rather, what was left of it.
The house was really the dilapidated remains of a burnt-down home, walls crumbled to rubble and only the blackened husk and eerie chunks of furniture remaining. There had been police tape across the doorway at one point, but that had long since been removed. The "Keep Out - No Trespassing" sign staked into the ground had been left intact.
Around the back of the house was a surprisingly neat patio area. Stone pavers made decently flat flooring, the two sides closest to the burnt-down house edged with empty flowerbeds that made for decent bench seats. The charred remains of the original picnic table had been discarded in the woods, but there were a few foldout chairs tucked away in the trees, and somebody always remembered to bring a fold-out. An old charcoal grill sat in the grass a few feet beyond the edge of the patio; the fact that its sides were freshly blackened was lost on the few people outside the pack who had checked on the ruins in the last three years.
Victor set his bags down with a grunt, flexing his wrists and looking around for a careful moment to make sure that nothing had moved since the last time the pack was here. Satisfied, he opened one of the bags, pulling out two 20-pound bags of charcoal and two bottles of lighter fluid. He reached into the other bag and pulled a beer out from one of the several 12-packs that filled it. Then he got to work.
He didn't have food, music, condiments, or sides, and he hadn't sent out any invitations. He'd just mentioned to Ren that morning that it seemed like a good night for a cookout, and he'd said, "See ya in a bit" to Dallas when they'd passed each other in town. Probably not enough formality for humans, but what was the point of being part of a pack if you couldn't trust your family to know when it was grilling time?
Dallas Navarro , Rio Navarro , @serenity
There was a crisp wind kicking up as Victor walked along the road, promising the change of seasons and fortunes as it carried whiffs of SIlverdale past his nose. He was glad he was wearing a t-shirt; never mind that one sleeve had been ripped off and there was a faded stain that was most probably blood along the once-white hem. He'd only put it on before heading to the nearby gas station because of that stupid "No shirt-no shoes" sign that had been rudely posted on the door a few weeks after the pack moved into town. Still, he thought now that in the absence of an apron, wearing a shirt was okay protection against grill splatter.
And the man planned to grill.
He carried a large, cloth shopping bag in each hand, and the veins in his forearms stood out as the bags swung weightily at his sides. He turned off the road at a long driveway that was more weed and potholes than dirt, disappearing from sight of the road among the trees as he walked the quarter mile up to the house. Or, rather, what was left of it.
The house was really the dilapidated remains of a burnt-down home, walls crumbled to rubble and only the blackened husk and eerie chunks of furniture remaining. There had been police tape across the doorway at one point, but that had long since been removed. The "Keep Out - No Trespassing" sign staked into the ground had been left intact.
Around the back of the house was a surprisingly neat patio area. Stone pavers made decently flat flooring, the two sides closest to the burnt-down house edged with empty flowerbeds that made for decent bench seats. The charred remains of the original picnic table had been discarded in the woods, but there were a few foldout chairs tucked away in the trees, and somebody always remembered to bring a fold-out. An old charcoal grill sat in the grass a few feet beyond the edge of the patio; the fact that its sides were freshly blackened was lost on the few people outside the pack who had checked on the ruins in the last three years.
Victor set his bags down with a grunt, flexing his wrists and looking around for a careful moment to make sure that nothing had moved since the last time the pack was here. Satisfied, he opened one of the bags, pulling out two 20-pound bags of charcoal and two bottles of lighter fluid. He reached into the other bag and pulled a beer out from one of the several 12-packs that filled it. Then he got to work.
He didn't have food, music, condiments, or sides, and he hadn't sent out any invitations. He'd just mentioned to Ren that morning that it seemed like a good night for a cookout, and he'd said, "See ya in a bit" to Dallas when they'd passed each other in town. Probably not enough formality for humans, but what was the point of being part of a pack if you couldn't trust your family to know when it was grilling time?
Dallas Navarro , Rio Navarro , @serenity
