maskormenacelogs | Song of the shepherd's dog

Entry tags:

Song of the shepherd's dog

WHO: Sam Merlotte & OPEN
WHERE: De Chima Vineyard & various
WHEN: May 2016
WHAT: Catch-all general starters. I can be reached at

inkswitch for a specific prompt!
WARNINGS: none yet
-

01. DE CHIMA VINEYARD: "The Nose Knows"

[the De Chima Vineyard tries hard to mix Southern charm with outright extravagance. To some extent, Sam has to admit it succeeds. The long drive up to the main building is gorgeous, lush and verdant, the groundskeepers clearly aren't paid enough for the amazing job they've done, and people find the view so lovely that the winery actually doubles as a wedding venue.

But a step inside the winery's polished upper tasting room (there's one in the cellar as well) tends to smack one in the face. The stonework and wood interior is lovely, don't get him wrong, but it's a struggle to find any hominess to it, and even dressed for the part Sam always feels vaguely like someone from Coach who's stumbled into a First Class seat, and at any moment a well-meaning stewardess is going to direct him back to where he belongs.

But as an assistant manager Sam can be found doing any number of odd jobs around the vineyard. Some days he's behind the bar in either tasting room, smiling and pouring complimentary samples (or less complimentary glasses). Others he's walking around the grounds or out on the back patio, making sure visitors are enjoying themselves. He may even be found watching one of the wedding processions from one spot or another. But any imPort is going to get a friendly, welcoming smile, and if you don't want to go say "Hi", well hell, that's all right - he'll come bounding right up like the friendly mutt he is to greet you himself.]

02. ALL CITIES: "Friendly Neighborhood Bar"

[the Sam outside of work looks a very different man with very different tastes. Whatever bar he's in is sure to be low-key, and maybe even downright dingy. Jeans are a given and the shirt is probably flannel, and if there isn't a whiskey in his hand then something's terribly wrong.

There are a few people he's outright called to come drink with him - finally making good on promises exchanged either through the network or one of the imPort gatherings - and for those he makes sure they have a booth somewhere out the way; somewhere comfortable. He has to be stiff-backed for work so he sure as hell won't be on a night off. Not if he has a choice, anyway.

On the nights where a run-in is more accidental, he might be found actually shooting a little pool, but more than likely is just sprawled easily in a chair outside or leaned over on a bar stool, watching whatever program flickers on the no doubt cheap TV set hanging above him.

Let's just hope none of the locals tries to start shit with him if he happens to be in the wrong bar when the lights dim enough to see that imPort number glowing on his wrist - Sam's anger has a short leash on the best of days, and whiskey does nothing to improve it.]

02. ALL CITIES: "Give A Dog A Bone"

[there's a dog running down the length of a beach, chasing seagulls and trying to get involved in frisbee games.

Or maybe the fluffy shepherd is bothering you as you enjoy your lunch on an outdoor patio, or following you none-too-subtly as you leave work, tail wagging.

Could be you're about to make new friends with a friendly stray at a nearby park, whether you like it or not.

(And at least once said dog has gone swimming in a nearby, secluded lake, and when he rises up out of the water a man... he finds someone has made off with the pants he laid out on the shore. Which makes for a very awkward, very naked shifter standing in the water. Son of a bitch.)

But in every four-legged case, the English Shepherd looks well-fed and remarkably clean for a dog without a collar, well-behaved and loving. Hey, they say petting animals makes for great therapy - give the guy a quick scratch behind the ears?]

03. WILDCARD

((anything and everything, throw something at me and I'll find a reason to fit Sam in.))

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Daryl was attempting to learn the ins and outs of the job he'd been given. Manager of of El Dorito Golden Cantina. Not Assistant Manager, not Janitor, hell, not even wait staff. But full out manager right off the bat. And the learning curve was not an easy one. His first shift had been an introductory shadow shift. Second was more of the same. Third he'd been expected to do most of the managing on his own while the current shift manager shadowed him to evaluate his performance. All dressed up in the nice button up (With sleeves still attached) he was a far cry from his normal, preferred method of dress. But fortunately he managed to 'convince' his job that he should be allowed to wear his vest. Staring hard and long in a challenge no one wanted to fight him on had helped a lot.

But he'd never felt more like he was under a microscope in his life. All the eyes on him, all the staff waiting to see what he'd do. How he'd do shit. It was weird.

Fortunately, he got smoke breaks. And it was outside, to the west of the patio dining, far side from the door, that Daryl stood leaning against the wall, dropping ash to the concrete below. The dog that came up to him, all friendly like, earned a soft smile and a quiet, "You hungry?" from Daryl.

Fuck yeah he's hungry, dude.

Okay, so really he wasn't - he'd had a good breakfast, because if there was one thing Sam could do it was cook a damn good Southern breakfast - but since when had not being hungry mattered when a dog was offered food? Especially when that food was offered by a guy who smelled (past the cigarette smoke) to be genuinely friendly. Sam could sense intentions better as a dog than he ever could as a human (there were times he'd wondered if that wouldn't have made so much of his life easier) and despite a rough outward appearance nothing about the smoker said "danger" to him.

So he sat all pretty down at Daryl's feet, tail wagging idly in broad sweeping motions across the dirty ground. He barked once, then went right back to panting, his tongue half hanging out of his mouth. Not the most dignified look, but in Sam's defense a great deal of the day had been spent chasing gophers in a nearby empty field, and those bastards made for a surprisingly tiring time.

Daryl's lips curled up at the edges and he brought the cigarette down to put it out on his hand. It always stung, but he was used to it. He stuck the remainder of that particular cancer stick into the pack he kept in his front pocket, then pushed himself off the wall and bent over to pet the dog along the bridge of his nose and just behind the ears with tentative fingers. Afraid it would run off on him before he could get it any food.

"Wait here, okay?" He asked, his southern drawl making itself known the longer he talked. "'m sure we got some nice fresh chicken or steak or something I can bring out for you."

[He's in De Chima, god help everyone, sitting in a park and waiting for Gansey to get off work. He has with him a raven, who is sitting on his shoulder and making opinionated cawing half the time, and trying to steal Ronan's fries the other half. Ronan does not like people much.

But Ronan does like animals. He looks over at this dog, wandering around, and eats a fry, then tosses one over.]

[Dog, yes. Good Dog. Best Dog, even. Dog Who Really Enjoys French Fries, currently, if the way he stands on his hind legs to catch the fry is any indication. He snaps his jaws at the arcing bit of grease and salt, and licks his muzzle clean after with evident joy.

Sam had wandered over just because of the novelty of the sight, originally - it's not everyday you see a kid with a raven on his shoulder. He's still curious. But now he's here for more french fries, and to that end he's going to wander in a little closer, wagging cautiously.]

Sam, like all shapeshifters, had control of his shifts. He knew who he was and what he was doing, still a man despite whatever skin he wore. But each form did come with its own instincts. Little nudges from nature, things that just felt good and right to do, and it was up to Sam how much he lets himself give in to those impulses on any given night. Sometimes the best way to enjoy a shift was to let go, to just let himself be the shape.

So it wasn't that Sam didn't understand Daryl's instructions - he did- but he was sort of letting the dog have the reigns for the while. And the dog didn't understand why he had to wait around at all, when all the good smells were clearly coming from inside the building.

So hopefully his New Best Friend wouldn't be surprised if this furry mutt tried to follow him right inside.

Daryl noticed his shadow in the reflection of the floor to ceiling windows and stopped his progress with his hand on the door.

"You gotta wait here," he said again, before making a face and trying something else. "Uh, stay. You understand that? Stay?"

[ Whiskey's Smith is one of the older bars in De Chima, not quite up to speed with the sleeker, slicker lounges that the city's medical and electronics industry demands for its increasingly precious off time. The beaten tables are close, the booth lamps are an old, rosy gold under green glass shades, and the pair of televisions hanging over the lovingly-polished bar are CRT relics, their bent antennae apparently only good enough to pick up public broadcasting from Quebec. Despite, or because of this, it's an unobtrusively steady night, a small collection of patrons busy with their drinks or their company while a pair of serving staff in green aprons make their rounds. Occasionally, there's a ding from a dusty pinball machine near the back, but otherwise the only noise is a mix of voices and documentary film French.

There's a small break in the voices when Six enters, but it's thankfully brief, and he has an easy, quick answer when one of the waitresses approaches him:

"I'm meeting someone."

He's a little late, seeing as public transit is still a harrowing experience, but he's making an effort to blend in here and showing up on a chocobo isn't going to help that. He left his armor and his mask at home, though he couldn't bring himself to travel unarmed: the belt for his knives doesn't at all go with the cheap, simple jeans-shirt-jacket combo, but he had to compromise with his paranoia somewhere.

He slides into the booth with a relieved sigh and a pleased grin at Sam. ]

Made it here in one piece.

Things are looking up.

[ It's out on the beach where Diefenbaker - the half wolf - and North - a red and white husky, some eight months old - are playing that Fraser runs into the bouncy english shepherd. All at once, the dogs are all playing together, running for the snowballs that he's throwing, and it wouldn't be the first time that Dief and North had good naturedly allowed a third, fourth or even a fifth into their playtime.

There's enough moisture in the air that Fraser can gather up a snowball just by sweeping his hand through it, and then he sends it as far overarm as he can. Sometimes teeth snap around the ball, and mash it to oblivion, and other times it explodes ahead of the dogs on the hot sand, and has them digging in the sand to try and find it. Mostly it's an excuse for Fraser to get them running first in one direction and then the other, without having to exert himself much at all. ]

Okay, come on then. [ Pulling a bottle of water and a bowl out of his bag, playtime stopped for a few minutes while he poured out fresh water for the dogs to drink. They took turns, Dief first, then North, and then Fraser looked toward their new friend. ] You too. Come on, drink up.

[Ronan decides this dog is pretty cool, so he takes another few fries and holds them out, leaning over. He smells like hay and moss and maybe like someone else, someone else who smells like moss and green things and smoke, but mostly it's hay, moss, and that raven on his shoulder who is making cawing noise in protest.]

Don't be jealous, it's not ladylike.

[Back to the dog - Ronan waits, patiently. Have some fries, dog.]

Wait here? ...But food is in there???

He whined some and nudged his head against Daryl's leg - c'mon, man, just reconsider - before ultimately sitting back on his haunches again. There was a low, annoyed woof, but it seemed the dog did seem to understand. Must be pretty well-trained, for a stray.

[the choice in bar is everything he could have hoped for. Quiet and dated, and the decor even lets him forget for a while. Forget that he's a universe away from home instead of just a few hundred miles.

Sam gets there early on purpose, so he can down a whiskey by himself and detox from the day. The vineyard is a good start, it is, but it fits like an itchy hand-me-down. ...Well, what he imagines one would fit like. Shit, but he better not start thinking about family or he'll end up drinking himself under the table before he can hear Six's business proposal.

He waves the man over when he notices him come in - hard not to, and he smells him before he sees him - smiling in a tired but genuine way.]

Didn't get mobbed too bad this time then? [Sam is aware of how lucky he is to be able to blend in like he does - as long as he has his sleeve rolled down when it gets dark he's just another face in the crowd. Six is at an obvious disadvantage there.]

What's your drink? I'll grab you somethin' from the bartender. 'Less you wanted some food, then I could flag down a server. [they currently didn't have one - Sam's on a liquid diet tonight, and he'd like to be able to chat without too much extra attention. There's going to be enough of that as it is.]

Edited 2016-05-17 00:18 (UTC)

[it's been a while since Sam's had this much fun as a dog. There's nothing quite like it, being able to let all the stress melt away with your shape. Everything is simpler as a dog. All those extra thoughts just fade away down to what really matters - the spray of the ocean through fur, the delight of sand between the pads of your paws as your legs eat up the stretch of beach.

New friends.

Sam takes to the half-wolf and husky as soon as he registers them as friendly, and the man they're with is an added bonus. An imPort of course - he's throwing snowballs on a sunny day - but someone who smells kind, who smells of animals (some of them strange), and doesn't mind letting a stray interrupt his day.

Sam snorts a bit of sand out of his nose after digging after a crab he'd scared out of its hole, noticing his new furry pals running back up the beach to Fraser. - Oh, water break. Okay. He watches a moment, only to perk his ears and trot over at the invitation. Well hell, what a good guy. Sam has to give approval to anyone who's kind to random animals. He takes care to stand against Benton's leg as he drinks, showing his appreciation.

...And maybe hoping for a scratch behind the ears.]

[the-dog-formerly-known-as-Sam cocks his head to the side, ears pricked at the cawing bird. He's never really understood birds. - Been them sometimes, sure, but wearing something's skin grants surprisingly little insight.

Odd smells for a kid to wear - has he just come from the woods? - but nothing that will deter him from coming in for a few more unhealthy treats. To that end he'll even lay his head on Ronan's knee, turning brown eyes up at him. Isn't this just the sweetest face? Isn't this just the sort of face that deserves to eat your fries?]

"Ain't gonna be long," Daryl assured him, waiting a second after the dog sat to make sure he wasn't going to run off as soon as the door was shut on him.

Daryl, as promised, didn't take long to get back. When he shouldered the door open again, he had a plate with some very good smelling chicken on it in one hand. In the other, he held a large bowl filled near to the brim with water. Daryl couldn't block the door and didn't want potential customers to get the wrong idea, so he walked back to the other side of the patio and even further down. Then put the plate and bowl on the ground and hunkered down in a squat next to them.

"Looked like you might be thirsty, too."

[ Fraser offers a little scratch, when he's asked for it, rubbing behind the collie's ears and smiling pleasantly at him. He's very sweet - and well kept for a stray - and gentle with the boisterous puppy, which Fraser appreciates, so the least he can do is offer a little water when it's needed. Better than risk him drinking salt water.

But it's a good moment to cool everyone down, and so as the dogs drink, Fraser throws his other hand up, and it snows icy flakes down on warm fur, not enough to crash everyone down in temperature too fast, but it would take the edge off it anyway.

A moment later, Fraser is refilling the water bottles with ice and laying them down in the sun, setting his hat down beside them. He took a tug rope out of his bag, and having set the bag down, he took the end of it between his teeth, and changed promptly into a white wolf with crisp blue eyes. He gave the rope a little shake, and prickled a playful growl at the collie, ducking his head down lower.

Let's play. ]

[A farm, actually, but he produces this smell himself, out of dreams. Whatever. It's a thing.

He likes this dog, so he scratches his ears and feeds him fries.]

You got an owner?

[He's looking for a collar or a tag.]

[Sam gulps down a few mouthfuls of pleasantly cold water before leaning into Fraser's touch. This man is definitely a dog owner - he knows just the right spot behind the ears to reach. Much more of this and Sam's hind leg will be tapping the sand of its own accord.

He thinks at first that the man is getting up to gather his dogs back and leave, which Sam-the-dog can't help but feel heavy disappointment at. As far as he's concerned he could run and tussle with this group until long the sun's begun to set. Exerting himself is just what he needs right now, and he's loathe to give up the opportunity. So imagine the cascade of delight and confusion when instead of leaving, Fraser turns into a wolf right in front of him.

Even as a dog Sam must look a funny picture, the way his body jumps in surprise. Fraser didn't even remove his clothes first - like no shift he's ever seen before. He didn't smell like a were, not a shifter, so what is he? But also - a rope. Tug-of-war? But also the man turned into a wolf, he should figure that out. But then again: Rope.

The dog's instincts to play override Sam's wary bewilderment. He darts down to to take the other end of the rope between his jaws, tail low but wagging as he starts into the contest. Once the fiber is secure between his teeth he moves with it from side to side, little sprints to make it harder for the larger canine to really dig in and drag. He still doesn't stand a chance - the size difference between them is too great - but the point of play has never been to win.]

[ Fraser has no idea the concern he's caused in Sam. Instead, he's just relieved that he doesn't seem to be completely fazed by the whole rope game thing. Sure enough, a second later the dog gets in on the game, jumping toward him and grabbing hold of the other end of the rope.

Because Fraser is a person and not a wolf - but given him an hour, it takes that long for him to forget himself - he knows how to actually play properly, and he doesn't pull harder than the shepherd can pull back. He gives a little bit, before pulling the other way, and when he does get the thing free, he begins to lope off ahead, letting it trail to one side where Sam can get his teeth into it again.

North and Dief chase them down the beach too, and Fraser goes galloping out into the waves ahead of them, sending up spray, then jumping over the shepherd and haring it back up the beach again, sticky sand between his wet toes, tail streaming water behind him. He doesn't stop to shake himself off, too busy with his game, and as he does shake he sort of stumbles, water in his ears, totally at risk of getting pounced on. ]

[there's a low sigh of a 'woof' in answer to that, Sam craning his head up to aid Ronan's hands. This is what human hands evolved for, you know - petting other animals. It makes so much sense.

No collar to be found, perhaps surprisingly. Not even the tell-tale matting of fur where a collar might have been once.

This close to the bird, Sam's nose is going almost as crazy as his wagging tail. He leans up and closer, surreptitiously trying to get a fuller scent from the bird.]

It's been three hundred years.

...Or maybe just two minutes. Sam wasn't sure. Time was hard to keep in dog form. But he perked up from where he'd laid out on the ground, wagging cautiously as Daryl emerged from the restaurant in a sudden gust of noise and smell. The chicken stood out the strongest among these, prompting him back onto four paws. Probably he'll be embarrassed when he recalls sticking his head against Daryl's thigh later, but in the moment he was only trying to get as close to the food as he could while simultaneously trying to look like that wasn't what he was doing.

Dogs could be sneaky fuckers.

But apparently the subterfuge wasn't necessary. The moment the platters hit the ground Sam was on top of them, happily tearing into the meat and wagging like crazy all the while. Goddamn, he swore food tasted better as a dog. It was definitely more exciting. Either way, Daryl had definitely earned himself a new Forever Friend.

[Chainsaw eyes him and caws, and hops down into Ronan's lap to get to know this dog better, too. She smells like bird and nothing else, and Ronan is watching this interaction carefully. He likes dogs but he loves Chainsaw. If he thinks he sees this dog attack, he'll pull him back by the fur.]

She'll go for the eyes if you scare her.

[This isn't entirely true, but it's not entirely a lie, either.]

It had been a long time since any dog had nosed at his knees or headbutted his thighs. Of all the things that this place had to remind him of how life used to be, that was the first to make him feel a little like he'd actually returned to the world that was. Not that he particularly cared about the world before or thought that life was better for him during that time. But for his people, for most of them, it had been.

Daryl reached out, once again tentative, to scratch the dog on the head and just behind the ears. Being cautious this time because the guy now had food in front of him and he knew from experience that even friendly dogs could get possessive while they were eating.

"You like that, huh? Wonder if you got a name."

Even if the dog didn't have a collar, he was really well behaved. Had to have had a name at some point.

[ There was a time when Kitty liked to drive places, but that was before she ended up as a being that's only half-human. Now, being inside a structure made of steel makes her ache. And so she doesn't take her car up that magnificent drive; instead, she floats over it in the form of a vulture. And slowly, gracefully, she circles down and descends onto the back patio, landing on the grass - her hideous bulk not twenty feet from where Sam stands. ]

Oh!

[ By the surprised pleasure in her voice, this is a happy coincidence rather than some precision landing. A ripple of magic, and the vulture becomes a girl instead, smiling at him. ]

Perfect timing, it looks like.

[the shepherd is fast, and lets himself loose in a way that quickly works to eat the distance between him and Fraser. (The poor puppy might have some trouble keeping up, but that's how puppies learn.) That long, sleek fur is getting wet and matted with sea spray and salt air in the most delightful way.

A crowd of seagulls make the mistake of settling ahead of the pack and go up in a cloud of squawking and disturbed feathers, and it's all - perfect. Just fantastic. How long has it been since he's let himself wear another shape this long just for fun? Just because it feels good to use a body the way it wants to be used. Hell, how long has it been since he's been at a beach, for that matter?

Opportunities are absolutely there to be taken advantage of, and Sam leaps neatly for the wolf as soon as he's in range. He growls playfully as they both go tumbling, nipping harmlessly at patches of thick, wet fur and mouthing an ear, the rope forgotten in favor of their wrestling. They're both going to be sand-covered monsters at this rate, but hey, if he gets to pin a wolf under his smaller paws than it's a worthy trade.

Of course, once the other two canines catch up it's going to be a pretty literal dog-pile, and in the back of Sam's currently feral mind he has to wonder if maybe he shouldn't just shift to pit bull to get an advantage.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 5

Song of the shepherd's dog

Give a Dog A Bone - De Chima

no subject

no subject

dog!!

no subject

no subject

no subject

Friendly Neighbor Hood Bar - De Chima!

2; beach

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject