Just a GPSL NPCs (birthrightnpc) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2020-12-21 19:20:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | npc |
An Introduction
Who: NPC Sam Hutchins
When: Dec. 21 (Winter Solstice)
Where: 4570 Churchfield Circle, Las Vegas
Mail overstuffed the box at the end of his driveway. Two local papers flapped and fluttered in their plastic sleeves. Sam got around to the drudgeries of modern bureaucracy once or twice per week, if it suited him. When asked by his son why he bothered getting snail mail if he wasn’t going to open it, Sam waved a hand and said that it was too much trouble to discontinue service. Besides, if one waited long enough, whatever they were harassing him about was no longer relevant, and it made good kindling.
Sam hadn’t seen the news about Shannon Foust. If he had, he might have made other plans for the solstice. A young witch deserved a better service than they’d give her in Pahrump, where she was born and where she would be laid to rest. That’s what Sam would have said, had he known.
Instead, he spent the day hiking and the evening puttering around his cluttered kitchen making a small meal for himself. He listened to a recording made earlier in the day by the English Heritage Society; it was a tradition for Pagan and Druid groups to gather at Stonehenge at sunrise and sing carols, and they’d put the entire performance online. As the sun went down on the shortest day of the year, he hung a few festive lanterns around the fire pit in his backyard. Then he watched for the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn in the sky, so closely aligned that the pairing was dubbed the Christmas Star.
Afterwards, wrapped in a thick sweater, coat, and scarf, Sam eased into a chair by the smoldering logs with a glass of mulled wine. He closed his eyes. The old hip was acting up, but he had a joint in his pocket and once he decided to light it, well, he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about his hip. He double-checked to make sure he brought his phone outside and realized the damn battery was dead. He had no idea how long he’d been toting it around like that. Sam set it on the arm of the chair and went back to resting with the sounds of the Spring Valley suburb around him: the whoosh of cars on a distant road, a dog barking a block away, someone maneuvering a wheeled trash can on concrete.
The scuff of footsteps on the walking path roused him some time later. Sam squinted one eye towards the shadows by his house. “That you, James?” His voice was sludgy. “My phone's not working. I must have neglected to plug in the business end of the charger!” he said, sounding bewildered and bemused. The feet kept coming, a slow procession from the wrought iron gate to the back of Sam’s chair. It wasn’t the unfamiliar soles of the gym shoes that made Sam open his eyes and look up. It was the lack of dry commentary.
The face peering down at him was young, no more than twenty-five years old, and partially obscured by a ball cap and a hoodie. A pair of stud earrings dotted the young man’s earlobes, which Sam only noticed when Aaron lowered his hood. “Are you Sam Hutchins?” he asked.
Wide awake and marginally more sober, Sam got out of his lawn chair. The glass of mulled wine scraped across the paving stone next to his shoe. “Yes, I am.” He narrowed his eyes in the golden light cast by his lanterns. Sam put his hands on the top of his pant legs, stooping slightly as he waited for his lower back to loosen up. What an ill-advised hike that had been. “Oh… Have I forgotten something? You’ll have to excuse me. I went a little heavy on the wine tonight.” That wasn’t all, from the smell of things.
Aaron shook his head. “No, sir. I’m here for a friend.” He had lowered his arms and they hung loose at his sides, the palms and fingers empty.
“Huh.” Sam frowned. “Which friend is that?” He raked his salt and pepper hair off his temple. The gesture and his expression had passed by genetics and imitation to his son long ago, when James had wanted nothing more than to be just like his dad.
Aaron pushed up his shirt sleeves, revealing a cluster of fresh scabs on each forearm, the designs crude but purposeful, carved over and over so that the cuts would scar. “I’ll let him introduce himself.” He extended his bare wrists to the sky.
[written by Kate]