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Tiber Loche

Part One: To Build A Home - The Cinematic Orchestra
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUFJJNQGwhk


Tiber finds himself caught up in the way the waning sun greets the darkening horizon. He can't count the moments that had passed as he sat outside of the cabin. Each and every nook and cranny had carved their own spaces on his memory. Even if the place had been soiled with a love that he was not a part of or invited too, there were energies attached to Quinn's cabin that could never be erased. Part of him isn't sure that he wants them to be. Another, very small part of him wished he couldn't still feel these energies at all.

They had began to dull, much like his slowly dying senses. Tiber no longer clings to them for dear life- but it doesn't mean that he's not reluctant to let them go all together.

It's when the sun stops offering any kind of assistance that he finally decides to go inside. The man has his suspicions. Assumes that Quinn and Gideon had yet to leave the compound down south where he'd found them before. But he has to be sure. Tiber needs a solid clue to point him in the right direction, less he be left carrying himself across the United States on some sort of wild goosechase.

The first step inside haunts him, and a cool breeze threatens the base of his spine. Like a ghost, it pushes him deeper in to the hut, where the dust had already started to collect as the warm air from spring thawed the wooden bones of the cabin. Immediately the scent of the south enveloped his senses, washing over him with a sudden sensation that reminds him of a warm spring day. Tiber crouches down just past the entry, fingertips dragging over the floor before he scoops the remnants of a heavy soil into his palm. Gently, his eyes slip closed and the same fingertips manipulate the dirt in his hand.

It's dried out by now, but only just. The earth ground into the floor was an easy mixture of dry, New York gravel and some sort of soft mulch. Tiber isn't particularly fond of the scent. It smells awful.

He rose to his feet while the heat from his attentive stare landed pointedly throughout the room. Heavy boots carry him through the loft, past furniture that had been covered once more with the thin sheets that were meant to keep the dust at bay. There's a dresser that sits idly by a light colored ladder- It's one of the only pieces to forgo a sheath. Atop it were scattered pieces. Forgotten, perhaps. Memories left behind to be discovered the next time the cabin's occupants came to stay. A silver picture frame with the photo removed. A brush that could easily be replaced. Folded neatly and placed just at the corner...

A dress.

Again, Tiber uses his fingers to get a better look. His fingers are dirty and rough, and when they glide over the easy, white cotton they leave a mark. The scent of fresh lilacs and a mild detergent combat the stench of musk that threatened the rest of the room.

The man can imagine quite vividly the way she looked in the ensemble. He wonders if she'd left it behind on purpose. He wouldn't have blamed her if she did.

It's not long before he steps away from the wardrobe, concluding then that there was no other information to be found here. Quinn and her husband hadn't left in a hurry. They'd taken care to prepare (most) of the belongings inside for a lengthy trip away. The evidence pointed to an intended return, which said to Tiber that they'd simply gone... Home. The smell of soft ground and mulch from the floor indicated warmth. Well cared for land.

Perhaps the same place he'd found them before.

It was the first place he'd look.

From his pocket, Tiber pulled two devices. One of them was his phone- simple and unassuming. A flip-phone, because he'd never been able (or willing) to get the hang of a smart phone. The other... Well. That would come into play later. For now, he flips the navy colored phone open and begins to scroll through his contact list. Once he gets to the B's, he highlights Broseph and begins to type away into the text box.



Broseph
Roadtrip. You in? I'll pay for snacks.




Once he hits send, he turns on his heel and makes his way out of the cabin. The Den proper was his next destination. He'd need a hearty brew while he waited for Derek's response.
April 15, 2018 12:37 am

Derek Norse

Broski
Say no more.

Derek had taken one look at the message and lifted himself from the couch after paying homage to the beautiful creature beside him. He would lose himself briefly in a mess of blond curls, once more wondering how he managed to land a reoccurring gig like this. He hadn’t even been here when she decided to move into his cabin, but he wouldn’t fight it. He actually likes this one. She’s easy going, and Derek does love easy.

“Alright, Ghostie... Broski needs me. Somethin’ about a road trip.”

He sets to work immediately, grabbing his duffel bag from the closet and dropping it on the bed. Derek is used to packing like this. It would take him mere minutes to have a weeks worth of clothes, necessities, copious amounts of weed. What he is not used to is the woman in the room, watching him prepare to take flight. She does not know that he possesses a naturally restless spirit, always ready to go at a moments notice.

He does not know how to cope with walking away and leaving a girl behind. He has never had anything that has lasted more than a single night, two at the most.

“Listen... take your time on the stash, okay? We are running low and it’ll be a couple days before more is delivered.” He takes a moment after zipping his bag shut and throwing it over his shoulder to approach her once more, leaning down and into her space with a roguish smirk. “I can’t wait to get back.”

Derek may present himself a certain way, but he isn’t foolish. People don’t propose last minute trips for no reason, and he is remotely aware that whatever this is might not be desirable.

It honestly doesn’t take much to guess what this is about.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to find his way to the Den proper, parking his bright green, 1967 Camaro outside and cutting off the roar of the engine with a turn of the key.

The silence that engulfs him is just as deafening.

Keys are left in the ignition, and Derek makes his way into his place of work. Business has been slow, and the need for his presence is minimal. Honestly, he could smell trouble from a mile away. It made his position exceptionally simple, and once again, Derek loves simple. But he also likes a dose of danger, and that is what brings him into the bar to find Tiber with a glass mug full of blissful booze.

“No driving my baby if you’re getting drunk, bruh. I can’t have her getting scratched.”

His cool gaze moves over Tiber, assessing the man in that smart way he does as he tries to weigh the possibilities of this trip. “Where we headed, man?”
April 15, 2018 03:27 pm

Tiber Loche

Sure. Tiber had taken it easy on the rotgut or two. But that's exactly why he'd chosen such a harsh brew. It didn't go down smooth, or settle easily in the pit of his stomach. It was awful. It tasted utterly disgusting. But it did the job. Took the edge off, fast. That was the whole point.

He's just swallowing the last gulp of brew when he spots Derek slipping through the heavy front doors. A burst of cool air follows him inside, and even though he's sitting somewhere near the back of the room, it sends a chill down his spine. A welcomed chill, mind you. His temperature had a tendency of running much hotter than the average bear [heh].

Tiber waves a hand dismissively as Derek immediately griefs him for his choice of beverage. "This'll all burn off within the hour." He reaches for a dusty bag at his feet and sets it up on the table, digging around inside a moment. "Besides, if you can drive your car after smoking a pound of reefer, I think I'll do just fine."

Of course, Tiber wastes no time in getting his own stabs in.

"Ha!" A verbal victory intended only for himself. He brushes the khaki duffel back on to the floor, a folded up document clamped between his fingers. It's no time at all before he's laid it out over the table top, having moved his empty mugs to the side. A streak of red is drawn down the multicolored page.

It's a map.

Tiber has already prepared the best route. Assumed tolls. Stops for food. Stops for sleep (tough luck, there are none). It would take them approximately twenty-two hours to arrive at their destination. Assuming, of course, that neither Derek nor Tiber got them into any trouble along the way.

Fat chance, but the man can dream.

"So. The red line is the route to New Orleans. If we leave now, we can be in Greensboro before sundown."

Go easy on him, Derek. Remember that Tiber is not a man of modern technology.
April 19, 2018 12:28 pm

Derek Norse

"What is that?"

Derek stares at the map, eyes wide and expression that of someone who has been unexpectedly thrown back in time. He looks between Tiber and his archaic torture device, jaw slack, as judgment courses through him.

It takes everything in him to remind himself that the Broski has a flip phone.

F-ck. Even a Razr would be an upgrade, at this point.

"Dude, fvck that. We'll just take power naps and smoke a bunch."

His gaze follows the red line to the very bottom, seeing that it ends to New Orleans. Raising a brow, he gives Tiber a confused look.

After a moment, he shrugs before nodding toward the map while muttering something about old people, and then shakes his head. "Let's get moving, then! I got a blunt in the glove that's calling our names."

Without waiting, Derek walks out through the heavy doors and to his baby, sliding his way across the hood like a smooth frat boy before slipping behind the wheel. The ignition is turned, engine roaring unceremoniously to death, and he waits for Tiber to finish folding up his elder scroll and get outside.

By the time that happens, he has Google Maps up and his phone mounted on the dash.

Their first of many roadtrip treats is procured and lit, and soon the men are migrating south. Tiber, with his actual paper map, and Derek, with his superior technology.

Honestly, Derek had no idea they still made those.

Some hours in, Derek casts a squinty, reddened glance in Tiber's direction.

"You know. If you wanted to see Wes, you could have just said so. Also, why the f-ck aren't we flying? I can get my sh-t mailed anywhere, you caveman."
April 20, 2018 05:05 pm
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