1963-09-15 - Two Women and a Fenrisson
Summary: At Jefferson Market Gardens, Hrimhari catches up with the Lady Bloodcrown`ed and Lady Firehair.
Related: Wolf Dreams
Theme Song: None
jean rogue hrimhari 

… with the sound of dog bay - ing…

This more or less describes the Village on this cool, Thor's-day morning. Activity typical of a 'rush hour' can be found in almost every direction, if somewhat muted compared to the rest of the city… with one small difference.

Done the main street and heading towards a particular block of houses walks a silver-haired man in a suit. It must be an uncomfortable suit, for he continually fidgets with it — pulling at collars, adjusting trousers, tugging at sleeves — but that is hardly the most noticeable thing about him.

A herd? Of dogs follows closely on the man's heels, barking and yapping happily away while at the same time competing with each other for the privilege of walking by his side. A few of the dogs have collars — most do not — and the ruckus is bound to draw some attention.

As for the man himself, he is tracking a scent — a familiar scent — but tinged with the aroma of trees and smoke that are not native to this part of New York. Where has the owner of this scent been? What has she been up to? Will he make it there before someone demands to know what on EARTH is up with those dogs??

Only time will tell…


Jean was out and about. Though while she promised the Professor and others who'd actually give a damn about her station that she wouldn't go out alone, she was out alone. Stubborn as ever. Maybe it was the happiness that all the kids and other people who were getting her down. But she's managed! Wheeled herself all the way over yonder. All the way yonder into a loud, messy noise of dog minded individu-dogs who barked happily and played follow the leader with one man.

Yes. It was a quiet thing that Jean never really tells a soul. Jean can talk to animals. A lot of animals. And it's a daggum shame.

There was one little pooch that hangs behind, and from there Jean begins to follow; wheeling herself as quick as she could, listening to the little pup that hangs back who feels a little tired, her hand scooping up rather quickly to snag him and put him into her lap. She could tell the pup was happy, aside from the licks there were a series of mental thank-yous and please follow him!

So she does.

Looks like she was joining the entourage of dogs and man..


Greenwich Village by day takes on an almost sedate character compared to the evening. Eager readers peer over the New York Times story that President Kennedy will make a trip to Dallas later in the years, and a few musicians lament that two little known bands — The Rolling Stones and the Beatles — will play together at the Royal Albert Hall, and they couldn't be there at this groundbreaking moment.

Or they kneel by a beautiful bed of chrysanthemums and fading petunias, looking up in the raw sign of quiet weariness at the young man in a long fringed vest, jeans, and no shirt. "It's radical, Rain, you gotta understand. This show, it's about aliens and enhancing our understanding of the great beyond. There are totally people out there, other people, that look sort of human but come from ancient empires. I've seen it in my visions, girl, and you mark the day this came life, it's to prepare everyone for the arrival of the empire of the bird people."

"Bird people," she quietly repeats, sounding utterly nonplussed. "Really, Ryan?"

"Mar-Vollio," he announces, correcting her with a grin. "But the cosmic transitions finally reach our little old backwater. It's called Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Watch it and your mind will transcend, girl, like it almost is. I can see it around you, the energies are trying to break out and they're reaching a pitch. You oughta meditate more. Guru Belvale has been opening new astral pathways."

This is the conversation one enters into, even as Scarlett and Ryan, aka the psychedelic dude precursing psychedelic joys, both look to see another mutt streak through the grass of the garden where she is busy planting the mums and transplanting what herbs need to be in pots for the decline of warm temperatures. Said dog runs off to join the symposium taking place around the silver-haired fellow. She buries the trowel in the dirt and smiles. "Go say hello to him for me, then. I'll keep an eye out for this television show." She won't, but no one need know that.

Dispatching one, she prepares to acknowledge the other from her natural throne upon the floor of a garden occupying the space in front of a courthouse, the latest communal project in the Village.


<Sire! Sire! Sire!>

<Bid this one follow you, Sire!>

<Bid this one fetch…>

<…what does 'Sire' mean?>

<Don't you know anything?!>

<Sire… I need to poop.>

The silver-haired man, right on the verge of spotting his 'quarry' — the woman going by the name of 'Rain', just now — lets out a breath, spins on the ball of his foot and stops dead in his tracks, looking directly at the dogs trailing after him.

<Hrimhari. Is not. Your Sire!> The command is given mentally, his lips never moving for a second, but it reverberates like sound-waves across the neighbourhood, felt by canine — and telepath — alike. The words are followed by images, broken, cracked images of bloodied pelts, mournful howls, and wolves' heads on pikes… a pain. Lots of pain.

And just like that, the images are gone.

But the dogs remain.

One, however, darts back toward Jean and asks: <It hurts! Can you help him?>

The silver-haired man looks beyond the dogs to see whom should also be following him, and then turns in the direction of 'Rain'. He says nothing as he draws nigh, but stands to his full regal height, doing his best to ignore the entourage behind him as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

"…Ah," he eventually hesitates to say. "Hello."


The only thing that Jean could see of Hrimhari is his back.

But the dogs follow willingly, and she too, since the little pup that she's managed to snag was eagerly leading -her- charge.
<He's awesome right? Right? Right? Right? Right? Right? Right? Right? >

"I suppose." Jean quietly muses, stopping just to lightly pet his head, then continuing on with a few harsh pushes of the wheel to keep up the fast pace. She was running out of breath, but as the dogs collective minds join together she couldn't help but temper out a small laugh and a few huffs of breaths.

And then, that mental command was issued, Jean stops, both hands raising to cup her ears, her eyes squeezing and.. nothing.

<That.. was unkind. > Her voice shoots back, <They only want to be near you.>

This coming from the redhead in a wheelchair.

Though, he doesn't seem to listen, nor care. He was speaking to "Rain". So, with a slight slump of her shoulders she places her fingers in between her lips to create a low whistle, the culling call for the pups to turn their attention towards her so that she could entertain them until their home is found.

"Little ladies and gents.. babies? Over here please.."


A wall of green under trees flows out around the redheaded bohemian, kneeling in the lush grass. Behind her the Jefferson Courthouse rises in elegant brick glory, a spire puncturing the blue sky. Scarlett's gardening efforts have pruned back the rose canes and cleared out the weeds, leaving fresh soil for the planting of the merry, bedding chrysanthemums in wild bronze and deep, blood-bright red and purple. The velvet spikes of blue delphiniums flower in abandon over her head, giving a pretty frame against a hint of a fence used to hem in the property not given over to the newly formed gardens. She's not the only one to work here, though alone by this hour.

The dogs bark and disperse, or huddle, and seek shelter in the second half of team redhead in their presence. She, like Charles, takes in the needy and the dispossessed. Jean Grey's School for Gifted Mutts has its origins in this moment.

Standing, the redhead dusts off her cyan capris, and the long flood of her tunic whips around her. It gives an unusual shape, given she wears an actual bodice, laced front and back, a leather addition for the task of gardening. "A welcome path brings you to my presence once more. Greetings," she offers to Hrimhari, altogether too aware of the dirt on her gloved hands. Those can be stripped, but not yet.

A glance beyond alights upon Jean, and her surreal green eyes flicker with a bonfire of warmth matched in a smile. "And a fine morning to you, Jeannie. Have you decided to dance with the beagles?"


<The two-leg She with fire-hair smells wonderful!>

<Can we play? Can we play? Pleeeeease, can we play?!>

<What would you have us do, Sire?>

<This one still needs to poop, Sire!>

The 'chatter' from the dogs is constant, conflicting and cacophonous. For anyone able to hear it, it would be difficult to pick apart specific thoughts, unless one knew that for which to listen. It would appear 'the Two-Leg She with Fire Hair' knows. As for the Wolf Prince, going by the vibes emanating from him, and the long-suffering expression upon his face, he hears every canine thought around him, and (for now) wishes he could not.

"Milady Bloodcrown," the Wolf Prince begins to say, addressing 'Rain'. He opens his mouth to continue, then hesitates and raises a finger. "One moment." Turning around, his golden eyes seek out Jean Grey, guided to her by the very chatter of the dogs. Slowly, he nods his head toward her.

<This one apologises,> he tells her via thought, his eyes never leaving hers. It is a rather un-kingly thing to say, an apology. Crouching down, Hrimhari murmurs aloud: "You have found this word, this 'sire', yet its meaning eludes you… If you must use it, then first allow Hrimhari to earn it. Grant me this, and so make me glad."

In that moment, the beckoning of the Girl-On-Fire wins out over the throng of dogs, and many of them turn their attention toward her — including the one seeking permission (and appropriate directions) to poop.

Rising to his feet once more, Hrimhari looks between Rain and Jean and tucks in his chin. "You… are friends?" To Jean he adds: "Forgive my earlier rudeness," says he, although Rogue would not have heard the rudeness, herself. "My name is Hrimhari."


It was with a little bit of apprehension that Jean regards Rogue; there was a little something fishy going on with her friend, and she was also unsure if Professor Louis had delivered the message needed. Jean needs Scarlett. Jean probably cried for her, no matter how false the bravado was.

The chatter was something manageable though, as the self imposed Queen of the Mutts looks on to all of those gathered, a hand reaching out to pet here, a dog pushing the back of her chair which causes her to put upon the brake to dig the wheels to a stop, and a lean and a bend to pet there.

"Bloodcrown?" Jean murmurs, her eye dancing towards the man and then to Scarlett..

Though, hearing his thoughts, and how well he projects them kind of impresses her, and as she clutches the youngest pup against her chest, just.. speechless. In fact, even as he questions and introduces himself, she was still a wee bit flabbergasted. "Uh.. I'm Jean Grey.." She belts out, but the urgency to poo from one of the puppy-kind has her attention turning.

"You dear! Go over there! Remember to dig and hide! Small one, there's a fountain with the most delicious water! Go drink!" Jean unlatches the brake upon her wheel to turn around in a circle, then scoots forward just a touch to reach out a hand for a lone branch that was upon the ground. As it lifts itself into the air, she catches it, then draws back her arm to throw into the field.

"Last one is a rotten egg!" She calls to the dogs. That'll keep them busy.


Interruptions may be indulged, as if that very young woman held all the patience in the world. She bestows it upon Prince and flame vessel in equal stead, a gesture of her palm upright after circling her hand indicating a willingness for Hrimhari to take to the issue of the mutts.

Scarlett is incapable of hearing their thoughts with an act of robbery. So many hounds frolicking in this corner of the Village gives small insight even she can sum up, however. A faint smile touches upon her lips, even as she carelessly tosses her long, curiously elaborate braids. "Very much so," she answers the inquiry, indicating Jean with a sunny smile. "My favourite person in the county, such an upstanding and wonderful spark of personality. I commiserate with her upon my lack of homemaking skills, and attest her character is very good indeed."

The plethora of pups will be appreciated if they come near, but not for the world does she strip off her gloves and allow them to nuzzle her fingers. It would hardly do for animals to fall over at her feet, like some grim daughter of Hela. (Please, don't let that be Mom. Awkward!) One running off for a fountain earns a rare smile, her expression too prone to somber, reflective, or utterly masked responses of late.

"Jean, he is a visitor from far places, and a distinguished individual at that. We met in the park." That's one way to put it.


There is a sigh from Hrimhari.


The constant attention of the dogs had left him feeling weary, although not entirely (nor even mostly) being the dogs' fault. Nevertheless, he is grateful they have more people to dote upon them. Tugging awkwardly at his suit (while hoping no one notices), he looks between Scarlett/Rain and Jean, and arches an eyebrow.

To Jean he remarks: "Crown-ed by blood is Scarlett. 'Tis as much burden upon her as it is blessing, perhaps more, and should be honoured. You…" and he pauses, watching her with his golden gaze. "Are touched by fire. Thy kinship, each one with the other, is as water over rocks in a stream: not without obstacle, but with harmony."

At the same time as his words are spoken, the Wolf Prince also asks a question of Jean, mind to mind: <Thou art not wolf-born,> says he, slipping into a more ancient form of speech. <How is it thou speakest with their tongue?>

To Scarlett he says, "'Tis good see you again, but… wherefore do you smell so… strange?"


The little maltese remains upon Jean's lap like a sentinel; every now and then he'd press his foot into her thigh to afix himself properly but he was the guard. The lone guard of the red-haired queen who oddly rolled instead of walked.


"Why is she crowned by blood?" She asks Hrimhair, her green eyes widening ever so slightly as she glances to Scarlett. Did something horrible happen? What.. no. She never asked what happened when she was rescued, she was attempting to push that memory away so that it could be permanently forgotten. But she? Touched by fire..

Oh lord, how much of that was true. There were times when she could feel the heat of anger, that inner being she's recently joined with offering up the temptation. But she teaches. Constantly teaches. And lead by example.. and the being is so much the better for this..

"I don't get it." She finally blurts out. Even the expression she has upon her face is blank. Unblinkingly so.

But as the pups wander off to do their/her bidding, Jean snaps her head away and into their direction, watching and making sure nothing ill befalls them. Though his words touch her mind, her brows furrow.. and soon she shrugs.

<I don't know.> She confesses. <We don't know ourselves as well as we like.> - Another voice chimes in, but it answers for her.

As for the way Scarlett smells, Jean scrunches up her face, then wheels her way forward, close enough.. close enough.. then leans in to sniff against her friends arm. "She smells like grass." Odd. Must be the dogs shaping her personality.

Or the bird.


Whom to blame, the fascinating anglerfish or the stout prince, the stalwart guardian or the idiot anthropologists making light of something they cannot possibly hope to understand?

Eyes bright as auroras known at those latitudes lift to regard the couple, a faint tinge of colour brightening the pale hue of slim cheeks. "Please tell me I do not smell of an abattoir. I cleansed thoroughly to obliterate any possible trace, but my senses may be well overcome by the strength of the sandalwood oils in my soap." It's a deep, rich scent that underlies the neroli, the whisper of heady oakmoss and tradewinds flowing over the deep bitten coast.

She closes over the distance separating them, veering in towards the dog free Grey girl. Closer, there is a trace of tea about her - Earl Grey, not the lighter lady, and one much more complex. Herbal. If Jean consents, wheelchair or no, she gets a deep hug. "You are in fine spirits, and now bound to put all of us at risk with the speed you convey yourself around in that marvelous chariot. How do you manage when the Village boasts a tangle of such narrow streets?" A pause, then she chuckles softly. "Crowned in blood, for that is the shade of my hair, no? Yours is more blonde, and mine is more copper."

To the wolf prince, her dipped nod speaks to a measure of curiosity tempered by mirth. "Come, partake of this fine greensward with merry companions, if you are so given. Might as well take advantage of the break in the rain, and speak of the day. How have your wanderings taken both of you? Any excitement?"


Take that, Phoenix face! Love you too! <3


The Wolf Prince listens to the pair of women, his demeanour relaxing more and more the longer he stays. So much of this neighbourhood — indeed, this Realm — is foreign to him, but there is method in SOME of the madness.

And friends to make.

Looking over at Jean, he stops fidgeting with his clothes and smiles. <You speak it very well, Jean Sunhair. This one can tell they are glad to find someone who understands them.> Hrimhari then looks across at Scarlett, and smiles as he addresses Jean.

"She smells of foliage not native to anything I have found here. Methinks a hunt has carried her abroad. Hrimhari knows, and approves. As for myself, I have founf old friends, made new ones, and a bed in which to lie. I also have…"

And he pulls out a wallet with a number of ID cards — all fake — naming him as 'Harry Something'. Each surname is different. "Papers of free passage," he finishes.

It is a lot to have accomplished in a few days.


Jean doesn't shy away from the hug. In fact, she leans forward to meet her half way. She was careful as well, for if there was bare skin, she doesn't touch, minding where the clothes are and using only the tips of her fingers to know that hey.. my arm is around you right now. Look at me tap! And watch the chin!

"Whaat?" Jean didn't get what Scarlett said. Maybe it was the lessons from Columbia, but she felt mighty .. dumb. Is this how Sam feels?

'Possibly so.' The bird murmurs. 'She's giving you a compliment. Say thank you.'

"Thank you, Scarlett!" She smiles grand again, then leans back to allow the little maltese to find his way with his bretheren, her fingers sinking into her hair to pull out and tug. "I wish it were darker.." She confesses. But that was a story for another day.

"A l.. lot has happened.." She looks suspiciously towards Hrimhari. He has.. papers of free passage? Gosh, he speaks so weird. And his telepathy was precise. Perfect. His thoughts didn't stray and it was a single line of conscious to and fro. Beautiful.

"You went hunting?" She asks of Scarlett. Though the smile upon her face was something of a minor jealousy and sadness. "You're.. meeting a lot of people and it seems like seeing different things and worlds." BIG, BEAMING SMILE! Not jealous at all! "I.. suppose that's why you're always busy all the time. Might.. have to make an appointment to see you next time.." And another laugh. An awkward, painful laugh. "..Oooh.. boy.."

She scoots back, then turns the wheelchair to hide that bubbling emotion. "Pup pup! Get away from that tree! There's nothing up there for you!"


A hug is a thing to be shared between friends, a lifeline between two desperate souls familiar with the cost of being isolated, uncertain, and perchance afraid in the vast depths of existence.

"Classes, and then above that, lessons in diplomacy, international relations, more arcane subjects besides, psychology, and a crash course in dealing with foreign powers," Scarlett says quietly. She gives a smile too bright to be anything but diamond refracting the fire of the stars. "Having my heart ripped out and my sight plagued by doubts, having stared like an astronomer into the vastness of space and discovering I am scarce a speck before whole galaxies and stars, you know. Normal things."

Not normal, but the barest shred of manic response arises as a greeting to Jean's question. She uses what terrible force of will she possesses to try and clamp down on the passions and anguish strive to claw their way out of her. This is what it means not to be taken seriously.

Best not to look too bright into that. "Ah, you have obtained identification and all the paperwork one needs to function well. That is a good thing, and making new and old acquaintances delightful for that." Scarlett smiles. Because if she stops, the darkness will take her fully.

"A short work holiday might amount for that smell. I ended up out of the state for a little bit." It's not a lie. The US is a state. Norway is a state. Sovereign states, of course.

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