oceancove

Who: Eamon Flood, Hugh Cadigan, & Connor Macrae
What: Competitive penis measuring Training
Where: Eamon's Yard
When: Late afternoon
Rating: TBD

Rumor had it that Eamon Flood was building an army. Or possibly a pit fighting ring. Or an obstacle course. Or, some rather broad-minded folks suggested, all three. The fourth rumor was, as it happened, rather closer to the truth. In the weeks since Amelia’s attack Eamon, along with several other pack wolves, had been busy transforming the Second’s backyard into physical training center for non-humans. Deep sparring pits had been dug and staked, weights and complicated looking physical fitness machinery (some still bearing price tags) had been found in quarters best not mentioned, and attack dummies had been sewn and stuffed. A brick barbeque that could be best summed up as ‘immense’ had been added alongside a two double-wide refrigerators that were continually restocked with beef and beer (mostly Newcastle’s new ‘Werewolf Ale,’ which the pack found hysterical despite the berry flavor). Power came from a half dozen surge protectors that were themselves hooked onto long extension cords that terminated not in Eamon’s home but, rather, in the woods rather near to where one of the city generators squatted. Thus far the city had yet to investigate reports of possible electrical use malfeasance—something about having to wade through a pack of werewolves first seemed to put them off.

 

In recent days the pits and weight machines had begun to fill with trusted werewolves. Some came on their own, others came at the command of their Second. It had taken only a day or two to become a deafening affair marked by roars and snarls and clangs by day and shouts and song at night. The summons sent to Hugh Cadigan had initially run ‘Your sheep-shagging arse here, now’ but the runner who had delivered it had had the good sense to adjust the language to something rather more polite. Hugh wasn’t pack, Eamon certainly wouldn’t consider him anything close to it until he dropped his foreign loyalties, but he was, he knew, a reliable set of claws and jaws should Amelia come under attack again. He wanted the Welshman training with his wolves. He wanted to know, too, what the sheep-shagger thought of the training system currently in place. Outside eyes bought fresh perspective, no matter what sort of man they were attached to.

 

Now Eamon paced between pits, watching the combatants below him thrash and scramble. To his left was an evenly matched pair of heavyset wolves, each trying to use their own weight to unsteady their opponent. Other wolves, unchanged, sat watching as they received a lecture on the technique being demonstrated and the best ways to counter it should they ever come across it in combat. To right the match was far less fair. Connor, wolf form and manacled so he could hardly move, was beset by eight of his pack mates. The pup was learning to control his shifts better under duress, but his ability to shift at will from wolf to man was stalled. Blood, noise, and the threat of danger seemed to lock the wolf in and the man out. The wolves in the pit were trying to break him of the habit as one breaks a kicking horse with a hobble. Ahead, on an embankment rather than a pit, pairs of werewolves in their bipedal form sparred as well. A werewolf was always stronger on all fours but there were situations wherein a change might not always be possible or best. Later there would be training against non-werewolf bipeds. Eamon was not taking anything to chance.

Who: Henry Doyle, Amelia Drake, Eamon Flood, & Connor Macrae
What: Shenanigans!
When: 4:14am, June 2
Where: Amelia’s home
Rating: That is so, so up in the air
Status: In-progress

When first discussed the plan had seemed innocent enough. Connor had mentioned it only casually over a dinner as a sort of throwaway just-so-you-know remark. He had made plans, as he told Henry as they each prepared their respective meals, to spend the evening with Amelia Drake. She had been a bit depressed of late and needed a bit of cheering up. They were going out for a few drinks, just to get her mind off of things. Henry had nodded at the time, muttered something about the plan sounding like a pleasant evening, and forgotten entirely about it…at least until the first photo of a penis was texted to his phone.

The text came in the middle of a meeting heralded only by a soft buzz of the vibration function on Henry’s Blackberry. Successive snapshots of various body parts (none of which were even remotely appropriate to a small-session council meeting) quickly followed the first image. He had tried, perhaps foolishly, to ignore them at first. But they kept coming relentlessly, occasionally intermixed with perplexing messages such as ‘WE GOT BEADS !!! GUESS HOW!!,’ ‘BODYSHOTS ARE BRILLIANT - WOO,’ and ‘DOES YOUR CREDIT CARD WORK FOR LAP DANCES?’. After the thirteenth photo of foreign testicles and the sixth shot of extreme nipple close-up Henry had quietly excused himself from the meeting.

Unable to search the Cove’s bars himself (that, certainly, would get back to his abandoned meeting-mates in a flash) Henry directed his driver to Amelia’s home. The lights shining in her living room briefly buoyed his hopes that the pair had decided to call it an early night but he found only Eamon there who, much like Henry, had been receiving similar pornographic images on his own phone for the past hour. Hugh Cadigan, Eamon had pointed out, was also receiving at least some of the same photos: his cell phone number appeared on quite a few of the graphic texts. Attempts to call either werewolf ended in voicemail and texts in reply received no answer.

That had all occurred hours ago however. Since then Henry and Eamon (both having decided to wait for the missing but apparently (given the still-incoming texts) jubilant pair) had watched three full-length football games (Reading vs. Swansea, Canada vs. Ecuador, Japan vs. Peru), two rugby matches (Reds vs. Crusaders, England vs. Barbarians), and half a cricket match (Ireland vs. Pakistan) on Amelia’s PPV-enabled television. They were in the midst of deciding between midget mud wrestling from Thailand and naked ski jumping from Austria when both paused. Somewhere out in the darkness someone, no, two someones, were singing very loudly and very, very badly.

“Connor,” muttered Henry.

“Amelia,” grunted Eamon.

They rose as one man and crossed to the door. There, coming up the path, just entering the long rectangle of light spilling down the porch and walk, were Amelia and Connor, both staggering, both beyond drunk, and both still singing albeit entirely different songs and at completely different tempos.

Who: Amelia Drake & Eamon Flood
What: Eamon cooks! (No really! He does! And well!)
When: Later-afternoon
Where: Amelia Drake's residence
Status: In Progress

Eamon was not, by most definitions, a domesticated wolf. He could, of course, cook and clean house and he did manage, more or less, to keep himself clothed in a wardrobe that was both clean and well cared for. He owned a vacuum cleaner (two in fact; a matching pair of Roomba-brand robot cleaners that he occasionally pitted against each other for augmented jousting matches) and he had a working garbage disposal (for the moment). He even recycled, although he refused to embrace the insanity of composting, claiming that the ‘tree-huggers’ had gone a step too far with that one. But something about Eamon, or perhaps more specifically about his rough edges, made people unwilling to consider him quite domesticated. Unwillingly evolved maybe, or, two steps above living like a beast but not, in the popular opinion at least, domesticated.

Which was why, most likely, so many long-term residents of the Cove were startled to see Eamon in the local pro-organic supermarket at all, much less schlepping down the streets with four reusable, 90% recycled-material, store-logo-bearing carrier bags, each of which were full to bursting. No one, fortunately, made the grave error of stopping to question him as he stormed down the street, muttering to himself in his native tongue about the sheer foolishness of 14 types of granola and something simply impolite about ancient grains and where the self-important checkout lad could stick them.

He was on to his opinions about fair-trade bananas (‘kiss my arse’) and monkey-picked tea (‘out of their fecking minds’) by the time he reached Amelia’s front door. He kicked rhythmically at the lower half by way of knocking, waited approximately a quarter of a second, then bellowed, “OI! HURRY UP! I’VE GOT FECKING KALE – WHATEVER THE FECK THAT IS – BRUISING OUT HERE.”

It didn’t occur to him that Amelia had neither requested nor kale nor known, technically speaking, that he was coming over…with food or otherwise.

Who: Amelia Drake, Eamon Flood, Connor Macrae, Lida Garrett(NPC), others.
When: Early afternoon.
Where: Croswell Square (street market with local street vendors), The Cove General Hospital.
What: Amelia finds that she's not as secure in her position as she believes herself to be.
Rating: R. (violence)
Status: Closed and complete.

Amelia had gone into the bakery only for a few hours, to intercept Keita and post a sign that they were closed due to pack business. Promising the kitsune that he would still get paid, she offered the suggestion that he go visit Yuuta. Visibly happier, she watched as her employee left. She returned home, did the breakfast dishes, and went to her office. She answered a few emails, all dealing with pack concerns that needed to be raised at the next council meeting. Business taken care of, she sat back in the plush chair, reaching for her personal cell phone.

"Need a favor. I was wondering if you'd be willing to help with the puppy. I'm stuck. Call either way. -Amelia" The text message to Hugh offered no apology for Eamon's actions, and she was still debating on whether she'd apologize to the foreign wolf. She had already smoothed things over with the residents, and taken care of the fees that Eamon's light and sound show had racked up. She got up, locking the office door behind her. Thundering down the stairs (as she could never walk delicately down any flight of stairs) she approached the man sprawled out on her couch.

"Want to go out?" The day was slightly overcast and a strong wind had pushed clouds in. From her position in the room, she could see the ocean, waves higher than normal, a dark frothy gray. "There's the street market today. I wanted to go pick up a few things."

Arm in arm with Connor she lead him down to Croswell Square which was only a few blocks away from her place. What had been massive tennis courts had turned into a street market. Vendors sold home made goods, tourists stopped to fawn over trinkets and vases with shells stuck to them. It was crowded, but not too terribly, Amelia keeping a close eye, on Connor making sure the man didn't get too overwhelmed by the near constant stimulus of people, scents and noise.

On their way to the market, Amelia had sent two other texts. One to Lida, a friend since before she came to the Cove, inviting her out and to play hookey. The other to Eamon with the addition that Hugh would never to think to look for Eamon at a street market. She brightened when her name was called, grinning broadly as Lida came over. The other woman was a bit shorter than Amelia, and stockier, but Amelia knew just how strong the woman was. Even without the boost of lycanthropy. The platinum blonde woman smiled charmingly at Connor and introduced herself.

Out of habit, Amelia looked around, it was rare for her and Lida to be out in public together. Though Lida didn't hold a high rank she was close enough to Amelia to be considered leverage. Attention turning back to Connor and Lida, she decided to step in and 'rescue' Connor before Lida somehow managed to convince him to walk down the aisle with her.

"Heard Hugh talked to Eamon." Lida's smirk was wide and evil. "Little bastard hasn't come by my place yet."

"Yeah, Eamon's going to be showing up here. Behave and keep your hands off of him." Amelia shot back, smirking. "Hugh says that he's bidding his time. Apparently the last time you talked he got the impression you didn't like him very much."

Who: Eamon Flood & Hugh Cadigan
What: Hugh and the Pack Second finally get a chance to 'chat.'
When: Sunday, May 1, very early morning
Where: Hugh Cadigan's home
Rating: Bwahaha!
Status: Complete

The call from Amelia had come in sometime after 11pm. At the time Eamon had been stretched out on his couch, eyes fixated on his television set. Most of the furnishings in Eamon's home were second hand; a motley collection of scraped and patched items that matched nothing else in their respective rooms and often nothing in the entirety of the house. The television, however, was new. It was also ridiculous in size, dominating the small living room with 65 inches of 1080p, 600Hz, high-def, 3D-capable goodness. A sound system that would shame most small city cinemas bristled out in three directions and the deep, wood shelves of the unit it stood on were stacked three-consoles deep with various video game platforms and their assorted paraphernalia. At the moment Eamon was playing Call of Duty: Black Ops. If Eamon had had neighbors they would have been able to hear the death screams of the virtually rendered Viet Cong three houses away without difficulty.

There was a reason Eamon didn't have neighbors.

When the handset to his landline trilled Eamon punched the pause button with a callused thumb, then snatched up the phone. His greeting was his standard "What?" but he said little after that; just a few 'uh-huh's, 'right's, and 'mhmm's. The entire conversation took less than two minutes. He hung up, switched off his X-Box, and got to work.

Eamon's wristwatch read 4:13 (am that is) by the time he considered himself ready. He stood square-shouldered on the asphalt outside Hugh Cadigan's new bungalow on Hugh's darkened street. With him stood 22 daisy-chained six-lamp industrial-grade floodlights and a home brew stand of wood and metal that racked up 18 individual air horns under a single start-lever. He also held a megaphone.

Eamon's hand hovered over the 'ON' switch to the lamps. For a brief moment he almost felt sorry for the foreign werewolf. Almost.

Hugh's street lit up like a midsummer noon, the sudden shift from night to day was accompanied by a blast of deafening, irritating sound that would have put the collective might of every single vuvuzela player in South Africa to shame. Bedroom lights popped on up and down the street, followed shortly by porch lights. When the first few front doors opened to reveal the silhouettes of Hugh's confused and angry neighbors, Eamon silenced the air-horns, lifted the megaphone, tabbed it on, and bellowed into it.

"OI SHEEP SHAGGER! I UNDERSTAND YOU WANT TO TALK!"

Then he leaned down hard on the air-horn start-lever and waved to the gathering, pajama-clad crowd.

Who: Amelia Drake, Eamon Flood
When: Sunday, April 17th. Afternoon.
Where: Eamon Flood's home.
What: The new alpha introduces herself to the current second.
Rating: Pg
Status: Closed and completed.

( Meetings and conversation. )

Who: Eilís, Eamon Flood
When: Tuesday, April 19th. Night.
Where: The forest.
What: Eamon meets a dryad for the first time.
Rating: PG
Status: Ongoing.

The smile of the waxing moon favoured the mist-shrouded forests surrounding Ocean Cove. Its benevolence wended its way through trees and bushes, through glades and across clearings before swooping down in a soft conclusion at the Pacific kissed sands of the beaches that formed one of the locations borders. A veritable chorus of noise prevailed amongst it all; a delicate balance of crickets chirping, frogs croaking and birds cooing softly from their perches. If one were to wander there, in the very heart of the forest, they would notice an undeniable presence therein. The trees themselves almost seemed to breathe and stretch their branches with languid amusement, knowing that little more than a week would see their habitat teeming with other creatures who felt the solemn pull of the moon’s haunting call.

But there was more to the personification of the forest than just lunar appreciation. Mother Nature’s children roamed here and there, playing their games and singing their songs as they lived out their life in peaceful contemplation far away from the harmful imposition of mankind. A pair of pale, almost colourless eyes, inquisitive and bright, glanced around amongst the emerald glossy leaves that stood out in the unnatural light afforded by the moon. Soft, quick footsteps scurried through fallen leaves and rustling grasses before the even softer sound of someone climbing a tree joined the nocturnal orchestra.

The soloist, a skinny-limbed girl dressed strangely in a combination of furs sewn together with twine to form short shorts worn in conjunction with a very old and faded KISS t-shirt, crouched on the first branch. One of her hands rested almost negligently between her bare feet whilst the other perched atop her bended knee, her toes gripping onto the rough bark of the oak as she surveyed the clearing she had just vacated. Tilting her head carefully to one side as she listened to the forest, her midnight black tresses seemed almost an extension of the network of twigs and leaves that surrounded her, hiding her from the sight of anyone who might have been wandering about on the ground.

Who: Connor Macrae & Henry Doyle
Where: London, England & Seattle, WA
When: Pre-game, nighttime
What: Back story covering Connor's transport to The Cove, in fragments.
Rating: PG
Status: Closed and completed.

Connor dreamed of red. All shades of it, bright and dark and everything in between. He was surrounded by it, bathed in it, unable to escape it but always wanting more, more, more. He dreamed of screams and pleading shouts in a nonsense language that struck the ear as both familiar and discordant at the same time. There had been running too, and something reflective, and barriers lined with boxes that scattered to the floor and made it hard for people to run. But they hadn’t slowed the monster. Yes, there was a monster somewhere in there, a horrible monster that lusted for blood and tore flesh and buried it’s snout in the steaming, sticky entrails of its kills just to glory in the scent of it. It had devastated…somewhere. A battlefield, maybe. The location was inconsequential. Everything was dead except the monster, which fed on the carcasses as if it had never fed before. In some ways, it hadn’t. But then, right there, mid-glut, there had been movement. There was something left alive. The monster couldn’t smell it but it could hear it and it would have it. Now. The monster charged, searching and snarling, infuriated that anything dared live. There it was. The monster registered a flash of blonde, a mild smile. It leapt, howling, slavering mouth open.

And then there was darkness.

Connor woke screaming. The monster was real. He screamed again. The monster was him. All those people were dead. He had killed him. He was the monster. He kept screaming.

“Shh,” came a voice, soft and slow and unfamiliar. “Shh. Relax. There, that’s right, just relax. This will help. We’ll be on-board soon.”

He tried to open his eyes, to ask a question, but something cold hit his veins and drew him back under.