Anvilhead's Logs

Mule-Hating Sword-Givers

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 05:24:40 GMT

Summary: Victor makes another trip to the farmhouse and meets Laora.

9/3/2007

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (58% full).

Farmhouse: Kitchen and Dining Room

Homey is the first word to come to mind when looking at the farmhouse's kitchen. Dark, wood-paneled wainscoting covers the walls to about waist height, dark beige wallpaper continuing to the ceiling. Twin refrigerators occupy the north wall, facing the large six-burner stove on the south. The kitchen counter runs the length of the eastern wall, broken only by the double-basin sink. Cabinets run above and below the counter and a twin-pane window is set in the wall above the sink. A small pantry is set into an alcove alongside the refrigerators, presumably holding the deep freezer as well as shelves of dry goods.

Some twelve feet above the floor, a large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, lighting the dining room and casting long shadows over the bar to the kitchen. A long table occupies the center of the dining room, three chairs setting along each side, and one on each end. On the west wall, a large window looks out on the trees alongside the western pasture. Set into the north wall is a large cabinet, its glass doors closed on shelves containing a full compliment of fine china and glassware as well as a few decorative nicknacks. On the east, a wide bar separates the dining room from the kitchen.

An opening in the southern wall allows passage to the front entryway of the house, while a sliding glass door in the kitchen opens to a clearing behind the house.

Laora smells of burnt wood, metal, and sweat. She sits at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey set to one side and a shot glass in front of her. In the far corner of the kitchen, something tall and slim is leaning up against the wall, covered in a blanket.

Victor pushes open the back door and slouches in, smelling of sweat and woods, with twigs in his unwashed hair and a smudge of dirt across his well-formed nose. He pauses for a bit to stare dully at Laora, brow furrowing.

Matt comes from upstairs, making his way down the steps slowly before poping into the kitchen and spotting Victor and Laora. A moment, and he waves simply to Victor. He makes his way in to the kitchen and pulls some fresh fruit from a bowl.
A young teen, Matt now stands just shy of five feet and two inches, and weighs a bit under one hundred and twenty pounds. His skin shows a healthy tan and faint rose coloring, showing him to be near the picture of health. His messy blonde hair shines from a good diet, though he would look better if he would only bother to comb his hair. His clothes are clean, if a bit on the tattered side, a pale light green tee shirt and brown fabric shorts. He has no shoes to speak of, but his feet look tough as if they had seen many trails.

Laora stares back, irritability clear in her stiff back and the way her beefy fingers hold onto her shot glass. "Hi," she finally offers, Irish accent as thick as the icing on a heavy chocolate cake. "My name is Laora Steel-Claws, Cliath Galliard of the Fianna."
Laora is a big girl, not fat, but burly, with broad heavy shoulders and beefy hands scarred and hardened by manual labour. She stands at a height of five foot nine and fills out from there, built like a top, all arms and chest. Her skin is freckled and sunburnt, and her shoulder length hair is dry and frayed, its auburn colour burnt almost to straw. Her eyes are a bright expressive hazel, which light up every time she smiles.
Laora wears a pair of stiff blue jeans, heavy leather boots, and a form fitting t-shirt (which is still a size XL). A simple steel torc, unadorned and gently sweeping, clasps around her neck.

Victor blinks slowly a few times, then grunts. "Fick-taw Stawm," he says, thick and deep. "S'addo Lawd. H'roon. Woopis." He then snarl-gags out a brief bit of homid-throat-accented Mother's Tongue. ~Anvilhead.~

Matt pauses as if frozen when he hears Laoras introduction. Blinking, he turns to face Laora. After Anvilhead introduces himself, he says "Matt, known as Lost and Found, Galliard Cub of the Fianna."

Laora's eyes narrow, fingers curling around her shot glass as she lifts it to her lips. "Lupus I take it," she answers dully. "What was your Tribe again." She looks up at Matt and smiles wanly. "Grab a glass boy and have a drink." She offers, dragging over teh whiskey bottle.

Victor glances over at Matt for a bit, then looks back at Laora. "Woopis," he repeats, and then, very carefully, "Ss-aah-doh Lawd."

Matt does not object or hesitate in his compliance to Laora. In a moment, he is sitting next to Laora with a clean glass as he says quickly, "Cole-Rhya has said only two drinks. I am not to get drunk or lose control, if there is a possibility of kin or humans being about."

"Cole is a Mule-lovin' pansy," Laora mutters to herself, as she pours three fingers of Whiskey into Matt's glass. "Shadow Lord. Got it," Laora speaks up more loudly. "Do you know where I can find your Elder?"

Victor's attention, which had been starting to drift away, swivels back to Laora. He stares at her stupidly for several seconds, brow furrowed.

Matt looks to Laora, but keeps quiet as he takes the whiskey and sniffs it a few times. He looks to Laora, before he takes a sip of it, his eyes going wide at the taste.

Laora snarls softly to herself, temper coming to the fore. ~Elder?~ She chokes out in Mother's Tongue, voice made hoarse by the effort.

Victor grunts, jerks his head vaguely in the direction of the door. "Woods." One of the few English words he doesn't have undue trouble with. Then he turns away from the two Fianna to lumber over to the refrigerator.

Matt just knocks back more of the whisky, getting down about half of it before putting the glass back on the table. He keeps himself quiet as he takes his fruit and another bite is taken.

Laora scowls and shoots back her whiskey, before rising and moving towards the corner of the kitchen and the objects covered in a blanket. She pulls aside the blanket a little and drags free a sword, fully eight feet in length, with a six-foot sheathed blade. The blanket is re-set over whatever it is still covering.

Victor pays no attention. Pulling open the refrigerator door, he hunkers down into an apelike squat and starts poking and rummaging through the cold, food-laden shelves.

Matt watches Laora, though he dosn't jump or complain. A moment later, he takes his glass and downs the rest of the whisky, sticking his tongue out as he tries to get the taste of whisky off his tongue.

Laora hoists up the weapon, westing some of the weight on her shoulder, beneath the pommel. "Shadow Lord," she addresses Victor. "This," she points at the weapon. "For your Elder." She says each word carefully and slowly, in hopes that Victor will understand.

Victor looks up at 'Shadow Lord' and, from where he's squatting in front of the open fridge, stares up at Laora. His pale eyes travel from her face to the sword and then back again. "Sawed," he says and stands up to take the sheathed weapon from the burly Fianna.

Matt is sitting quietly at the table, an empty glass and a bottle of whisky in front of him. He seems to be eyeing the whisky, and the glass.

The rain outside is light and dismal, the noon sky is grey and dim. The face pressed up against the glass of the farmhouse door is like a starving suckerfish, flat and intent. Horace's arrival is unannounced except by the sudden appearance of his face at the sliding doors, his ugliness turned to monstrosity by being pressed so flat. His cheeks are white, his mouth is distended (with a faint fleck of spittle against the clean glass), and his eyes are in there somewhere though it's hard to say exactly where. He just watches, curious.

"For your Elder," Laora repeats, firmly and slowly as she hands the sword over. With a grunt, she reaches for the whiskey bottle and shot glass and then she sees Horace. "Holy Fuck," she hisses. "Is this Caern half-filled by Mules?!"

Horace is young, fourteen or fifteen, and his face possesses all the ignorant innocence of that youth, in one of its ugliest packages. His wide eyes droop like soggy flowers, and his nose is flat and thick, close to his face like a pug's muzzle. His mouth always seems to hang slightly open and he tends to breath through it, making a high wheezy sound. He's 5'3" but has a large, unformed frame, like he's still covered all over with baby fat, and his clothes are much too big, they hang on him like drapery. He looks innocent and wounded like a cherub which has been gone at by meat hooks, and there is a look, always about him now, of uncertainty, worry, an utter lack of sureness about the world around him.

Victor, holding the sword in both hands now, turns to stare at the apparition at the door. Near him, cold air leaks out of the open refrigerator.

Matt gives a look over to Horace, and then Victor, then to Laora again. Keeping himself quiet as he slowly eats the fruit he has in front of him.

Horace continues to stare at this strange tableau, distantly, still quite still, with a sense of invulnerability about him as if, with the glass between them, he's immune to the others' stares. Slowly he brings his fat palms up to the glass, pressing them flat against it, his breath coming in whistles through the flesh of his squishes nose.

Laora sets down her glass and bottle with an angry *thunk* onto the table, before stomping towards the back door. She slides the glass door open with enough force to make the frame shutter, baleful gaze focused on the Wendigo. "Shoo!" She hollers, complete with a 'shooing' motion.

Victor just stands there watching. His brow furrows again as if he's thinking very hard. It looks painful.

Melodie comes into the kitchen from the main house, and pauses, seeing a lot of unfamiliar faces. She stands in the doorway, not sure if it's polite to interrupt. Or in the interests of short-term health.
Shockingly bright Atomic Pink hair reaches down to the shoulders of this energetic girl in her early teens. Multiple piercings adorn each of her ears in an asymmetrical pattern, all of different shapes and colors, and a plastic stud sits on her nose.
She's wearing a baggy fashionable pink Hoodie with two black shattered hearts on the front. Underneath, she has a black T-shirt featuring a gun shooting pink hearts across her chest in a diagonal pattern. A tight pair of jeans with floral embroidery on the back pockets hugs her hips, fastened with a pink and grey argyle patterned belt. On her feet are a new pair of sneakers with the 'shock absorbers' visible, and a familiar swoosh logo, also highlighted in pink and with matching pink laces. She's got a shiny lip-gloss that also enhances her signature 'pink' color theme. On her right arm is a pink vinyl studded bracelet.
Her coloration is hispanic, but she has a greek nose, and her hair has a natural curliness that suggests a Mediterranean influence. Her small size, several inches shy of five feet, and slender build makes it easy to assume that she's still shy of her teen years, but the onsets of puberty are doing their best to counter this effect.

Matt is sitting at a table, and remaining very quiet for the moment.

Horace moves back smoothly as Laora opens the door, letting his hands hang at his side. He's a few metres back by the time it rattles into its place, and the rain comes down softly against his damp greasy hair. He watches Laora for a few moments, weight her exhortation in his head, blank-faced and sullen, before he asks, dully demanding, "Who are you?"

Morgan has bad timing today. The sliding glass door is her usual entrance, but she must have circled around the house first, as she's not really visible until she comes up around the side, hair much less of a rat's nest than it was yesterday, though it's damp from the rain. She spies Horace first, but Laora is hard to miss, and the metis's pace slows...and slows.

Laora scowls, knuckles going white in the edge of the door frame. "Laora Steel-Claws. Cliath Galliard of the Fianna."

Horace's next question follows quickly, with only a few seconds' pause for the rain to come down. "Are you a member of this Sept?" he asks, his voice smooth and straightforward though it sticks at times in his throat. "I don't know you."

Victor, still holding the sheathed sword that Laora gave him, walks slowly forward to stand just behind the Fianna. The burly newcomer's not short, but Victor towers over her as he joins her in staring at Horace.

Morgan appears to think better of her method of entrance. She steps back...and again...and again. She disappears around the corner of the house, and a few moments later, the front door can be heard opening.

"I am working on my Chiminage, I am a Guest," Laora spits out. "Who are you?"

Melodie clears her throat, as nobody seems to have noticed her. "Melodie Rodriguez, Philodox Cub of the Black Fury. Do you mind if I, um, use the fridge?"

Horace's teeth go flat against each other, his fleshy forehead wrinkles in consternation before going flat, like a lump of dough waiting to be formed, as his resolve settles in. Seconds roll by as he just stands there in the rain, before he answers her question, simply: "I am a member of this Sept," he says, beginning to walk forward, up towards the door the Fianna blocks. "And you may not tell me what to do."

Morgan reappears, this time at the kitchen door. Her shoulders are hunched, as if to make her appear less tall than she really is, and she fairly slinks toward the refrigerator. Several hesitant glances are flung Laora's way, but as the other Fianna is occupied, she's clearly taking advantage of that to get herself some grub.

Laora bares her teeth and growls, then she actually backs down from the rather ugly Wendigo and averts her eyes. Turning away, she seeks comfort in her whiskey bottle, bringing it to her lips and not bothering with the shot glass.

Matt looks to Laora and keeps quiet for the moment, before looking to the others. Yes, very quiet. Very very quiet cub.

Victor backs up as well, if only because Laora's backing up as well. Then he hefts the sword onto his shoulder and walks around the Fianna, pushing his way out the door and into the backyard. Anyone glancing out can see the big Shadow Lord ambling steadily toward the woods.

A sheathed sword, six feet long, is left inside Thunder Cave. It smells of some stranger (Laora) and a bit of the farmhouse, and of Anvilhead, who carried it from there in homid. If anyone corners Anvil to ask about it, he says it's for Moon Otter.

Sick At Food

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 05:19:19 GMT

Summary: Anvil makes a trip to the farmhouse, eats raw meat, and smacks Salee around a bit.

8/26/2007

Farmhouse: Hallway and Living Room

All doorways in the front part of the house lead to the front hallway, a J-shaped area with the short tail starting at the stairs, the front door hitting the bottom curve, the doorless opening to the living room halfway up the long side, and the also doorless opening to the kitchen and dining room at the very top. The hall has a simple wooden floor, and decorated with a generic print of soft-colored flowers hanging on the wall to the right of the front door, and a tall table sitting under the print which serves as a place to toss keys. A closet under the stairs serves as a place to hang coats or to toss shoes.

The doorless opening to the living room is halfway up the side of the hall's J, and the word cozy might spring to mind when looking into is, as it seems to radiate comforting vibrations. A long couch sits against the south wall beneath a large bay window curtained only by sheers that manages to obscure the view in but only filters the day's light. A variety of out-of-date magazines are strewn atop a low coffee table; more neatly presented are the plethora of books filling the small bookshelves which line the eastern wall. Three chairs sit about the room, focused inward, to allow group conversations. Large floor pillows are stacked in one corner of the room, except one, which lies carelessly in the middle of the floor, apparently left out the last time it was used.

An opening in the northern end of the hallway allows access to the kitchen and dining room at the back of the house, while carpeted stairs twist up at the other end of the hall, leading to the second floor. A door at the base of the J lets out to the front porch.

Briefly, there's the sound of running water upstairs. And then Kaz comes limping down the stairs, hands still slightly wet. "Hey, yo," she says, as she ambles into the kitchen. "'Sup?"

Victor pushes open the back door and lets himself in, tracking in dirt and blinking slowly.

Reggie straightens up from the tedious task of drawing every key on a cellphone, and reaches out for the red marker. "Hey, a sore for s--"--he catches himself, and starts again with, "a sight for sore eyes!", he greets Kaz. "Hang on." He circles the mess of squares and rectangles with a big red circle, then slashes through the circle. "There. Kaz, I've some news--", and he breaks off to inspect the arrival at the bask door.

Three hundred pounds of muscle, fat, and gristle pour unevenly down a frame over six feet, puddling in an overflowing belly barely restrained by jeans desperately calling upon extra-strong reinforced seams and solid brass hardware. Army-short hair outlines the dome of the skull, newly decorated by a circular slice cutting bone-deep evenly around its circumference. A monobrow shelters sunken, piggish eyes. An unevenly flattened nose and cauliflowered ears have evidently received many a fist in the past. A patchwork of grey wolf fur hangs over his shoulders, arms, and chest, covering distorted, hairfree skin. The hands demonstrate a history rich in manual labor, with stumpy, thick fingers and fingernails broken to the quick. His right arm is a massive length of scar tissue from shoulder to hand, with the muscling of a paraplegic. A black feather is braided into the grey fur on his right shoulder. A thin necklace, made of cedar bark twine, hangs around his neck. A severed finger is threaded through the twine, and hangs flat against the wolfskins.

Morgan comes in, for once, via the front door, wearing her customary winter coat in spite of the weather, customarily closed in front. She looks like she's been rolling in dirt. But then, maybe she /has/ been rolling in dirt.

Kaz nods at Reggie. "OK--" She too, breaks off. Since she has not, in fact, met Victor in homid, she gives him a fascinated look. "Hey. Do I know you?"

Bursting in through the front door, Aubrey makes a beeline straight for the kitchen. She doesn't bother greeting those around her. After a brief moment in the kitchen, one can hear a sudden, "God damnit!" from the Theurge of the Stag Children. She then comes back into the living room, interrupting everyone. "What's today's date?"

Victor stares, brow furrowed, at Reggie's paper, then turns to Kaz. In a thick, deep voice he says, "Fick-taw Stawm. Ah-hroon Woopis Shadow Waw'd." Then, with a grimace, he twists his throat around crude, curt Mother's Tongue. ~Anvilhead. Pack Stormfront.~

Morgan follows after Aubrey, looking a little intimidated by her tribe mate's agitation, and considerably confused by her question. Needless to say, she doesn't have an answer to that. Victor draws her attention as soon as he speaks, and there's the tiniest of tensing in her jaw.

Kaz says, absently, "Full moon, August," and then clarifies, "Uh. 26th, I think. Might be the 25th, though. I don' keep s'good track of exact dates. Hi, Morgan," she adds, focusing a bit more, and smiling. But she loses that smile as she regards the Shadow Lord, though she's not unfriendly. Just slightly more formal. "Hey. I'm Kaz. Ears, t'garou. Bone Gnawer Galliard, Elder of the tribe, all that good stuff. Child've Raccoon in Vendetta. Fostern, and," she adds, studying his reaction carefully through the veil of her hair, "Metis."

Reggie begins to greet Aubrey with a raised hand as Aubrey bursts into the kitchen, then lowers his hand and looks after the Fianna as Aubrey as quickly leaves the kitchen, and he looks puzzledly at Kaz. "...Theurges?", he shrugs. He frowns in bemusement at Victor's mangling of the English language, and his expression clears at the use of the mother tongue, and he informs Kaz in an aside, "One of them", then adds, "Shadow Lord". He clears his throat, and holds up the paper, as his finger points at the drawing of the cellphone. "News--no cellphone on the bawn." His expression lightens as he sees Morgan, and he hands out the paper to her. "Hey, can you do a better job than this?"

Victor stares down at Kaz, his jaw slightly slack, pale eyes dull. One can almost picture the gears turning -- slowly -- in his head. After several seconds he nods, then looks away to take in the other figures in the area.

Aubrey looks at Kaz and places her palm to her forehead. "Jeeze," she mutters. "Well, I really lost track of time." She looks around her and smiles and waves to Morgan. "Hey there, Morgan." She quickly notices that Reggie and Kaz are here too. "Uh... who is on patrol?" she asks. "Wait, is it my turn?"

Kaz looks confused. "Yeah, the no cell phones thing's been spread f'awhile. But I'll keep spreadin' it!" She gives Aubrey a /much/ more confused look, now. "Uh. Have you been stuck in weird Umbral places and we ain't noticed, or somethin'?"

Matt makes his way into the living room, though he seems to announce himself second before by the soft floating tune of a tin whistle. It's not loud, but it seems to flow without purpose, no set pattern to contain it. It's not until he makes it through the back door does he stop his tune and hold the whistle in a hand, passing the kitchen (And picking up some fruit), before coming out here.

Morgan takes the paper with one grubby hand and frowns at it. "Do better?" The introductions inspire her to give her own, though it sounds as though she's reciting simply by rote rather than anything else. "Morgan Whelan, Song-of-Luna, Fianna Metis Galliard Cliath." Her last distraction comes in the form of Matt, with his whistle. She peers at the cub.

Victor squints a bit at Matt, then grunts and moves off toward the refrigerator. Lupus or no, he's at least sophisticated enough to know where the food's kept.

Aubrey pinches her fingers together. "Just a tad, Kaz." she says with an uneasy smile. She then straightens as she sees Victor walk past, raising her brow towards him.

Kaz asks, promptly, "Where you been? Anything fun happen? You OK?" She mutters, "Yo" at Matt.

Matt glances about happily, as he walks with a personal ray of sunshine around him. He addresses people, "Aubrey-Rhya, Morgan-Rhya, Kaz-Rhya." before looking to Victor, introducing himself after hearing Morgan, "Matt, named Lost and Found, Galliard cub of the Fianna."

Reggie gathers up the black and red markers from the kitchen table as he rises from the table, and hands them to Morgan. "That wasn't the end of it, but, uh, first--", he regards Victor as one might a dose of cod liver oil one has to swallow, and slowly states the words, "I'm Snakepatcher, an Ahroun of the Uktena. Fostern. Member of Vendetta", as he helpfully indicates himself with a hand to his wolfskin-covered chest. The formalities done, he turns back to Kaz, "Alesia Rises-from-the-Demons found someone taking a rabbit from the bawn and got riled up about it. Anyone hunting on the bawn is taking food from the Guardians, as they can't leave the bawn for other food. Giving them food would be a fair exchange--so they don't have to do hunting and can go guard instead of looking for food. And speaking of food--processed food's weaver, so no taking any processed food to the caern. You know, the stuff that comes wrapped in plastic and doesn't look like what it orginally came from. Moot's coming up, so you might want to get that news out before the moot."

Morgan's eyebrows seem to draw right together as she listens to Reggie. She's confused, obviously, and enough so that the otherwise intriguing markers are taken, but not immediately explored. "Food hard to find on the Bawn?"

Kaz blinks slowly at Reggie. "Check," she eventually says. "Game is, Morgan. So basically, let them have the game, and eat stuff here instead."

"Oh.. yeah. I am alright. Just got a little turned around." the Theurge replies. "I really shouldn't be looking for things on my own..." the woman lingers off and diverts her attention elsewhere. Aubrey looks over to her cub, "Did you hear that Matt? You are a Galliard, make sure to get the message out to people."

Matt looks to Aubrey a moment, then says "Game is not to be taken from the bawn, but it is okay to non-weaver food to the guardians as a fair exchange. Yes Aubrey-Rhya, I will pass that news. Do you want me to stay here, or move to the bawn to spread the news and bring food to the guardians?"

And speaking of food... Victor more or less ignores the others as he opens up and crouches down, rummaging through the fridge as the talk goes on behind him. Finding a package of hamburger meat that someone's been defrosting in there, he grunts in a satisfied way and takes it out. Of a wonder, he actually remembers to close the fridge before wandering back with his find.

Kaz, persistent, asks, "What were y'lookin' for?"

Morgan still looks faintly troubled, but that seems to be her only comment on the subject of food. She sniffs at the markers Reggie passed her, and explores them with her fingers in considerable detail. "Reggie-rhya, what...did...you want?"

Reggie regards Matt thoughtfully, states, "No weaver food on the caern", then turns to Aubrey, "He's filling out some. I saw him eating bowlfuls of cereal and sugar--more sugar than cereal. He'd fill out faster, get muscle like this", and he flexes his arm, "With meat instead of cereal", he offers unasked-for advice to Aubrey, then stops short to regard Morgan at her question. He holds out a hand for the paper he'd earlier given her.

"Has Cole said it is okay for you to be on the bawn?" Aubrey asks Matt. "You listen to what your Righ has to say about where you can and cannot go." Then, turning to Kaz. "Oh, well, I am hoping that Cole and I... possibly Morgan, could take a trip to our tribal homeland sometime in the near future. I was looking for possible pathways." She looks to Matt at Reggie's comment. "Lay off the sugar, read up on nutrition. Should be eating healthier. Sugar, in great amounts, isn't very healthy. Need a balance of carbohydrates, meat, vegetables, and fruit."

Matt gives a quick nod to Aubrey, "Yes Aubrey-Rhya, I am allowed to stay on bawn, and am allowed to go to the caern, but not leave the bawn excepting to come here or to go to the Fianna place with someone else." He pauses a moment, "Yeah, I got sick from the sugar. Was throwing it up. But...what are carbohydrates?" He has to sound out the word slowly to get it all in.

Kaz supplies, "Bread, potatoes, that kinda thing." She nods to Aubrey. "Interestin'. Hope you guys get to go."

Victor pauses with the package of meat in hand, brow furrowing as he thinks something over. Finally he sits down somewhere and tears the plastic off the cool ground chunk with a hand. Granted, raw meat from the fridge is not as good as raw meat from a freshly-dead animal, but the lupus seems to have no real complaint as he begins to eat it.

Soft, lilting violin music carries to the farmhouse from the yard outside. Three guesses as to the source of it. Sure enough, after the music stops, Salee and her violin (closed up in its case) enter the house. The redheaded girl pauses and blinks at the gathering of Garou. Then, she stares at Victor. "Is... is that raw hamburger?"

Morgan passes the paper back to Reggie. She keeps most of her attention on him, though Aubrey's message causes her jaw to clench a little tighter.

Matt looks over and smiles to Salee, grining happily. "It's tasty. There's no blood to the meat, but it's still good. Not to mention, no bones or fur, but you can't have everything." he shows her his tin whistle, "Maybe we can play music together some time?"

"Twist is making us a cold iron weapon to bring along with us," Aubrey replies to Kaz. "Just in-case we run across any tainted fae." The red haired woman gives the Fianna a pause.

Reggie turns the paper until the drawing of the cellphone is more or less upright, although which side is 'up' is as questionable as it would be for a Picasso, then he points at the drawing. "That's supposed to be a cellphone. See all the buttons? Dial 1-8-0-0", his finger moves around the uneven squares, pressing some of them. "Think you can draw better?", he asks Morgan.

Victor sucks on his fingers, getting a few scraps of the raw meat off them, and stares flatly back at Salee. His eyes narrow slightly at her, looking vaguely suspicious.

Kaz produces her cell phone from her pocket and hands it over to Reggie. "A life model," she mutters. "He's lupus, Salee, don' mind him. Also, hi there."

Morgan scratches the side of her neck with the bottom of one marker, and then reaches for the paper again. She looks over her shoulder as Salee enters, but her attention is firmly seized away from all distractions as Kaz produces a real life cell phone. She brightens immediately. "Oh."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Salee sets her violin on the ground carefully while also slapping a hand over her mouth. She runs from the room so quickly it looks as though her life depends on it. The slamming of the bathroom door should make it no mystery as to why she would flee so fast.

Matt ponders a moment, and steps a bit closer to where Victor is. A moment later, he looks over to where Salee went before shaking his head, and instead sitting on the floor. Hey, he might get some of that meat if Victor dosn't eat it all.

Kaz mutters, "Oh. Yeah. Forgot that part," sympathetically, as she watches Salee flee the scene.

Reggie hands the paper back to Morgan, and, at the sound of the slamming door, looks after the disappeared Salee. "What?", he asks, and turns opposite from the spot to regard Victor and his meal. "Oh, don't tell me--she's a vegan?", and he addresses Matt, "You see, this is why blood and meat's an important part of your diet. Get enough in you, you'll get big and strong instead of constantly passing out cold and throwing up. She's just too thin." He shakes his head in dismay.

Aubrey bites her tongue as Salee suddenly takes for the stairs. "I grew-up on a farm, concider me fortuante..." the Fianna retorts.

Kaz says, "I don' think she's a vegan, I think she just gets grossed out." She shrugs. "Reflexive thing."

Matt pauses, "I grew up without food." he looks to Aubrey a moment, then back to Reggie, "Yes Reggie-Rhya. I learned my lesson already. My body told me that it was bad to eat that much sugar. It does not want it. It wants good food."

Morgan jumps as Salee takes off, and looks around the room rapidly, as if expecting to see some terrible monster. The paper and markers are forgotten until she has ascertained that there are no kitchen monsters to be found, and then, with a frown at Matt as he speaks, she sets the paper down and begins to scribble rapidly.

Aubrey nods her head to Matt and slips across towards the door. "Better get on partol," she says. "One of us ought to be out there.

Kaz mutters, "I'll be back inna sec," and tramps upstairs.

Reggie nods firmly at Matt. "Good food", he emphasis. From his girth, the Uktena Ahroun hasn't been hurting for food. "About hunting on the bawn--clear it with the Guardians first. Offering food can help square the deal, but they don't have to accept it. Also, if you're spreading the news--", he points at the paper Morgan's got. "Make this loud and clear to anyone you see--No cellphones on the bawn."

Matt gives a quick nod, "Yes Reggie-Rhya. I will pass the news. He smiles happily, "What kinds of foods are okay to bring? What's processed foods?" he glances about. "Is bread and meat processed?"

Victor finishes off the one-pound package of raw ground beef -- even licks clean the styrofoam tray -- and sets it down. Then he spends a few moments licking his fingers clean, wiping his mouth with his hand, and licking his fingers again.

Looking rather green around the gills, as the saying goes, Salee returns to the room. She makes a point of not looking in Victor's direction this time.

Matt looks over to victor, and gives a soft 'aww', since all the meat is gone. Well, he gets up and goes to the fridge and gets his own meat, it's more a half a pound of the raw stuff before he goes to the pantry and nabs a potato, sitting at the table. He's also got the apple from earlier, as he eyes the potato. "Car-bo-hy-drate? Or Vegtable?"

Morgan looks up from her drawing--which, honestly, is probably not looking much better than Reggie's, and possibly worse. She's sure concentrating on it though, for all that it just looks like a saggy box with squares on it. "Hello," she says to Salee. "Why you run away?"

Reggie glances briefly at the paper to see what progress Morgan's made, and he welcomes Salee back into the fray. "You're just in time. He--", his finger jabs in Matt's direction, "Wants to know what processed foods are." He looks expectantly at Salee, putting her on the spot.

Victor looks around with somewhat more interest, still licking his fingers.

Salee points an accusing finger toward the Fianna cub, "Matt, if you start eating that stuff in front of me, I swear to God I will kick the shit out of you." Sher looks almost frightening. Well, maybe to a cub she might. "Seriously."

Matt pauses a moment, and looks at the meat, the potato, and the apple in front of him, before looking up and just looking really confused at Salee. He then looks to Reggie, "Reggie-rhya, I'm supposed to eat good balance of everything...what's wrong? Is it that time of the month?"

Morgan blinks. "Eat what?" She turns her head, looking to see what the other cub is going to eat, and...she blinks again. "Eat what? What time of the month?" So confused.

Salee gapes at Matt. Her face is slowly turning a shade of red to match her hair. "I ran away," she begins, "because I have a weak stomach. Processed foods are not healthy for you. Think hot dogs." She pauses to clench her teeth and seethe for a moment before continuing. "A potato," she states matter-of-factly, "is both a vegetable while being considered a carbohydrate on most diet plans. And no, I am /not/ menstruating."

Victor's brows furrow. He looks from one face to the next, trying to follow the conversation.

Hal enters, looking around at the group. First he turns to Reggie, and says, "'Evening, Reggie-rhya." Next he turns to Victor and says, "Greetings. Hal Jenssen, Modi cub of the Fenrir, also called Leaps-from-the-Den." To Matt he says, "I think, Matt, that Salee would prefer that you not eat your hamburger raw."

Reggie pauses and his eyebrows rise, surprised by Salee bringing a threat of violence rather than passing out cold. He waves off Matt's concern with a hand. "All that's fine. Eat." His eyebrows raise again at Salee's answer. "Hot dogs are processed, yes. Bread's processed. Anyone else?" He greets Hal with, "Hello, welcome to tonight's session on food. Would you care to define processed foods?"

Matt blinks and pauses, blushing when Salee turns red. "Menstruating?" He just looks horribly confused until he looks down at the food in front of him, before he breaks the potato in half, "Fruit, vegtable, meat, carbohydrate. Is good." He then looks up at Salee, "I am eatting good foods." before taking a bite of the 'vegtable' half of the potato.

Morgan doesn't really look any less confused at all of this. "What is we..." she pauses, then rephrases, saying slowly and carefully, "What is a weak stomach? You don't like food?"

Hal furrows his brow for a second or two before answering, "Processed, is worked in some way by humans. Baked, roasted, boiled, or mixed with chemicals--weaver stuff, to some extent."

Victor turns his pale-eyed stare onto Hal, then says, slowly, "Fick-taw Stawm. S'ado Waw'd. Woopis 'hroon." Then he turns his attention back to the other cubs. Getting up, the tall young man walks over to Salee and stands, well, rather too close to her, looming as one hand comes out to take some of her hair.

"It is /not/ fine! It is /not/! Don't you /dare/ eat that hamburger raw, Matt. I am /serious/." Salee's voice rises in pitch the more the speaks. Any higher and only dogs will be able to hear her. ...Does that mean Garou wouldn't have any problem? She turns around and glares waaaay up at Victor and squeaks indignantly, "What?!"

Victor apparently doesn't like the tone of Salee's indignance, since he frowns and aims a cuff at the side of her head, quick and heavy.

Matt gives what amounts to a whimper, looking between the meat in front of him, Salee, then Reggie.

Morgan stands rather abruptly, leaving her markers to roll about on the table. "Full moon!" Her voice is about as squeaky as Salee's is for a moment. "No fighting, no yelling. Shh." She works her way toward the cub and the Ahroun, though she's quite clearly more wary of the latter than the former.

Reggie nods at Hal. "Good answer--and the more processed it's been, by machines, the more weaver it gets--", and he breaks off as his ears get assaulted by the high tones of Salee, and he looks indignantly at Salee. "Quiet!", he announces, just after Victor gets his cuff off.

Salee goes down easy, hitting the floor hard before she ever knew what hit her. Wisely, or because she simply has no drive to move, she stays down. Only the smallest groan escapes her lips, both hands clenching into fists slowly.

Matt just gives another soft whimper, looking over at Salee, though he keeps eatting. He actually pulls everything a bit closer to his chest, as if getting protective of it. He puts the potato down, and takes a bit of the raw meat, and takes a bite of it, enjoying it as he can.

Hal seems to struggle with Victor's accent, but he shows surprise when he resolves the word "lupus," responding "Well met." When Salee goes down, he kneels on the spot and urgently asks, "Salee? Are you all right?"

Victor grunts. "Moon calf." That actually comes out fairly clearly, it containing no difficult letter sounds. He stares down at Salee for a bit, then walks back over to where he was sitting before.

Morgan doesn't actually touch Salee until Victor has turned away, but when he does she bends down, urging the cub upward. To say she's agitated would be an understatement. "We go for walk, okay? We go for walk outside. Up, up, up."

Reggie's gaze slides down after Salee, then nods in satisfaction that Salee's obeyed his order and is now being quiet, and he turns back to Matt. "Hamburger's meat that's been ground. It's processed, but not as much as say--potato chips, or Cheetos. And, it's fine to eat. She can leave if she doesn't want to watch it."

Matt ahhs softly, and still keeps all the food in front of him close to his body. Not wanting to 'let it get away'. After a moment, he looks down, before getting a small handful of the meat, looking to the adults. "Umm. Reggie-Rhya, Morgan-Rhya, or Moon Calf-Rhya...would you like some first?" It's not exactly first, but he's blushing about not offering.

"Don't touch me," Salee growls furiously. She climbs to her feet and staggers once, possibly still seeing stars. After grabbing her violin case, she starts stalking off toward the door.

Morgan pulls her hands away as if they'd been burned--but she doesn't pull away herself. The metis is practically stepping on her heels as she starts to stalk away, looking as though any loud noise might make her jump high enough to knock holes in the roof. It's safe to say she's distracted enough that she doesn't hear Matt.

Reggie waves off the offer from Matt, "Thanks, no--and 'Moon Calf's the one who was on the floor--", he corrects himself quickly, after seeing Salee recover. "The one now leaving in a huff. The name you want is--uh", Reggie struggles to turn 'Fick-taw Stawn' into a name, and, defeated, translates the other name from the Mother Tongue, "Anvilhead."

Victor is sitting down again, poking at the styrofoam tray and its bits of scrap plastic that used to house raw meat, and doesn't process Matt's words at first. Then he lifts his head, frowning again, and gives Matt that flat, pale-eyed stare.

Matt just blushes deeply, "Uh...er...Sorry?" he looks to Anvilhead, before he offers a bit of the hamburger in front of him. "Anvilhead-rhya, do you want some? Is good to offer to elders first share of things."

Victor reaches out a great long arm and wordlessly takes a huge handful of the raw hamburger that Matt is offering. Then he gets up and stalks out while eating it, slowly following Morgan, who in turn is following Salee.

Hal stands once he sees that Salee is all right. Once the way is clear, he crosses over to the fridge and gets himself some lettuce and a container of cottage cheese, putting some lettuce on a plate and then spooning cottage cheese onto it.

Salee storms from the house, oblivious to the fact that she's being followed. Once she reaches the yard, she shouts up to the sky, "I hate this place!"

Lane(#300RJ)

Stretching a good quarter mile from the road, this gravel lane leads back to the Escrowe farm. Trees line the lane, leaves filling out on the limbs to fill the sky with fresh green clouds. In the distance, the farmhouse looms above the treetops, gleaming white as the snow from its yearly coat of paint. Silence prevails here, save for the rustling of the tall grasses in the fields when the wind blows.

The front entrance to the farmhouse is on the porch alongside the gravelled road which continues on around the eastern side of the house back to the barnyard. The opposite end of the lane turns back west to empty out onto Sunrise Road.

Obvious exits:

PORch BarnYard Sunrise Road

Morgan skulks behind Salee. She twitches a bit at the shout, but being outside of the house full of Garou seems to do at least something for her nervousness. "Have be careful," she says urgently, once again dropping the effort of speaking in complete sentences. "Is full moon. No want yell at Ahroun."

Victor stops on the porch steps, still eating the handful of raw meat and staring at the two female Garou.

"Who asked you?" Salee stops once she decides she's made it far enough from the house. She whirls around to glare at Morgan, but her eyes fall on Victor instead. Those green orbs grow wide as her face grows pale and she dashes toward the trees to throw up again. The violin is abandoned just far enough away so as not to risk hitting it in the splash. The retching does not sound pleasant. The results are even worse.

Morgan stands in place for a moment, looking between Victor and the retching Salee, back and forth, as if trying to figure out just what happened. Then, she takes after the cub again. The results of this most recent episode of weak stomach cause a considerable nose wrinkle, but nothing else. "Have to not /yell/," she stresses carefully. "Not on full moon. You feel angry, is /everyone/ feel very angry. Get too angry and someone lose control."

Victor wrinkles his nose. "Sick?" he asks Morgan, apparently referring to Salee.

After a few moments, Salee straightens up again and spits a few times. She retrieves her instrument and makes a point of not looking toward the house again. "You know, it's not a good excuse for people to treat me like /shit/."

Morgan purses her lips, and calls back, "She not like food." As if this were the most reasonable explanation in the world--but hey, it's the best one she's got. Salee's remark, however, brings her attention right back. "It's...not?" There's no sarcasm or irony at all in her voice--she sounds genuinely surprised and confused.

Victor sits down on the porch steps and finishes off the rest of the raw chuck in his hand. Then, as before, he takes some time in licking his palm and fingers clean.

Kaz emerges out of the front door and leans against the porch railing. "Hey," she says, quietly.

"I like food /just fine/," Salee insists. "I just like my food /cooked/. Not r-" She lurches slightly, eyes shut tightly as she swallows back what might have been the start of another round of vomitting, "Not raw."

Morgan blinks again. "Oh." She pulls her oversized, ratty coat more closely about herself. Now that the crisis has settled, she once again speaks slowly and very carefully. "You're a new cub. Yes? Homid?" She doesn't really wait for an answer before going on. "Garou are like wolves, and cubs are the lowest rank." She licks her lips. "The lowest rank have...has to be careful."

Victor finishes licking off his fingers and grunts a bit, then looks up at Kaz from where he's sitting.

Kaz shrugs at Victor, affability itself, and limps down to the edge of the steps, stopping to lean against the railing.

"This is /bullshit/. They're human in there with the exception of that character there," Salee gestures toward the house. "I expect to be treated with some sort of respect! Some decency!" She starts pacing back and forth on along the side of the road. "I expect-" She stops, clenches her fists at her sides and growls angrily, fuming quietly to herself, "Where the /fuck/ are you when I need you, Jack?"

Kaz says, certainly loudly enough to be heard, "They're not human. They're Garou. Difference. /However/--" She takes a few paces forward-- "They -- we-- /should/ be treatin' you with respect, yeah. That's /another/ one've them laws. But you can't be... pushin' back at people, is all Morgan means."

Morgan says "Not human," Morgan says carefully. "Garou." She watches Salee pace, jaw twitching. "You yelled at a Cliath. Rank above you. Respect here means you don't do that, because doing that, that's not respectful. It's full moon. /Full moon/. You not understand that yet, but getting hit, that very mild on full moon." She looks gratefully at Kaz, and points toward her. "She explains better. Is okay be mad. Everyone mad right now. But have to be /careful/.""

Victor, meanwhile, just.... /looks/ at Salee, head slightly cocked, brow furrowed.

Salee starts pacing again. "It isn't fair. It's /stupid/. I want to go home!" She swings the violin case back and forth, smacking the head of it against the opposite palm with a satisfied smacking sound.

Kaz blinks. "Someone cuffed her?" This is clearly asked of Morgan. To Salee, "You ain't usually that pushy. But Morgan's right-- you especially have to walk the line carefully during the full moon. Th' Rage is a lot higher, then." She regards the young cub. "Well. You ain't goin'. And it /isn't/ fair, no. I wish I could sugar coat it, but, well, it ain't. You gotta put up with it, prove t'folks you can /hack/ this shit. Be better at it than /they/ are, basically."

Morgan flinches visibly at the noise. To Kaz's question she nods, though looking at Kaz means looking at Victor, and she seems rather unnerved. She doesn't point out just who. "You know," she says toward Salee. "I had a friend. She homid. Lot like you. She hate it here when she first come too. She want go home, want go back to human life very, very bad. She sure she never make it, sure she stupid, and not do things right, and never learn. But I Rite with her. She do very good. She make it, she Cliath now. Very good Cliath."

Victor grimaces, his upper lip wrinkling away from his teeth. He's clearly annoyed. Without a word, he gets up and stalks down the steps. For a moment, it looks like the tall Shadow Lord's going for Salee or maybe Morgan, but then he veers off to the side, heading for the woods.

"No! /You/ don't understand! Every time I try to prove that I'm not just some little bitch that people can push around, I get /hit/." Salee stops in her tracks again, whirling to glare at Kaz. "It's not teaching me anything except that once you get higher up in the ranks, you can make cubs your punching bags! The Litany doesn't apply to you, unless you decide to go Charach. Then you're fucked for life, no matter how good you are."

Metis Abuse

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 05:11:44 GMT

Summary: Anvilhead terrorizes a bat-ish Metis, scares a cub, and annoys Alesia by just being himself.

The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center of the clearing is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. The meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number of bees and butterflies. (+view works here)
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.

Speaks-Up moves closer toward the cub then, settling down into a long stretch before growing quiet just to watch and listen. He looks to Alesia, Speaks when Needed, he offers by way of introduction.

Alesia is sitting across the fire from the Uktena, her spear at her side. She's got a light bandage on her right thigh and she just sat. She frowns, "Yes, news. Some weaver thing has upset the wylding spirits at the caern, and it is thought that the weaver thing may have been drawn by a cub who was not properly warned to leave his cell phone behind. Until further notice there is to be no weaver things with moving parts or electricity near the caern, that means even as far out as here. The farm house and such standard rules apply, but in the woods, no watches, no electronics, no cell phones, no lighters, nothing. Right now they won't work anyway so no loss but if they keep being here, it may continue to aggitate the wyldings and lead to worse problems. We are still invesigating the full depths of the problem, but this is now the rule on the bawn."

Lara reflexively looks at her wrist; it's free of watches. "Si," she says to Alesia. "Very reasonable rule. I should speak to the one leading the cub, though. In my role as judge, possibly." (She herself is seated by the fire, in homid.)

Ankle-Biter listens intently to Alesia. Her body language pretty much says, I'm a puppy! Which her small size tends to support.

Anvilhead lumbers into the clearing, panting noisily, tongue hanging out and dripping drops of doggie drool.

Ankle-Biter looks at Anvilhead with wide eyes, clearly intimidated by his presence. Big wolf!
You see a small, adolescent wolf. At this age, most humans are struck by the inherent puppy-cuteness of this 'teenager', most likely the runt of the litter. Her coloring is mostly grey with some darker hair mixed in. She smells of city smells and humans.

Lara regards Anvilhead for a moment, and then slowly shifts to lupus; she remains curled by the fire. Evening, she tells him.

Speaks-Up looks toward Lara, licking his nose once at her. This is broken by the sudden lumbering of a rather brutish wolf. Tension ripples through the metis, but he stands close guard next to the Fury cub.
A wolf with charcoal-colored black fur and jade green eyes. He is just slightly under average size for a wolf, but carries a healthy weight and a kept coat. However, these things cannot overcome the sheer monstrosity of his form. Drawing immediate attention are large, satellite like ears made of black, wrinkled leather. They are ears that belong on a bat, not a wolf, and their size alone is an excuse for mocking. Furthermore, his forelegs are furless and the black leather skin that hides below a wolfs pelt is his only protection from the elements there. On his forelegs, beginning just behind the elbow, is the leathery membrane that would be found on an animal designed for gliding, not running; and this deformity does in fact inhibit his gait. Like the stunted lope of a hyena, he must take twice as many strides to cover the same distance that other wolves cover in their own lope, and while the membrane proves flexible, it simply does not allow him a full stretched gait. Despite all these challenges, this wolf appears healthy and alert, and the thick, full tail he carries seems to like it would belong on a better, nobler creature.

Anvilhead lifts his head slightly, slurping his tongue into his muzzle as he sniffs the air. He stops this after only a few seconds though and goes stiff and still, staring at Speaks-Up. His body language, which had been easy -- even lazy -- when he entered, slowly shifts to anger and threat. His hackles rise, his tail goes up, and a low growl starts bubbling up from his throat.

Ankle-Biter figures out very quickly how to go into submissive stance. I'm a cub!

Alesia nods, "Yes, a good rule and pass it on to all you see. No exceptions. We must calm the spirits and fix the problem. Until we can figure out what lured the weaver thing to the caern for sure, no risking it. And as for talking to to the one leading the cub, that would be Kevin. He apparently knew the cub, Mick, had the phone. The encounter left Mick blackened, oddly. Spread word that if any are around to test him for weaver taint they should. And he should be kept form the caern, so should Kevin and the other cub Chris, until they've been checked out for weaver taint."She looks over at the wolf, as he shifts to anger and threat, "What is wrong?" Her face shifts into a deeper frown as she starts to sniff the air.

Lara says, clearly, He is not Wyrm. He has been checked. But her own hackles rise slightly.

Speaks-Up steps further in front of the cub as the big wolf shifts his posture. His ears lower, his tail tucks and he bends low to the ground so that his belly is /almost/ touching the earth below. Speaks-when-Needed, he offers as his name, mule son of pegasus and half moon. The act is completely submissive, yet there is a steeled gesture of keeping himself between cub and bristled wolf.

Ankle-Biter watches Speaks-Up closely, trying to figure out how to say some key things. Half-moon. I am half moon! She does, however, keep him between her and Anvilhead.

Anvilhead abruptly lunges forward, crossing the distance between himself and Speaks-Up in several massive bounds. He cares nothing about any cub -- completely ignores her in fact -- and his whole focus is on the Metis, who finds himself faced with snapping, snarling jaws. The display looks fierce, even deadly, though someone with a perceptive eye and a strong knowledge of lupine body language would spot that he's not going for the kill -- yet. But his displeasure with the Metis is not gentle, either, or intended to be bloodless.

Alesia stands abruptly, slamming her spear butt into the ground, and barking out sharply, "You will not fight here! I am a Gaurdian, this is my home, you will stop. /Now/." The emphasis is on the last word as the Guardian takes a tighter grip on her spear, ready to use it if need be, letting her anger shift her up to Crinos, the spear meant to be quite usable in that form.

Sun Clencher, faced with a choice between metis and Shadow Lord, enjoys neither. But she stands and takes one pace forward, bulking up into hispo. ~He is submitting,~ she says clearly.

Ankle-Biter darts back into the bushes. Danger! She stops at a more comfortable distance to watch the trouble, confident she could outrun the brute from here.

Speaks-Up drops lower until his belly is in fact brushing the dirt. He rolls then to his side, tipping his head back in a show of throat even as that tail falls against his upturned belly. Front paws go limp to his chest as he further submits and his nostrils flare. Respect the litany Garou! he snarls out despite his posturing.

Anvilhead skids to a halt, all but stepping on Speaks-Up as his jaws snap shut within inches of one of the Metis' big ears. He snarls, hostility bristling out of every hair. Bad! Bad THING! Not-wolf!!

Sun Clencher's entire posture shows how much she dislikes what she's saying, but she snarls, taking another pace or two forward, ~Yes. He is. But challenge him, if you must. Do not commit random mayhem.~

Demons holds her spear tightly, and glances to make sure the cub is safe then returns her look to the Shadow Lord. ~He is my tribesmate, he is not of the wyrm and you will accept his submission and honor this territory or you will leave now.~ She barks out firmly as she takes a few more steps forward, but is careful not to try to get between the pair. Those watching her grip would notice it shifting to a more combative hold in case she should need it.

Ankle-Biter stays safely out of it, watching, still scared.

Speaks-Up doesn't yet rise, remaining prone where he is and letting the others help diffuse the tense lupus. Son of Pegasus, he repeats, rited and claimed by Gaia. That one large ear flickers nervously now as if it were still being threatened by those teeth.

Anvilhead's good ear flicks toward the others' voices, indicating that, yes, he does hear. But for the moment he continues to loom over the submissive Metis, bristling and growling... though the fact that Speaks-Up /is/ submitting mollifies the lupus' aggression. He starts snuffing and sniffing at the Metis roughly, nose to tail, huffing and snorting all the while.

Sun Clencher at this point stands down and pads back to the fire, fur ruffling in an attempt to calm her hackles.

Demons is obviously irritated by all of this, her own fur bristling a bit. Her grip on her spear shifting then she stalks back towards the fire, shifting back down to homid, but watching the lupus with care, frowning intently when she returns to breed form.

Ankle-Biter comes about halfway back, as the girls have backed down, though she's still not sure Zeke's not being ravaged horribly by the monster.

Speaks-Up is very business like on his end- that being the receiving end, of all the sniffs and snuffs. He takes it without much fuss or complaint, simply lying there until the larger wolf has satisfied himself. He doesn't sit completely idly though, his own nose working in that scent as he can, wanting to be very, very certain it will be recognized in the future.

The Fury elder has been close having her cubs on the bawn and the noises have stirred her to action. Not-Dead-Yet comes loping in in her lupus form and comes to a kidding halt as she sees Zeke on the ground. Her eyes search for Melodie and as she sees the cub, she places herself between Melodie and the fighting. Zeke can take care of himself and Alesia has already proven this as she walks away from the fight altogether. What is happening? Explain. She demands of those that are around.

Ankle-Biter looks relieved when Nike shows up. Scary wolf!

Sun Clencher explains, ~Anvilhead, like I was yesterday, was alarmed by Speaks When Needed's lupus form. He attacked. He held his attack, however, when told the metis is not of the Wyrm.~ She flicks an ear. ~I do not really blame him, to be honest.~

Anvilhead eventually satisfies himself with his inspection of Speaks-Up, though his dislike of the strange-looking not-wolf is quite obvious. He utters a low 'hruff!' and moves away to flop down near the fire. And, as if nothing at all had happened, he twists himself into a curl to gnaw at the base of his tail. Itchy.

Alesia looks and sees her elder and stands again, an effort with her sore leg, "Ah, Nike-Rhya, a real gathering here tonight. I have news, that you should hear. The rest is pretty much as this one says, although I'm not sure who this one is, he has yet to introduce himself."

Speaks-Up waits a flick of a moment before rolling to his side and then setting himself upright. Tension remains in his posture, and he bows his head in greeting of the Fury alpha. Much like any omega, as the crowd gathers and thickens, he moves to take himself from it. The gait for his exit is slow, no more than an easy trot that allows his stride to be somewhat normal.

Not-Dead-Yet moves through her forms ending in homid with a bow in her hand. "I can see the mistake." Nike agrees and looks to Alesia, "Who has not introduced themselves? I am Olivia "Stratonike" Lunch, Nike to anyone who doesn't want to lose a limb. Elder of the Black Furies, Alpha of the pack Havoc, Cliath Ahroun." She peers about. "Those I do not know, speak." She taps the bow on the ground much like one would a staff. Her head is held high and everything about her screams that she claims dominance.

Sun Clencher slowly shifts into homid, and stands, in a smooth movement, running her hand through her hair. "Hola," she says. She herself isn't at all pressing the dominance. "Me llamo--" She cuts off. (Her Spanish accent is clear, though it is sometimes stronger and sometimes weaker.) "I am Lara Fernandes-Hidalgo, known to the people as Ixuch'amaw K'in. But since almost no one speaks Mayan, the Garou call me Clenches the Sun. I am a cliath of the Uktena, and a half moon."

Ankle-Biter tries her best. Half moon, cub. ~Black Fury!~ She doesn't know how to say more than that yet. ~Can I shift yet, rhya?~

Anvilhead's ear flicks. He leaves off his itch and sits up, scratching vigorously at his neck with a hind paw before hauling himself to his paws. Roughly, he announces that he is Stormcloud That Brings Thunder, full moon Shadow Lord. After a beat, he adds that he is of pack Stormfront under Culls-the-Herd-rhya and ~Grandfather Thunder~. Then he lumbers over to find out who people /really/ are, starting with Nike. This of course involves sniffing, and will probably involve crotches too, if the lupus has his way.

Alesia eyes the Shadow Lord and says, "I'm Alesia, Black Fury, Theurge, Cliath, and Guardian. And I have news Nike-Rhya. There was an attack of the caern by a weaver spirit, it has the wyldlings upset and it is thought that the attack was brought on by a cub who brought a cell phone deep into the bawn because he was not instructed otherwise. Kevin, Mick and Chris may be weaver tainted, and the spirits are angry. Until further notice, no mechanical or electronic devices are allowed near the caern, meaning the bawn around it as well. Things at the farmhouse and distant bawn are the same but no watches, or battery powered anything or the like in the inner bawn, until further notice."

Nike turns to look at Ankle-Biter, "No." She says simply enough. "And no more visits to the farmhouse until I say so." She raises a brow to Anvilhead as he proceeds to check her out. Rather quickly though, her attention goes back to Ankle-Biter to say something else before she then look to Alesia. "What cub did so?"

Ankle-Biter shrinks back a little. Nike was not supposed to know about that! She's amazing!

Lara says, quietly, "Two Walker cubs, this is. Possibly Mick, specifically."

Anvilhead continues his task of learning people's scents. From Nike he moves to Alesia, then to Sun-Clencher, who receives only a brief sniff and a mild tail-wag -- he knows this one and apparently approves of her. The cub, Ankle-Biter, is last on his list.

Lara does not scritch the lupus. That would be impolite.

Alesia sighs and looks to the fire, her spear still across her lap, "Mick, he was under the care of Kevin. Kevin apparently knew that the cub had the phone, I'm not sure of all the details. A half moon should probably investigate but I was under the impression it was standing orders that no device that sent signals was allowed in the inner bawn, for fear it could be tracked. I was taught this as a cub, Reggie knew of this rule, but either Kevin did not know of this rule or it was not enforced. And now we have much worse things to deal with." She shakes her head, "Stupid, the cub is pitch black, like he was dipped in paint or something, and all three of them could be badly weaver tainted." She tollerates the sniffing, but clearly is not in the mood for overly intimate nosing.

Nike lifts a lip in annoyance. As Anvilhead moves to Ankle-Biter, Nike raises a brow. She doesn't move to do anything but still keeps an eye on the interaction. The words go to Alesia, "We will need to bring this up at the next moot to make sure this does not happen again." She takes in a deep breath, "I must check on the other cubs. Melodie, you know where to come when you are finished here." She moves away from the group.

Lara murmurs, "It was good to meet you," and looks thoughtful at Alesia's words.

Ankle-Biter cringes a little from Anvilhead's giant form, but lets him sniff her.
After he's done, she wags a goodbye to Nike, and tries to pay attention to the women, her eyes constantly darting back to the giant.

Anvilhead wags his tail at Ankle-Biter, too, again briefly, but apparently the cub meets some standard of acceptability. Then he lumbers back over to the fire and lies down again heavily. Thud.

Ankle-Biter's ears go back as Lizard wanders up. Danger! She looks over at the that's-gotta-be-a-hispo Anvilhead.

Alesia sighs as Nike leaves then shakes her head, "More, more troubles. Kevin teaching cubs..." She seems to find that troubling for some reason, as she pokes the fire, "Anyway, some half moons should investigate." She gives a meaningful look to Lara.

Lara says, mildly, "I already said I would look for him. Pero-- Why is Kevin teaching cubs a thing to sigh over?"

Alesia gestures to the fire, "While I was still a cub, Kevin and Basil were found to be Charachs. They were punished, branded, marked, and it was said they would be the lowest of the low, but they were allowed to live to redeem themselves over time. But... while they have certainly done some things since then, would you have your cubs taught by a known Charach?" She explains then glances back at the Fury cub, "You there, Ankle-Biter, stop acting like a new born pup, afraid of it's own shadow."

Lara scowls. "No," she says, almost instantly. "Y-- and I did no' know it was him that Basil charached with." Slowly, she adds, "Pero-- But one of the purposes of Garou justice is to punish. And then, you move on. Like wolves move on." She chews on her tongue. "Is a puzzlement," she says, in either conscious or unconscious imitation of Yul Brynner.

Lizard follows the scents of his tribemates over this way, though upon catching scent and sounds from unfamiliar Garou, he keeps his distance, listening for a time to determine whether it's safe or appropriate to draw close. While he might make a good abject lesson on a topic like charaching, the metis doesn't seem terribly inclined to so readily invite the spotlight as to approach just then.
This juvenile wolf is a mottled reddish-brown, the fur darkening to almost black around his face and tail. He's a bit small for his age, and a little on the scrawny side, although he seems healthy enough. His demeanor is normally very submissive, head held low, tail tucked. What marks this young wolf as particularly unusual is easily noticeable from up close -- his tongue is longer than normal and forked, while his pupils are elliptical, like those of a cat or a venomous serpent.

Anvilhead looks up as a new wolf arrives, lifting his head and sniffing the air in Lizard's direction. But either Lizard doesn't hit off his 'attack kill' instincts the way Speaks-Up did or the Shadow Lord lupus just doesn't care enough to move. Still, he watches the new arrival carefully, his body language making it clear that he doesn't want Lizard to approach him at his place near the fire.

Ankle-Biter relaxes a little as both Alesia tells her to, and Anvilhead doesn't repeat his behavior, and guestures for Lizard to come on up. Tribemate cub!

Alesia nods, "Well, yes, but the point of the punishment, I forget the exact words, but something about how if they survived they were to be forever the lowest. I don't recall exactly though the words. But in anycase... someone who has already broken the rules might deserve a closer look." She shrugs, "And pass the message to all those you find, no weaver things that use electricity or move on the bawn, no watches, no phones, no anything like that." She says firmly again, then glances over to see the other wolf, in the shadows. "Either come or leave, but I can't see you out there, only know you're there because these lupus are sensing you."

Lara wrinkles her forehead. "That is contrary to the ways," she objects. "If you want to Satire them, then Satire them, but you can't make them permanently usseless cliaths." She waves a hand. "Lo siento, por favor, I do no' need to argue with /you/ about it."

Lizard finally does approach once he's directed to, albeit looking ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger and carefully keeping his two tribesmates between himself and the human and wolf that he doesn't know.

Ankle-Biter sidles up towards Lara. Teach half-moon? Need help, no tribe half-moon females! Looking for teacher.

Anvilhead gives Lizard the cold hostile eye for a few more moments, then huffs and turns away to lick and chew at his front paws. The human-language discussion goes past him unremarked.

Alesia nods, "I am no half moon and I was a cub when they were punished. As for the rest of it..." She stands, using her spear to help herself, "You cubs, you be careful, follow Nike-Rhya's orders. I must go patrol. We must be vigilent while there is a threat."

Lara looks down at the cub and sinks into a crouch. "Ask your teachers if it's OK. I would like it." She regards Lizard evenly. "Hola," she tells him. "I am Lara Fernandes-Hidalgo, known to the people as Ixuch'amaw K'in. But you probably can't pronounce Mayan, the Garou call me Clenches the Sun. I am a cliath of the Uktena, and a half moon. Have you a name?"

Ankle-Biter careful! Run from danger, yeah? She wags her tail.

While his elliptical pupils aren't quite so obvious at night when they're wide to collect light, when the wolf opens his muzzle, his forked tongue is difficult to miss even by firelight. Lizard, comes the answer. New Moon cub. His communication in the wolf-speech is odd; the body language is largely done properly, but the vocalizations are non-fluent in a way unlike the usual difficulties that the homid-born have at first, as it's the mother tongue that he's working from as his baseline, rather than any human language.

Lara inclines her head in an acknowledging nod. Then she rises to her feet. "I should be away, as well. Hunt well, all of you." And then she's down into lupus and flashing off into the trees.

Anvilhead bristles a bit at the strange quality to Lizard's vocalizations but doesn't get up. Instead, he satisfies himself with a low growl.

Anvilhead abruptly hauls himself to his feet and lumbers away from the fire and back out into the surrounding woods -- and without a single gesture or note of farewell to the cubs.

The Formation of Stormfront.

Thu, 16 Aug 2007 00:46:51 GMT

Summary: Anvilhead gangs up with a bunch of other Shadow Lords to form a pack.

8/5/2007

The Shadow Lord pack Totem Quest. I missed the opening of this, but Anvilhead was there, being strong 'n silent.

Moon Otter leaves Vera's side to stand facing her, opposite her, as instructed.

Anvilhead takes his cue from Moon Otter and stands to the smaller Shadow Lord's right. He pants heavily and noisily, tongue hanging out of his muzzle.

Felix shifts to the hispo form once into the umbra, and with a glance at Anvilhead who joined them at the caern, he too lines up facing the elder.

Bowl held in her left hand, Vera raises it above her head and pulls a small silver dagger with her right hand. With it, she slashes across her left wrist and the blood flows freely. "By our blood we will be bound," she intones and switching the bowl to her other hand, allows her blood to flow into it.

Eventually, the bowl is returned to her wounded arm and Vera advances on Moon Otter. "Our Bloods will mix and become one," she states, holding the knife in front of the other Ragabash.

Moon Otter observes the ritual, then anticipates its direction. As Vera approaches, his lupus form grows slowly into that of the crinos--but still crouched upon all fours instead of standing on two legs. He lifts his front left forepaw, rotates it upwards, and uncurles his talons to expose his own wrist--offering his arm out to Vera and her knife.

And the knife slashes down, vicious, remorseless, and precise. As she did with her own wrist, the Adren collects the blood before moving onto Felix. "And by our blood, we shall grow in strength," she intones.

Spits-out-Nails lifts up his left front paw in a way which might just conceivably be cute if he weren't the size of a pony and bristling with claws and teeth. He shows no sign whatever of fear of apprehension.

More bloodletting occurs, before Vera and her silver knife approach Anvilhead. "Together, we shall strike fear into the hearts of our enemies!"

Anvilhead vibrates with savage eagerness, his bushy tail wagging as he stretches up into the war-form and holds out a long, hairy arm.

Moon Otter grimaces as the silver bites and burns his flesh, but sucks up the pain he must surely feel--and showed no fear of the silver or of being cut by a silver weapon. His uninjured hand partly scratches and partly applies pressure to the wound. ~One blood. One pack. One tribe.~ It's more of a grumbled murmur than a loud exclamation.

And Vera gathers blood from the Ahroun, bowl close to brimming now. She dips her hand into it, swirling the dark liquid and coating her hand. "By our blood, we shall be marked." Fingers moving swiftly, the Adren places the Gylphs for loyalty and strength upon her forehead, then approaches Moon Otter. His fur is marked as well, as are each of her future packmates. In addition, Spits-Out-Nail receives the Gylph of Honor, while Anvilhead is marked with the Gylph for Glory. All of the remaining blood is carefully pored onto the umbral earth, in the Glyph for Grandfather Thunder. Vera then holds the bowl above her head, drops of blood falling into her hair. We are to be joined. Thunder hear our calls for your Guidance and grant your Children what they seek."

And at that, Otter lifts his muzzle towards the umbral sky and belts out a howl at the top of his lungs. An punctuation mark of sorts added to the rite--and definitely an exclamation mark.

Anvilhead continues to pant heavily through most of this, huffing like the Big Bad Wolf himself. He crouches, blood trickling down through the fur of his arm, and watches Vera intently, ears pricked, giving her all his attention. His tail continues to wag, brushing back and forth across the ground behind him. But when Otter howls, he joins in, bellowing out deep and strong.

Spits-out-Nails howls along with Otter, the sound somehow simultaneously harmonious and discordant, awaking the umbral echoes around the caern.

The energy that thrums through the Caern is subtle but vibrant, a mysterious creeping beneath the skin, soft, wriggling, a feeling against the fur at once unsettling and familiar. Lunes are visible through the steam and fog, even, steady lights eclipsed by the brightness of the half-moon above, which bathes the clearing in an ethereal light which penetrates all darknesses, reflected by the very earth and stone. The stream is loud as it tumbles down to its pool, and the water elemental which occasionally inhabits it watches the Garou with mercurial interest, a flash in its tumbling of what might be eyes or comprehension, and then just meaningless movement again. When Vera's gift is employed, the scene changes only by degrees: there's a sharp prick at the backs of necks, and the energy is one not of mystery and vibrancy but of static, unpleasantly exhilirating, like bugs frolicking through the Garou's fur. The actual spirit, perhaps merely out of politeness, waits for the howls to stop before announcing itself from its perch at the canyot's top, where it sits, half-visible, a black crag jutting out of the rock, and with a voice, silky and firm, that rolls down the top like a velvet rockslide. It asks simply, in the highest of High Tongue, ~Yes?~

Vera turns to face the newly arrived Stormcrow and after only a moment of hesitation, shifts into Crinos. ~We seek to form a pack under the Guidance of Grandfather Thunder. Would you be so kind, in your endless Wisdom, let him know of our request?~

Moon Otter seconds Vera's words and further adds to them. ~We are four of Thunder's children, ready and willing to make His presence felt more strongly in the realm beyond--in exchange for His favor.~

Anvilhead is a Garou of few words; he simply utters a whruffing 'huff' of agreement and continues to look eager to hurt something.

Spits-out-Nails is, by compare, not of few words normally, but when those senior to him are present, he allows protocol to command him to let them do the talking. ~Indeed,~ is all he adds.

The bird answers, ~You have performed your rituals,~ and its voice would be bland except for the way it echoes down into the canyon, penetrating the morass of fog and energy. ~He knows of your request. He has sent me, just as you have summoned me.~ There is a particular sense of disdain in the bird's smooth voice at having been so used, but slowly the crow on the ridge opens its wings, and the wind that comes forth pushes aside the fog and the gafflings of the air. It perches clear against the sky now: its wings are large, its eyes are lustreless as coal, its beak is sharp and jagged as broken glass, pockmarked by old scars and strange growths, and as shallowly white as bleached wood. ~I am called Bonebeak, and you will follow me to my home. It is the proper place for such requests, rather here where I have been so summarily called,~ the bird superciliously instructs them, as it looses its perch and the earth below. ~Do not dawdle,~ it caws down below, still smooth and even-voiced, though the words get suddenly strict, suddenly strained, as it adds, ~and do _not_ mis-step.~

~Of course not,~ Culls-The-Herd murmurs in reply and glances quickly at her companions, before following the spirit. ~We come.~

Moon Otter immediately returns to Vera's right flank, again serving as her own personal bodyguard as the group migrates out of the caern and after the stormcrow.

Spits-out-Nails starts to trot off after the two ragabash, tail respectfully low to both them and the spirit.

Anvilhead lets out a sharp chuff and quickly positions himself to the left and a little behind Vera. This time he remembers not to threaten the Adren's lead, and his tail continues to wag. ~Follow, follow,~ he rumbles.

The stormcrow seems to do little to make the path easy for them. It disappears quickly over the ridge of the Caern's edge, and it takes a full minute to spy it again, flying gracefully and speedily against the westerly winds, forcing the lesser spirits of wind and air to make way for it, its wake of disrupted currents more evident than the Grandfather's servant itself. The pace it sets is hard, and the Garou find it difficult to keep up, particularly Spits-out-Nails, who begins to lag minutes behind the lead in the pack. As the tired minutes stretch out, sometimes only one of the Shadow Lords can see the distant jaggling, and sometimes none, though tracking becomes easier as the mountains come nearer and the trees thin out. It doesn't look back and it doesn't slacken as it glides along the warm summer air, towards the mountains, and straight through Wendigo territory. The piss markings of the pure tribes come down along the mountain winds, acrid and foreboding, and the wind spirits seem to howl a little more fiercely, and even the stormcrow that flies past them pays them more heed.

Culls-The-Herd snorts after drawing in a lung full of air and hesitates, pace actually slowing. ~We must respect the Territory of another,~ she howls out, hackles lifting in uncertainty.

Moon Otter keeps pressing onwards until... ~Yes,~ he concurs with Culls-the-Herd. ~The peace at the sept is far too fragile. Now is not the time nor place to test it.~ He looks ahead towards the departing spirit. ~It is headed towards the mountains. Circle the territory of the Pure Ones and try to find it again nearer the mountains? We will have to run hard to catch it. If that fails, you can order the stormcrow to come again, yes?~

Moon Otter keeps pressing onwards until... ~Yes,~ he concurs with Culls-the-Herd. ~The peace at the sept is far too fragile. Now is not the time nor place to test it.~ He looks ahead towards the departing spirit. ~It is headed towards the mountains. Circle the territory of the Pure Ones and try to find it again nearer the mountains? We will have to run hard to catch it. If that fails, you can order the stormcrow to come again, yes?~

Spits-out-Nails's fur has fluffed up a little against the chill wind. ~As the Alpha commands,~ he huffs, little clouds of umbral steam coming from his breath. ~But we can run as swiftly as the wind, for we are Thunder's brood.~

Anvilhead takes his cues from the elder Garou and slows when they do. He's shifted to Hispo at some point during the run. His contribution to the discussion is a growling agreement with Nails. ~Yes, run very fast.~

Moon Otter looks from Spits-Out-Nails, the slow poke of the group, to Culls-the-Herd, the currently pregnant and showing of the group, and then looks to the mountains. The no moon then offers to Culls-the-Herd, ~Take the pack and circle around the Wendigo's territory. This one can run through the territory and follow Bonebeak, leaving no scent. And no one will speak of this later.~

The moment of indecision lasts but a moment, before Culls-The-Herd abruptly changes direction. Circling around Wendigo territory at a dead run, in hopes of catching up with the swift Stormcrow. ~Go with my blessing, Moon Otter!~

Moon Otter is off in a flash, no longer held back by the others. His normally inobtrusive scent--of woods and earth and male wolf--vanishes entirely and the outline of his form grows blurry. He first and foremost focuses on not losing Bonebeak, secondmost on the no-moon choosing paths and ground that will leave as few marks as possible and not betray his having been present.

The pace Culls-The-Herd sets is hard, running full tilt and skirting as close as she dares to Wendigo Territory without actually crossing into it.

Spits-out-Nails sets off after the alpha, making the best pace he can as he tries to follow in her exact tracks. He doesn't lookin Moon Otter's direction. Perhaps he thinks if he doesn't see a territory violated, it hasn't happened.

Anvilhead races after Culls, long legs stretching out as he pelts along at full-tilt, apparently tireless. He has, honestly, already forgotten why Moon Otter did what he did. But he doesn't question it, either.

Even favouring stealth, Moon Otter moves quickly, his soft paws finding patches of moss and stone, leaving few pawprints and sparing little time, while the other three-quarters of the pack press hard, cutting close, letting their sweat-stained scent mingle with the Wendigo's at the edges of their territory. By the time they come around to the other side of the claimed land, the Ragabash has been waiting there for a good five minutes, silent, still scentless, and almost invisible along a small hill, where a young sapling springs delicate and white, and the glade child in its branches throws nuts at him, curious and without understanding.

Culls-The-Herd comes to a halt, panting heavily, tongue lolling and dripping with perspiration. She moves close to Moon Otter, sides heaving. ~Bonebeak? Is he here?~ She asks, looking around for the Stormcrow.

Moon Otter has even managed to catch his breath by the time the others catch up to him, but Bonebeak is nowhere to be seen. ~Bonebeak landed over there. That low, jagged mountain. Near the top.~ Something about that seems to be bothering the ragabash, or it might be the nut that bounces off his head. ~This one knows these lands--in the realm certainly--and yet cannot recall if that mountain was there before. It may be a twist in the umbra. Or.... ~ He looks to Culls-the-Herd. ~Does Grandfather Thunder come to the mountain, or does the mountain come to Grandfather Thunder?~

Spits-out-Nails comes trotting up doggedly, tongue lolling, and lifting his nose as though hoping to find the scent of Bonebeak. ~Are... we... in time?~

Anvilhead blinks dully at Moon Otter's question; his ears skew as he thinks about it. And then seems to forget about it as he turns to bite at an itch on his shoulder.

Culls-The-Herd looks up at the mountain, ears laying back against her head as she struggles to regain her breath. ~I would not be surprised is Thunder has the power to call mountains to him - he is Grandfather Thunder. Come. Bonebeak is atop the mountain, let us not keep him waiting.~ And so, the Adren makes her way toward the mountain, setting a slower and far less maddening pace then before. An easy trot will get them there slower, but they will arrive without being totally exhausted.

Moon Otter rejoins Culls-the-Herd, again taking her right-side flank. He doesn't seem to mind the slower change of pace either. He asides quietly to the other Ragabash, so neither of the other two Lords catch his words--especially the half-moon. ~We need to return by the same path around the perimeter so that I may leave my scent with the pack and arouse no suspicion. I doubt even the Wendigo would notice my passing, but they might notice my scent lacking from the rest of the group just beyond their territory.~ The two no-moon gifts he'd employed earlier have been dropped now that he's back with the pack.

Anvilhead readily breaks into an easy lope, once again taking position to the left and a little behind Culls-the-Herd. His tongue lolls.

Spits-out-Nails takes up the tail end charlie position once more, panting as he trots along surefooted if a little slower than the rest.

The path to the mountain is easy and the grass here still green, the air cool and pleasant and alive with that special easiness of umbral glens, but as the Shadow Lords make their way over the rolling foothills the skies begin to darken. Black clouds swell up on the horizon, brooding and ominous and surreal, and from the small mountain itself begins to burgeon a massive, cylindrical wall of grey-brown haze and gas: an anvilhead cloud, specifically, metereologically rare and here, of course, inexplicable. The spirits of the umbra pay the anomaly no mind, not even the bloated air elementals which float in the still air through the clouds and gathering electricity. The first crack of thunder is heard, distant and preparatory, as they reach the foot of the mountain. The air is humming and the ground seems to crackle, though the naturae show no discontent. The mountain is jagged and uneven, in parts gently sloping and in parts sheer. It's pockmarked by caves and only the scraggliest and most weathered of ancient trees are able to cling to its rock and gather nutriets from its thin soil. It's steel grey, and looming, and it beckons.

Culls-The-Herd flicks her ears in what might be taken as amusement at Moon Otter's words. ~Very true. I had considered as much.~ As the group draws ever closer to the mountains, Culls-The-Herd's posturing becomes less dominant and more subservient. ~Oh Great Thunder, you Honor us.~ She rumbles, deep in the back of her throat.

Moon Otter actually stops in his tracks as the anvilhead cloud formation gathers--having never seen anything like it before. He almost gets lost in it before realizing he's instead lost his place by the pregnant Shadow Lord he's supposed to be protecting from harm and injury. He hastens his pace to regain her right side. Still, it's hard for him to keep his eyes from drifting skywards more often than he really ought to. He is quite clearly impressed.

Spits-out-Nails comes to a stop behind Moon Otter and Culls, and as he does so, he seems to dig his four huge paws firmly into the earth, as though expecting it to shake or tilt, and wanting to be planting himself securely against any such mishap. His ears are flat to his head with respect that's tinged with a modicum of nervousness.

Anvilhead crouches down, clawing absently at the ground. He utters a long, grating noise halfway between a growl and a whine.

The path disappears rapidly beneath their feet, and soon the ground beneath begins to slope prohibitively, making walking up it laborious and unpleasant in the muggy air. Further up it can be sloping up steeper still. Piles of rocks, like tiny cairns, devote themselves to some unknown cause, scorched black as if heated on fires before being piled them. Aside from the cairns, there's no sign of habitation. A metallic, ozone smell runs through the air, and the thunder cracks again, rattling the very stone of the place, though still no lightning is seen. It's loud enough that for a few brief seconds the Garou are deaf, and it's during that space of silence a creature comes up from behind a sere and scraggly brush, and patters its deformed paws down the rockface. The rat is the size of a goat, and its coat is grey and bristly, and its teeth are like old yellowed piano keys, clattering together disapprovingly, and it keeps a cautious distance from the Garou. It looks up at them probingly with half blind eyes, before it says to them, in a chittering, hard to make out accent of the Garou tongue, ~He doesn't, y'know.~ The next few words are lost in a stretched out, hollow squeaking sound, but he seems to be addressing Vera. ~You honour him. He doesn't give a shit about you.~

Culls-The-Herd's submissive posturing of reverence towards the forming power that near crackles in the air disappears, hackles and tail lifting, as she snarls at the creature before her. ~And why should we listen to you?! You are nothing more then a mutated /rat/. Go down to the Gnawers of Bone and cuddle up to them. I am certain that they shall lend an ear to your words. As for us, we are done with you. Speak ill of Thunder, or get in our way, and we shall destroy you.~

~We are--all four of us--his grandchildren. His chosen tribe. No grandfather forgets his granchildren: unless he has so many that he cannot count them and the loss of one, or dozens, or hundreds means nothing to him.~ Moon Otter at the rat spirit as he ends that statement. ~Grandfather Thunder is nothing like Rat.~ Moon Otter pointedly drifts into crinos form, lifts his arm before his chest so that it faces the rat spirit. He's looking at his claws now, even though clearly addressing the spirit. He uses his thumb-claw to oh-so-slowly clack audibly against his other four talons on that hand. ~Does Grandfather~ *click* ~know that~ *click* ~you are on~ *click* ~his mountain?~ *click*

Spits-out-Nails shifts into crinos on the climb up, using all four sets of claws to gain more purchase on the mountain. He lifts his head up when he hears the rat-thing speak and fixes his golden-green eyes firmly on it. ~Insolence is still insolence, whether it comes from spirit or corporeal being, from garou or non-garou,~ he growls low.

Anvilhead simply growls, a deep and -- yes -- thundery sound, and stares at the rat-thing like he might want to bite it in the head, hard.

The rat's grey fur bristles, and it bares its rectangular teeth with wary threat and fear, its' dull eyes looking around to make sure its escape isn't cut off. ~As you like, kids of Thunder,~ it chitters back at them with less familiarity, already scrambling its curled toes over the sloping rock. ~Do be fool enough not to come in out of rain,~ the rat concludes, a parting shot before it begins to skitter slowly, arthritically down the step slope. The rock goes up, the air is charged, and on cue, the clouds split, and the rain pours in velvet sheets on the parched earth, making the ground slick and visibility poor. It cools the muggy gloom, and quickens the pulse. It's wet enough to drown in.

Culls-The-Herd stands tall in crinos, lifting her muzzle towards the pouring rain. ~Great Thunder, we feel your rains and welcome them!~ She cries out, before dropping down onto all fours and carefully starts picking her way up the mountain.

Spits-out-Nails growls and shakes his head as though to dismiss the cheeky spirit from his thoughts. ~What rudeness,~ he remarks to Anvilhead, who growls in turn to concur. The two cliath begin to move higher upwards.

Moon Otter rejoins Culls-the-Herd on her right side, apparently savoring the summer rain after the warm weather and vigorous exercise earlier. He pauses at one point to lap a few times at a natural depression that's collected runoff water from the mountain. The storm, if anything, seems to be refreshing him.

Anvilhead slops a big wet pink tongue over his chops as he chugs along. His tail soon starts wagging again. Like Moon Otter, the rain suits him.

Spits-out-Nails trudges on upwards, the rain plastering his black fur down onto his body. Maybe it's the umbral effect but it seems to be drenching him far more than the equivalent rainfall would do in the realm. His crinos forn hunches against it and he looks thoroughly miserable and cold, but he makes no sound of complaint.

Vera keeps to Moon Otter's side, pausing once to catch her breath. While her pregnancy is hardly visible in this form, her scent betrays her condition and the strain it is putting on her.

The rain splatters down like water balloons, exploding when they hit the hard slate, and the path up the mountain is made slick. The path is uneasy and arduous, where it exists, and where it doesn't only chance and grit saves them. Moon Otter's sure paws allow him to make more distance and with more speed than the others, able to scout out hidden avenues within the crags. More than once a packmate is saved from potential disaster by the wise decision to put Anvilhead at the rear, a little, more mobile mountain himself, able to stop a scittering descent merely by placing his bulk in its way. It is a bracing, terrifying experience, blinded by rain, feeling footholds in rock, shifting forms to strain limbs to reach the next sure crevasse, listening only to the splatter of raindrops and the near-constant claps of thunder which seem to rock the very mountain they climb. Eventually though they reach a small plateau, just wide enough to hold a single of them in Crinos, barely long enough to hold all four, and perched a few metres above, staring down, is the dark shape of a bird, its figure obscured by the darkness and the rain except as a blotch of oily-slick black, its eyes wiley and penetrating, a cock of its black beak almost of amusement as it stares at the bedraggled party below it.

Culls-The-Herd reaches the top, tired, soaking wet, and feeling more then a little ill. She rises up on her hind legs to face the stormcrow, ears slick against her skull as her chest heaves. ~We have come to your home, great servant of Grandfather Thunder. As you requested, we are here.~

On reaching the plateau and seeing how small it is, Nails sighs quietly and shifts from crinos form into lupus, in order to be able to crowd on. To do so he has to push his head almost into Anvilhead's rear end and stand with his own hindquarters teetering over the precipice. Lucky it is that the garou concept of personal space, especially for lupus, differs from humans'. He's plainly tired, and looks as though he'd like to let his tongue loll, but for obvious reasons, suppresses it.

Anvilhead shifts down to his breed form as well, crowding in and pressing against the much smaller Nails. The big Ahroun huffs and pants, noisily, sounding like a canine locomotive; saliva joins with the rain in dripping onto the scarred Philodox.

Moon Otter pulls himself up alongside Vera, no longer as thrilled about the novelty and relief of the rain after three hours of it dumping buckets upon them. That and the extra weight of wet fur that has to be hauled up the side of a mountain. As he reaches the top, he remains silent, just staring back at Bonebeak in mute defiance.

The spot of ink against the black sky watches them darkly, approvingly, intently. When it finally speaks is voice and smooth and slick as the rain-drenched rocks. ~You've done well, my children,~ the spirit says, as it tucks in its wings against the dampness of the storm. ~Well enough, even - almost. There is one last test of your ability, your dedication, your perspicacity, that I require you to perform.~ It fluffs its feathers against the wind, still mild despite the rage of weather, and with a simple exhortation of ~Follow me,~ it leads them along the cliff-face at a ten metres distance, barely visible in the rain. The path it takes is hidden but easier, it leads gently sloping down the mountain's face, though the rock is still slippery, and going down what would happen to a Garou who falls is all the more evident.

Culls-The-Herd whines softly, eyeing the trail warily. ~I will not shift into a smaller form,~ she informs her soon-to-be packmates. ~I will not risk the child any further then I already have.~ With those words, she starts to make her way down the cliff on all fours, Crinos hands feeling the ground ahead of her, before she places any weight on them.

Spits-out-Nails's hackles are thoroughly fluffed up. Whether against the rain, or from ill temper, is impossible to say. After keeping silence for so long, he breaks into a growl. Why? Why follow you yet further? What more would it prove other than to give us another chance to tumble into the abyss and break all our necks? That would benefit neither we ourselves, nor Thunder, nor Gaia. Show us a better reason to go beyond here.

Anvilhead, taking up the rear again, regards Nails with astonishment.

Moon Otter looks up towards the peak of the mountain, then after the stormcrow heads back down and possibly around the side of the mountain, now taking what looks to be an easier path than the one they just came up. ~Grandfather Thunder is not down. Grandfather Thunder is up.~ He regards the departing spirit, then barks after it. ~Thunder is up, Bonebeak. Not down. Is that the way to the peak?~ He looks, for all intents and purposes, about to abandon following the servant of Thunder and going straight to the source.

The bird is just a dark shape against the prevailing darkness, barely a flicker of black as it cuts its flight short and clings to the rock. Its voice cuts through the rain like a scalpel, precise and well-placed. ~It is a way,~ it says, seeming to watch them though it's too far for it's face to be anything more than a dark blotch. ~It is a shortcut - easier for the woman's child, faster to the top. I have a riddle for you,~ it says, mysteriously, ~when you reach my home.~ The spirit's next answer is directed straight at Felix, and its voice gets disdainful and abrupt. ~If you do not want my patronage, I will go.~

Culls-The-Herd snarls back at Felix, but offers not commentary, focusing on following the spirit. ~We come,~ she pants.

Moon Otter asides quietly to the other Shadow Lords present, voice pitched so as to be lost to the spirit some distance away--but body language clear and intentionally broadcasting "up to something" so the stormcrow can see it. ~We know the spirit's name. We can summon it and bind it. If it attempts to trick us, it had better kill us all.~ If a theurge were present, he or she would likely have conniptions over the suggestion. ~Rhya? May this one go first to test the path for you and your unborn pup?~

The path leads further down along the mountain's face, its route meandering, its pacing even, its slope jagged, arcing up and down without really seeming to raise or fall, merely loop around to where it came. The bird keeps ahead of them, looking back occasionally to make sure they're following, and the rain continues to pour, as the lightning begins to fork the sky, and the minutes roll by like thunder.

Spits-out-Nails stares suspiciously at the spirit. Then he stares at Vera. Then he gives Anvilhead a dirty look to match the look of astonishment which the ahroun has favored him with. Very well, I obey the Alpha, he conveys in the lupus equivalent of a resigned mutter, and he makes as if to gingerly follow in Culls's footsteps. He pauses again, though, when Moon Otter makes his point, and seems glad to pause. I too will lead if ordered, he is quick to volunteer in Moon Otter's wake.

~I will not show weakness in front of Grandfather Thunder,~ Culls states quietly, a touch of stubborn pride visible as she declines Moon Otter's offer. ~I will be well.~

Anvilhead makes no comment and returns Nails' stare with a surly, rumbling growl meant to put the Philodox in his place. The talking's made him restless.

Moon Otter steps aside--as much as is possible on the narrow shelf--to allow the sept Alpha to pass and take the lead.

Spits-out-Nails droops under Anvilhead's disapproval, and falls back into line.

Within the half hour the Garou reach a plateau that's wide enough to hold them comfortably, covered in small rocks, at a gentle slope. The bird perches high above them, top a sheer face of rock, and it warily watches Moon Otter as it does, leery of the rage and the threat that leaks from him. It doesn't wait long to speak, though its voice sounds different now, it darts and leaps, its full of holes and crannies in which sounds and ideas flash and hide. ~Here is my riddle,~ it answers, drily, savouring itself, and as it speaks its form changes, or at least returns to what it had been all along as it lets its charms fall away. There's red fur beneath the black feathers slathered on the form, and the eyes that look out are blue and wily, and its paws are white and teeth sharp beneath the soda-can beak. ~What do four silly Garou do, when they've been made to look foolish in front of the totem they seek - when they've been so sidetracked they might not get to it before it leaves in disgust? Do they pay for passage to the top? I'm sorry, it's not a very good riddle. I know some good ones, but I don't care to share them with the likes of you.~

Anvilhead flattens his mismatched ears in confusion. And then, like all big dumb lunks who feel like they're being made fun of, he starts getting angry. A low growl begins, deep in his throat, and then it rises, along with his soaked hackles. His upper lip lifts, wrinkling away from his fangs.

Spits-out-Nails looks at Anvilhead with a distinct air of 'I told you so' in his body language. What payment would you claim from four so-called silly garou? he demands of the spirit, hackles bristling once more now.

~Boost me,~ Culls orders Moon Otter abruptly, standing almost directly under the spirit within a few steps.

Moon Otter obeys immediately and taps his inner rage to instantly shift from lupus to the substantially stronger and larger war form, hefting the Alpha as fast as he physically can to give her greater height.

Anvilhead paws at the ground as he watches. He continues to growl steadily.

About to answer Spits-out-Nails' question, the fox spirit stops abruptly at Culls-the-Weak's command, and its paws all tense, its posture displays wary apprehension. Black and red fur stands on edge, and it gnashes its sharp white teeth at them, in threat and spite. ~I hate those who won't deal,~ it spits back at them with with a voice full of teeth and annoyance and sharp spite, before artfully it turns and dashes down the other side of the rock, a few second's before Culls' head crests it.

Culls-The-Herd does not wait for her head to crest the rock, instead she brings her hands together in a deafening crack when she feels that she is within ten feet of the spirit. Making it susceptible to her Gift, Clap of Thunder.

A shattering clap rings out when Vera brings her paws together, just as the fox is skirting the visible edge of the cliff-face. It's sharp enough to hit the ear like a knife, and Moon Otter, for his closeness, gets the worst of it. It rings through his skull and straight down his spine, into his bones, into his hands, and he only barely manages to keep a wobbly grip on Culls-the-Herd as the Alpha wobbles back and forth like a plate spun on a broomstick by someone just trying it for the first time. She doesn't quite crash, but the landing is less than graceful.

Anvilhead flattens his ears at the noise and shrinks back, tail dropping with a whine.

Culls-The-Herd lands on all fours, hackles raise and teeth bared in Fury. She snarls and spits, eyes searching for the location of the fox.

Moon Otter slumps to the ground from the force of the thunderclap, dazed and confused and wobbly, shaking his head as if in an attempt to regain his senses--and not having a great deal of luck in doing so.

Spits-out-Nails' hands go reflexively to his ears, but his attention is all on the Alpha, and on the wall the fox has slipped behind, as if he could bore through it with his eyes.

The fox is somewhere beyond the edge of the overhanging rockface; the pounding rain blots out any scent, and the thunder makes its pawsteps inscrutable. The half moon blares brightly down through even Thunder's clouds

~Leave him,~ Culls snarls savagely. ~We will hunt him down. We will not forget the insult he has dealt us. We /will/ find him and deal with him later.~ Lifting her muzzle towards the rain, the Adren belts out a howl. ~We come, Grandfather Thunder! We come!~ With those words, the Adren makes her way back towards the peak, moving at a pace that is less then perfectly safe.

Spits-out-Nails follows the Alpha immediately, though there's reluctance in his posture, and the Lupus spends the first few seconds of his starting out still staring at the top of the stone wall, to spy the fox somewhere behind it.

Anvilhead straightens up, shaking himself vigorously, and trudges irritably after the Adren.

A few seconds after Culls-the-Herd's declaration, Moon Otter reaches full consciousness to the splattering of raindrops and the sound of thunder still dimly ringing in his ears.

Moon Otter slowly regains his feet, lingering behind as the other garou move back towards the peak and the path they came from. He turns towards the rocks where the Fox spirit clambered over, staring daggers. ~Fox!~ He calls to the no-longer-visible and maybe not even there spirit. ~Listen and listen well. You are a trickster, and this one is also a trickster by moon-birth,~ he says persuasively, illustrating the commonality between himself and Fox. ~We both know a good trick when we see one, and you have indeed tricked us well,~ he says, acknowledging that Fox did successfully fool the pack of Garou. ~But as tricksters, we also both realize that there is a time and a place for tricks. And that there can be grave, serious, and dire consequences to tricking the wrong spirit--or garou--at the wrong place and the wrong time.~ Otter pauses to stress, ~Grave and dire conseqeunces.~ Another pause. ~Particularly for a spirit that has not a single pack, not a single group of garou at the sept, willing to do anything to protect his children within the realm. If you are listening, now is the time to curry favor from Thunder's Children. Hasten to with your stolen wings to Grandfather Thunder. Ask him to linger a little longer for us to arrive. And this one will ensure that no harm comes to the foxes in our pack's territory within the realm.~ The other option, as to what might happen if Fox doesn't cooperate, goes unspoken. But the tone of the speech alone speaks volumes as to what might happen otherwise. He concludes with, ~This I promise you.~ And claws gouge into his palm, sealing his words with blood that is washed away in the downpour. He turns, one final glance towards where the spirit managed to escape to, and follows the others back towards the peak.

Always wary, always canny, the fox spirit, quite warily, quite cannily, is neither seen nor heard nor smelt again. The path back up, along the way the fox had misled them, seems harder on the way back, its climbs steeper, its footfalls less secure and its cliffs more sheer, and the pebbles that clatter down the side beneath the Garou's padding step at the bracing, fearless, dangerous pace Culls-the-Herd set. The rains deepen, and the drops fall large as thimbles. Though it took a half hour to reach the fox spirit's outcrop, it takes almost twice that to return to where they'd been, and an hour further, at hard climb, to reach the piece of barren grey rock where Moon Otter had seen the Bonebeak land, six hours ago. It buckles at the middle and curves gently down, and just out of the side of the mountain like a priapism.

Culls-The-Herd reaches the peak and looks around her warily, exhaustion starting to settle in.

Moon Otter has lagged behind the group on the way back, perhap in the event to have any accidentally, mysteriously dislodged rocks from up above be more inclined to be a danger to him than the rest of the pack. Even with the daily rigors of over a decade of lupus living and hunting and running--even he appears to be tiring from all the exertion the pack has been pushing through.

Anvilhead immediately sets his rear down and sits, huffing as he, too, looks around, ears twitching and nose lifting briefly to snuffle at the air. Then he starts scratching vigorously at his side with a hind paw.

The mountaintop is bare, though it shows colour now, at least, veins of quartz running through the reddish grey rock, glinting faintly when the lightning splits the sky. Though empty when they arrive, Bonebeak doesn't take long to appear, swooping in out of the darkness and rain from not more than 50 feet above their heads, invisible until it chose not to be. The bird beats its mammoth wings and slowly, demeaningly, finding nowhere to perch above them on the flat table of rock, comes to rest on the ground. It stares at them and is silent: its posture is rigid, and it the rain splatters off its wretched beak.

Culls-The-Herd walks up to the spirit and bows low. ~We are here, as requested,~ she states, exhaustion colouring her words. ~I apologize for taking so long to get here, as we were unexpectedly delayed.~

Anvilhead stops scratching himself and stares at the spirit as if he's not quite sure whether or not it's going to start sprouting red fur again.

Moon Otter draws up behind Culls-the-Herd, letting the pack alpha do the talking as he casts glances around towards likely inobtrusive observation points on the mountainside where a Fox spirit might potentially lurk. The earlier unquenched anger worn like a cloak about him has begun to slowly slip away and loosen, though is still undeniably present.

When Bonebeak speaks his voice covers the mountain like a glove, the Garou are awash in it: it is soft but not gentle, harsh but not fierce. ~Your delays were not unexpected,~ it answers dully, unimpressed, its words hanging on the Shadow Lords like old seaweed. ~Just their degree.~ It watches them with its lustreless eyes which alone seem unmuddied by the constant rain. Though the bird reaches no higher than the Garou's kneecaps it keeps distance and by that seems to loom; it shows no fear or submission, just cruel, unrelenting study. The storm rages harder, as it continues to speak. ~I am Thunder's ears, I am lightning's eyes,~ it says without raising its voice, but allowing it to be carried by each thunderclap and raindrop. ~I have watched you, and I have seen your weakness. Do you reall think you are worthy of this place, of this _life_ and this _power_, of _Lord Thunder_?~ It watches no one in particular - it stares at the pack as a whole.

~We are here,~ Culls-The-Herd speaks, as she rises up to her full height. ~Despite hardship, despite trickery. If we were not worthy, we would not have made it here at all. If we were not worthy, we would have made deals with one who would have dared to trick us. Instead, we will remember and we will punish those who would disrespect us so. We are the Children of Thunder!~ She booms, belting out a loud and defiant howl. ~We are worthy!~

Anvilhead jerks to a standing position and lifts his voice in dissonance to Culls', echoing: ~Worthy, worthy! We are strong!~

Moon Otter almost looks to add further comment, but abandons it as Culls-the-Herd ends her speech with a howl and the others join in. His voice rises to a howl with theirs. ~We are all Thunder's Children! We are strong by our very birthright! Made stronger by Thunder's grace!~

Spits-out-Nails stands firm, the anger in his voice palpable but too controlled to reach the others' pitch. ~We are already Thunder's, by word and by deed,~ he shouts, ~yes, we are worthy!~

~I have no issue with your strength,~ the bird answers back, its words coming like a hiss from his beak. ~It is fine, fine. You would make wonderful children of Fenris, very harsh, very powerful, with spittle in your throat and power in your eyes. But it isn't strength with which our Lord most concerns himself, and you should know that.~ His beak is knotted like wood, implacable and inorganic; his eyes are empty and unforgiving. ~It is weakness, and I have seen yours. Expunge it here, now, on this table of storm. Lay it bare, vomit it out, forsake it tonight, and you will be worthy of Thunder. Do not show me your strength, wolves. Show me your perfection.~ The rain is torrential, but the bird shows through it plain as clear skies.

Anvilhead's howl fades away as the spirit speaks. He stares at it blankly, obviously at a loss.

Culls-The-Herd's nostrils flare as she glares at the spirit, fingers closing and opening in clear frustration. "Do you speak of our Pride, spirit? Of the Pride we hold dear, as we are part of Thunders brood? Incompetence, stupidity? Yes, we have all been guilty of theses things in the past. As Children of Thunder, we recognize our faults and we destroy them.~

~Yes,~ the spirit answers, it's voice dripping with disdain. It perches at the furthest edge of the rock, in the heart of the storm. ~Though you are not Lord Thunder's brood. You are his flesh-children. But all these things are weakness. The pride that makes you see all beneath you as obstacles, not opportunities. The incompetence that lets you waste hours chasing tails. The stupidity that -~ and the spirit's lusterless stare, which had encompassed the whole pack, falls only on Anvilhead now, and it's just as emotionless and discerning as it concludes, ~well, the stupidity. These weaknesses are the ones I speak of, yes, woman.~

Anvilhead lets out a low 'huff' that means nothing at all, then sits down and starts scratching behind his mangled ear.

Moon Otter says, ~No garou is perfect, nor will one ever be,~ Moon Otter chimes in. ~We Lords of Shadow are all flawed in different ways, some more obvious than others.~ He pointedly does not look at Anvilhead. ~What sets us apart from other garou is that we recognize these flaws and we strive to correct them--or to pack with those who can help to cover the weakness of the individual garou. Plans are already in motion, starting with this pack, then Grandfather's tribe at the Sept of the Hidden Walk, then the members of the sept itself. To lead requires not proclaiming that one is the best, but to demonstrate it through action and deeds and the desire of others to follow. We will better ourselves, our tribe, and our sept. Such is the nature of the Lords of Shadow.~~

Culls-The-Herd's words echo those of Moon Otter. ~No one Garou is perfect, that is our greatest weakness. The weakness of being mere mortal flesh. Only together, as a whole, as a pack, can we be perfect. Together, we can do all that Thunder would wish of us.~

Anvilhead continues to scratch himself. After the ear, he lies down and starts chewing and licking his front paws, making various huffing and slurping noises as he does so.

~If any one of use could do all that Lord Thunder requires,~ the bird says with burgeoning pride, its voice velvet again though it's still carried in the growing storm, ~the Wyrm would be ground beneath us, and the earth and skies free of its constriction.~ Its voice grows grim, as the heavens thunder louder. A lightning bolt singes the ground just a few metres off, and Bonebeak doesn't even bother to look. ~But that, unfortunately, is not likely to happen. You are correct. The flaws of the one are swallowed in the perfections of the pack. Your pack is not yet perfect, but it will strive for it, or I will be the first to cut you loose - but of course you know that, and would expect no less.~ This, too, it takes pride in. It takes to the wing, and the sky is bright with lightning, and nothing but the bird's own words can be heard for the thunder. ~Show your pride now, for you have the most powerful totem spirit at your small sept; and I have the most powerful pack. Howl for Thunder's blessing. Let the Wyrm hear now what the Lord of Skies has wrought!~

Culls-The-Herd lifts her muzzle towards the sky, howling out her thanks.

Moon Otter nearly leaps out of his own pelt as lightning strikes practically within pissing distance, but quickly manages to regain his composure. He lifts his muzzle and joins in with the sept alpha's howl as the stormcrow departs--howling long, hard and dischordantly as is proper.

Anvilhead jerks himself upright, startled, but is soon enough bellowing his lungs out with the others.

As the Garou howl the lightning comes, and their breath is cut short by electric rapture, sheer pain, as it conducts through teeth and opened gums, the water sizzling off their bodies as it falls. It's excruciating and dire, there's such urgency in the sky's need for ground that when the bolts are through them and the pain gone, the sense of loss is profound. The Garou wake to the drizzle of soft rain. The hill they are on is no mountain, the electricity in their bodies is bled out if it was ever there at all. The rain is like gentle fingertips, and the black bird above them is only mildly annoyed at how long they'd slept.

"Fahm-howss. You bwing."

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 03:46:18 GMT

Summary: Anvilhead meets a terrified Glass Walker cub, the very impressive Master of Rites, and a Silver Fang.

7/17/07

Tall Sitka spruce and sequoia crowd around and above you. Many of the trees are old, their branches twisted into impossible shapes, trunks broad and draped with lichen, mosses and creepers. Tendrils of moss hand down from them like green spiderwebs, snaring the unwary with cold, ghostly fingers. The patches of younger growth are dense and pale, needles tinged with silver. Matted undergrowth huddles sullenly in the occasional small clearings, clutching with thorns and burrs at the legs of those who would pass. Deer seldom venture here, but the forest is full of rustlings, and tiny glints from wary, watchful eyes.

The forest spreads out to the east, bounded on the west by Sunrise Road. From farther to the west, one can occasionally hear the distant sounds of the town of Kent's Crossing.

The light rain had woken the young Glass Walker cub up at a fairly early hour and posed a new challenge for the city based girl: finding her way home without the help of last nights scent trails. The slight lupus is busy nosing into the ground and stepping on light, unsure paws as she paces the area. Tension lines her form but a stubborness keeps her from howling out for the others.

Anvilhead trudges noisily through the undergrowth, shoving brutally through planty obstacles in his path and making no pretense at stealth. His shaggy coat is heavy with water and tangled with twigs and leaves; his paws are filthy. Once he's aware of the younger Garou, he makes a direct line for her.

Anvilhead's a big canine, mostly wolf in appearance but not quite. For one thing, he's too big -- well over three feet at the shoulder and nearly two hundred pounds. He has the long legs, massive paws, and general body shape of a wolf, but he's broader in the chest, a bit heavier in the muzzle, and his bushy tail has a tendency to curl. His thick, shaggy fur is primarily black, though there are brown hairs visible around his pale eyes and along his underside, and a single splotch of white mars his right front paw. His left ear, which like its brother is rather larger than a pure wolf's would be, flops over, but this is obviously due to the fact that something nasty's chewed on it at some point in the past.

Silver-Hand is far less observant than the other, and as she roots around desperately for some remaining trail to march home by, she presents her backend like some bullseye of a target. It's only when that snapping of foliage is heard that her head comes up and her fur bristles. Ears swivel and nostrils flare as she lets instinct guide her, and soon she's got an idea of where it comes from. Paws shuffle in the muddy terrain as the cub turns to face the oncoming creature.

A slight wolf of average size that may perhaps just be approaching adulthood in lupine terms. A coat of beige with darker tickings along her saddle, and with soft, white belly fur, this curious and bold young wolf moves with all the playful antics of a cub. Amber eyes are alert, and yet full of mischief as well. Energy is evident in every leap and bound, and the flicker of her ears and wag of her tail suggests that time spent playing is very much an enjoyed past time.

Anvilhead's mismatched ears lift and his tail rises and curls as he lumbers toward the smaller canine, his posture aggressively and bullyingly dominant as he approaches her to get her scent at close-range.

And then, there's Gunnar. There's no mistaking the Get - if you've heard him once, or caught scent of that peculiar mix of natural and unnatural that clings to him, it's probably not very difficult to put a face to it. Whatever the case might be, the Fenrir stalks through the treeline in a steady and quite unapologetic sort of pace - that beat up ALICE pack as always slung over one shoulder, footfalls coming sharp and hard in a well-near militaristic tattoo; shoulders squared back and up, jawline set and eyes locked down on what, at least initially, might seem to be some point on the far horizon.

First, the basics. He stands at perhaps six and a quarter feet in height, with proportionately long limbs and a chisled, athletic build. Ash-blond hair falls in a single arrow-straight mass to the middle of his back, bound only by a seperated pair of thin, chest-length braids at each temple - these last capped off at their very ends with narrow metal sheathes. This mane frames, and in a small degree sweeps over, a well formed face posessive of high cheekbones, a strong jaw and narrow nose: Scandanavian, if ever there was an epitome of it, a fact which is even more clearly upheld by the slightly almond shaped, steel grey eyes. The features - though those of a man in his late teens - are weathered and well tanned, but their inherent attractiveness is marred by number of small scars here and there: across the brow, down one cheek, and along the chin amongst others.

His clothing is sturdy, but well worn. Unremarkable faded blue jeans are tucked into the tops of metal plated black leather boots, while a white t-shirt is occasionally visible beneath the green army field jacket, this last's pockets visibly bulging, either through current or previous periods of long occupation. Finally, a black leather thong hung around his neck disappears beneath said t-shirt.

His carriage is steady - not so much elegant as economic, as is every other function of his movements. Further, when he speaks the voice carries in a deep tenor-baritone, and gives final truth to the nationality by way of a rather prominant accent; perhaps Danish or Norwegian.

Silver-Hand finally breaks as the Lord comes at her, and a sharp yelp goes up into the otherwise peaceful raindrop serenade. The Walker backpedals as fast as she can, fear gripping her and forcing already unpracticed paws to seize up on her. All that's left for her to do is freeze up, eyes squinting shut as ears and tail lower into a fierce cowering.

Paying little attention to Gunnar for the moment, Anvilhead stands over the cowering cub, looming as he snuffles her nose to tail, his breaths heavy and huffing and redolent of old meat and the worst kind of doggy breath. Who? he wants to know. Who?

Silver-Hand flinches at the heavy prodding and sniffing, and in turn doesn't even think to sniff back. That tension remains in the cub as she huffs out an anxious reply to the question. Cub, cub, she offers. Walker cub, half moon. Whiiiiine. Those eyes remain closed yet, as if not seeing him would somehow will him away.

There is little pause in the Godi's step; almost as if the pair of wolves is not even noticed at all. Gunnar continues in that unbroken pace long after most would have caught sight, or sound, of the two - eyes as yet locked down on that whatever-it-is he's staring at. It's not until he comes to within a two or three yard radius that some degree of acknowledgement kicks in; evidenced first by a slow roll of his head to one side, then a gradual drag of the slate grey eyes along the edge of the horizonline to the pair.

Anvilhead finishes his inspection of the cub at his leisure, certain of his standing over her (both literal and figurative) and then lifts his head to stare at Gunnar, his posture still rigid and tall, tail curled high. His nose works visibly, though he doesn't move from his spot straddling the cowering cub. Who?

While the brutish Lord hovers over her, Silver-Hand licks nervously at nose and muzzle before trying to slide a few belly crawled inches out and away from the other wolf. That another has suddenly shown up only seems to add to that nervous desire for flight in the young half moon.

A grinding, creaking sound - sinew across bone - resonates as the Get's fingers flex out then curl back in once again. There's something wholly peculiar about the young man's gaze; a steady, wary sort of weariness, as if he's far too old for his own skin. The mannerisms, likewise, seem to bear this out; his movements, though precise, are inelegantly efficient with very little flare or wasted effort. That gaze, layering down almost as if in an incremental rise of attention, slowly comes to coalesce on the wolf before the Godi responds; the voice low, deep and very nearly snarled - that heavy Scandanavian baritone sounding almost as if it had been drug across ground glass just before a healthy gargling with grain alchohol. "You I do not know. What is your business here." The words, perhaps, are grammatically a question - though there is very little inflection to indicate an interrogative.

Slowly, by degrees, Anvilhead's tail lowers, uncurling as it does so. And something about the Get makes him unwilling to approach. He huffs. Is Stormcloud-That-Brings-Thunder. Full moon of Shadow Lords. Guest by say of Culls-the-Herd-rhya.

Silver-Hand slinks a few more inches back and opens her eyes to glance from wolf to man to wolf again. Her tail remains low and curled at her hindlegs, tip tickling at her ankles. Muscles remain tightly coiled and on the edge of action as she hovers there and takes in the postures and words around her.

Long, longer than might seem necessary, the Get's focus remains on the Shadowlord - then, without even the barest hint of expression, he offers a single and crisp nod; very little more than a sharp snap of his chin down before responding. "Know me as Gunnar Thorvalis, named Rune-Scar; Cliath Godi of Fenris' Chosen and Master of the Rite." It may not be proper to say the Theurge _relaxes_ so much as draws back; posture shifting to a more steadily upright cant as he turns to face the pair of wolves once more; feet setting about shoulder with apart as his hands once more slip to his sides. Then, and only then, does a sliver of that attention break away from Anvilhead to come to pinpoint in on the other wolf behind him.

Anvilhead's mismatched ears flatten. He huffs again, disgruntled, and sits down heavily, turning his head aside to bite at burrs stuck in the fur at his shoulder.

Silver-Hand keeps herself low and stiff, eyeing the two Garou in her line of sight with curiousity and apprehension. When the Get focuses even a sliver of his gaze at her, she curls back. Need den, she offers nervously. Where is den?

Eyes thinning for a moment or two, the Godi seems to allow another long few moments of thoguht to hover about him whilst that focus lingers upon Silver Hand. When next he speaks, however, it is not to answer her question; but rather, offer a low growl of "This is not the first time our roads have come together; but this shape is not recognized."

Anvilhead breaks off to look a moment at the distressed cub, his expression blank, only dully curious at best.

Silver-Hand looks back at the Godi, brows rising up in lupine uncertainty. Though it takes her some work, she manages to scramble clumsily through her forms to land back in homid, and draw her knees up to her chest. "L-listen, I just need to find the farmhouse. I didn't mean to get in your way," her eyes glance at the big wolf and then back to the other homid. "I don't know what you're talking about!" she protests.

Regarding her for another moment, then punctuating the response with a fragmentary nod, "Mn. Never set off on a journey unless you are certain you can find your way back." The Godi allows another roll of his head to one shoulder, then one hand rises in a sharply cutting gesture into - assumedly - the general direction of the farmhouse. Gaze leveling off for another moment on - or perhaps just behind - the Glasswalker, Gunnar soon enough cuts his eyes briefly back to the other wolf - more, appearantly, to assess his position and activities than anything else - before turning crisply on the ball of one foot and once more falling back into pace.

Anvilhead heaves himself back to his feet and then rears upright, pulling himself through Crinos and past, until he stands on two legs in homid form. Though the young, black-haired lad possesses nothing like the purity of breeding that the Get is blessed with, he's well-formed nonetheless and wouldn't look all that out of place if cast in some heroic fantasy movie. (Or if posed for a sword-and-sorcery novel cover.) "Fahm-howss," he says to CJ, with a thick, difficult-to-pinpoint accent. "Bahn. Twaining." He stares down at her, unsmiling.

CJ watches the beast of the wolf turn into a rather attractive young man. It catches her off guard, and she finds herself staring with her lower jaw slightly dropped. "Huh?" she finally asks, snapping out of that momentary awe. She glances as the other turns to leave, feeling suddenly trapped once more. "The farmhouse. I'm hungry and need breakfast, and a shower."

"Fahm-howss," says Victor again, and starts walking in the direction that Gunnar previously indicated. After a few steps he stops and looks back, staring at her with those pale eyes.

Blackriver comes trailing through the woods, headed in the direction of the caern. She doesn't look very happy, ears pinned back in constant annoyance at the rain overhead. When she spies the two humans she freezes, nostrils twitching and ears pricked forward, before letting out a soft huff to announce her presence.

The Eurasian Tundra wolf is one of the largest subspecies of wolves in the world, and Blackriver could be the type specimen on her kind. Easily topping 120 pounds, this is a wolf in her prime, healthy, strong and alert. Slender yet sturdy legs support a barrel chest and large snowshoe paws. Her frame is covered with thick bushy fur, each individual hair of dark grey, pure white, and every shade in between mingle together to form a silver, almost lavender, color running from her snout to her tail tip. On her belly the wolf's fur is white and looks oh so very soft. Blackriver's eyes are a milky amber, almost like honey. She carries herself well, and no Garou would doubt what tribe she claims lineage from. A large patch of her right shoulder is furless, the charred and boiled flesh bare for all to see.

In summer, the wolf's coat is shorter and more dully colored. It's caked with dirt and leaves from rolling in the earth, and scabs and scars are more easily visible. Her ears are under almost constant attack from flies, the tips chewed into red stubs of flesh. She flicks her ears every once and a while, to chase the flies away.

CJ seems hesitant at first, but then begins walking with the now homid Shadow Lord. She keeps a few paces behind him and otherwise silent until the huff of another comes up. At that, she scurries forward to almost bump into him and starts looking around.

Currently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (17% full).

Victor stares at CJ with a bemused, dull expression -- the Walker cub ought to be rapidly getting the idea that as pretty as he is, the youth is pretty slow upstairs -- and then looks in the direction of the huff. He stares back at Blackriver for many seconds before straightening up and throwing his shoulders back. He utters a thin, crude version of Mother's Tongue -- slurry but still more fluent than his grasp of English. ~Silver Fang?~

Blackriver gives a wordless confirmation to Victor's question, looking unsure whether to approach more or just hang back. Blackriver, she finally decides on introducing herself. Fostern half-moon of the First Tribe. Alpha of Wildfire. Master of Challenge. Pup of Fireclaws, pup of Seeks-Raven.

CJ looks between the two with enough confusion to suggest she's behind the curve on learning this kind of thing. She scrunches her arms up into a loose folding across her chest and looks between the two. "She is a friendly, I take it?" she asks of the other homid.

Victor answers Blackriver first. ~Anvilhead. Lupus. Shadow Lords. Ahroun. Guest by Culls-the-Herd-rhya's say.~ He wrinkles his lip a bit, though at what exactly is hard to say, and then glowers down at CJ. "Muffer's Tun?"

Blackriver relaxes a bit at the news that Victor is lupus, shaking out her coat and sending water droplets flying everywhere. Then she pads over towards the pair, sniffing over Victor first and then moving on to CJ in that thorough, time honored lupus fashion.

CJ startles somewhat at the wolf, "Whoa hey." Her hands come out in protest as she gets the lupus howdoyado, and her eyes turn back up to Victor. "Huh? Oh!" She catches on, "Not very good at it. Don't need it in the city."

Victor has no problem with getting a wolf nose poked at various parts of his anatomy, though his gaze drifts away into the middle distance until CJ speaks up again. At which point he stares at her, those striking blue eyes quite dull under the heavy black eyebrows, and then says again, "Fahm-howss," as he turns again to walk in that direction.

Blackriver's nose wrinkles in disgust at some of the scents on CJ's clothes. Urrah. She comments, taking a step back from CJ and sneezing once. Who? She asks, peering up at the Walker cub with eerie intensity. She glances briefly at Victor walking away, and then back towards CJ.

CJ looks at the wolf with a little grimace. "What the-?" she offers, confused and uncertain. She at least seems to understand the look then, and with a sigh, she shrugs up her shoulders, "Half moon cub. Glass Walkers." Her eyes turn to Victor as he walks, "I gotta go.." she offers the lupus, not wanting to lose her escort.

Victor keeps walking in as direct a line as possible toward the farmhouse, shoving aside undergrowth and occasionally grunting to himself.

Blackriver seems to understand CJ's introduction at least, giving a little sign of acknowledgment. She watches the cub and cliath go, yawning once and then trailing along in faint curiosity.

CJ hurries to catch up to the Lord, and once more she falls mostly silent. "Are you Russian like Viktoriya is? That why you have the accent?" Occasionally she glances over her shoulder to see if the other wolf is joining them or not, and when it looks as if she is, the girl cub steps closer to Victor.

From another part of the bawn comes heavy footsteps -- the tromping half-run rhythm is not the sign of a delicate flower. As Viktoriya comes into view, sweating, not glowing, it's clear she's taken this 'get into shape' thing seriously. Even if it may kill her, as she's red-faced and trying to remember how to breathe.

Victor, still walking, looks down at CJ when she speaks, his expression still dull, and then turns his focus on the path in front of them -- the path he's making, anyway. He's quite noisy in his progress, but he stops dead when Viktoriya comes into view.

Blackriver tips her head to the side to peer at Viktoriya as she comes into view, nose twitching as she places the girl's scent.

CJ continues to follow along the Lord until she spots Viktoriya running. At this, she seems relieved, and she tears off toward the other cub. "Viktoriya, oh thank god. I was out last night and then it rained and I couldn't remember which way home was and this giant, I mean giant wolf showed up, but now he's this sorta hot guy and then this other creepy guy and another wolf and.." she lets it all flood out. "God it's good to see you."

Drawing to a halt at the initial greeting, half-bent over and gasping for breath. But she peers at CJ and her flood of words. "Wait, wait," she says breathlessly. "Victor-rhya," she adds respectfully, her accent stretching it all out: Veek-tor-rhee-ya. "Ah..." Blackriver is given an apologetic wince. "Am sorry, gospozha, am not remembering your name from first day." She straightens carefully, like it hurts to do it. "You are being lost and found now, CJ?" This is said like she isn't sure she got the right subject.

Victor watches this reunion with eyes no less dull than before, and at Vika's greeting he grunts and jerks his head in a nod. He points to CJ. "Fahm-howss." And then he points in the direction of said house. "You bwing," he orders Vika. And despite CJ's guess earlier, his accent is... not much like Vika's. He doesn't sound Russian at all, really. And now that a guide has been found for the lost urrah cub, Anvilhead drops back into his birth form, shakes himself, and starts trotting off.

Blackriver watches Anvilhead go rather passively, flicking and ear and then turning back to Vika. Blackriver. Fostern half-moon of the First Tribe. Alpha of Wildfire. Master of Challenge. Pup of Fireclaws, pup of Seeks-Raven.

CJ watches as her escort returns to the big beastly sized lupus and trots off. A shaking sigh escapes her and she leans back against the nearest tree she can find. Even more surprising is Viktoriya's apparent ease at speaking with the others, and at this the walker cub glares wide-eyed.

Cub Hunt

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 03:37:21 GMT

Summary: Anvilhead joins in a hunt for a wayward cub. Afterward, he has a one-on-one with the Sept Alpha.

It is currently 16:13 Pacific Time on Sat Jul 14 2007.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 86 degrees Fahrenheit (30 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.95 and falling, and the relative humidity is 35 percent. The dewpoint is 56 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning New Moon phase (2% full).

Big Red Barn

The barn is built in the old style, a vast three level structure that is greater in height than a mere three stories, actually closer to five. Great wooden posts support the weight of the upper levels and roof, sunk into the hard-packed dirt floor of the first level like a sparse forest of regularly spaced, naked trees. The stalls and flagstones which once were here have been torn out to leave a rather open area where even crinos Garou may roam freely without fear of running into anything but the supports or the walls or the ladder at the back which allows access to the other two levels.

The first two levels are relatively open to each other, the second being only little wider than a catwalk going around all the walls but the front one, which has massive, twenty foot tall doors set into it. The third level is a true second floor except for a place cut out that allowed hay to be tossed down to the ground floor when the farm was actually worked. Now, it is a hayloft where Garou can sleep outside of the house.

"Basil, be fair, man. Mick doesn't exactly stand much of a chance against Matt. Dude's a fucking psycho, and Mick- with no offence to you, little-bro, is weak with the rage of an irritated hamster. Hell, I don't know how I'd do up against him if it came to that.. Which is fucking wrong considering he's a stunted little kid.." Chris sighs from his haybale throne.

Mick keeps his eyes on Basil. "He's faster than I am. I can't run up to him. We faced off after the chase, he tried to hide in a tree but I flushed him out. He said he wants to destroy the Wyrm and the Weaver all at once. By himself. That I should go back to the farm and enjoy the 'two legged way'. He ordered me to submit to him, I refused."

The Shadow Lord cub is seated on a hay bale behind Basil, listening intently to the conversation going on in front of her. She hunches forward, bracing her bare elbows on her knees, and cups her chin in both grimy hands. It's hard to tell whether she's following the thread of the discussion or not, as she gives everyone the same intense, measured look from pale eyes.

She is tall for a teenage girl. Just skimming five-feet-ten, she seems a little uncomfortable for it: her shoulders slump forward as if she's used to hunching to disguise her height. Her skin is light, blessed by clarity and cursed by a morass of pale freckles splattered over her face all the way to her collar. Hair the color of copper-touched brown springs around her face and shoulders. The fact that it's been yanked and bound mercilessly back from her forehead doesn't seem to tame it by much: it's a wild mass of coiled, frizzy curls sticking out every which way, even in tendrils around her head. Her mouth is full, her nose a little wide, and her jaw gentler with a touch of thrust. Her eyes are red-lashed, so light a green they almost seem translucent.

Her figure is made of curves and some excess weight, softer than American culture allows. The clothes she wears look as if it came out of someone else's closet. A pair of dark green sweatpants hang on her and still do nothing to disguise the curve she carries, held up by the draw string. Her teeshirt is mustard yellow, splashed with the imprint of an old diner on front and 'EAT!' on the back. There is often a green backpack slung over one shoulder. Three earrings at each ear, and the lobe holds red spirals tapered from back to front. A black pleather cuff sits at one wrist and a cheap plastic green watch is at the other. The rolled up short sleeves show that her arms are also freckled.

"So you *try*. You try because it's the whole Litany thing, about the Veil and all that shit. Part of being a Garou is trying even when you're going to get your ass kicked." Basil puts his light and smokes away, then reaches into his pants and pulls out his oversized leather gloves. "Where did he go? If this half assed Talon is looking to get some killing he might head towards the city. Do you remember where you were and where he headed?"

Having grown over the past few months, Basil's risen to the nearly average height of five foot eight inches tall. The boy's hair has grown too, no longer short and light blonde it's grown to reach his shoulders. Hanging loose and wild, the combed hair curls and twists near the edges in a straw like appearance. The angular and almost feminine appearance of his pretty face still remains, making him look somewhat younger at first inspection. Marring his otherwise attractive face are three scars running from the top of his right eyebrow, cutting right through it and across the eye down to the middle of his cheek. A close observer could tell that the eye in that socket doesn't match the blue in the other. Around his neck is a thick, wide black collar with metal studs covering the majority of it. A good eye could pick out a grease or some substance smeared on the metal to reduce how much it reflects. Across his slim shoulders hangs a black leather jacket regardless of weather, left hanging open. The shirt beneath is plain and black but features a large white design of a sheep on marionette strings in an awkward pose. His lower half is covered by leather riding pants and a big pair of old black leather engineer boots. His hands are covered with a pair of black plated riding gloves.

"If there's a hunting party and you need another hand, I'm in." Chris says, standing up. "Suppose I need to learn this shit anyway." There's no pleasure in his voice, but a grim determination at the fact. "Hell, maybe I can get him to back down- I've stared the little psycho down before, and beat him up too."

A fairly average looking teenager with one notable exception. Chris Moorehead stands about five foot eight and a half, and carries himself somewhat awkwardly. His body is skinny in general, but bears the recent addition of some pretty serious muscle-tone, particularly around the upper body and arms. His hair is very dark brown, his eyes the same colour. Right now he's looking as presentable as he can be bothered to- clad in black jeans, a t-shirt with some obscure metal band's logo on it and a pair of black caterpillar boots. His face is marred with his most distinguishing feature- a scar that could in the right light be called 'dashing' and in the wrong 'horrid' that runs from his left ear down to his jawline, the flesh still pink and freshly healed.

"He's on the bawn somewhere" Mick replies, standing up and turning to face Basil. "Besides, you weren't there, mac. Don't you bloody tell me I didn't try. Step off!"

A young teenager of all North-American descent, a city slicker from a city with a capital C. Nearly unremarkable, his shoulder length sandy blonde hair and clear green eyes sometimes tend to attract attention. Less than imposing at 4 foot 9, and weighing in at just a bit over 95 pounds, the youngster goes about his day with an eternal if slightly crooked smile on his face. His accent, though, betrays he's not a west coast local.

Voices are heard outside. "...And thish ish the barn," someone is saying. "Training area, and general place for doing shtuff that ishn't to be viewed by the general public." Felix enters the barn with the end of that sentence, accompanied by a fellow who's very large both upwards and across with hair of a similar black shade to Felix's own.

Standing at some five feet nine inches, and aged perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, Felix Szkarpiak has a monochromatic air about him that's only enhanced by his longish sable hair, pale face, and entirely black outfit. He's dressed in a black polo-neck, black jeans, black socks and even black sneakers, with the only variety to this outfit being a silver-colored metallic chain round his neck that carries a diamond-shaped piece of transparent material, with a musical note engraved upon it. He often wears wrap-around sunglasses which only add further to the monochrome style he affects. With them, he looks like a mafia hitman; without them, he bears an odd resemblance to a 1950s beatnik. His eyes, when not hidden by the sunglasses, are grey and cold. But his most obvious distinguishing feature is the fact that his jaw and chin are a mass of ugly red scars, and his lower lip is gashed open revealing teeth in a permanent snarl, whilst his lower jaw appears to be off center, as though he's survived some disfiguring accident in the not too recent past.

Victor Storm (Anvilhead in Homid) is a tall, broad-shouldered young man, a late-teenage Adonis somewhere between six and a half and seven feet tall and with a physique to match. Not-quite-shoulder-length black hair, full and slightly curly if unkempt and unwashed, frames classically heroic features, with well-defined cheekbones, a strong cleft chin, a straight nose, and heavily lidded, pale blue eyes. Though not expressionless, he seems quite solemn, not often given to smiling. Only a faint bit of stubble downs the young man's chin and cheeks.

He is rather indifferently dressed in a shapeless black zippered hoodie, a pair of black sweat pants, and heavy black boots.

Victor, towering over Felix as he follows the other in, seems to be only half-listening to the slurred speech. Once inside the barn he stops abruptly and gazes about, pale eyes taking in the strange faces with an expression of mild curiosity.

Viktoriya straightens, looking over to the new voices and their owners. Felix is given a solemn nod, and the stranger studied with the saem curious, direct way she gives just about everything, before her attention is again pulled by the main discussion. She slides off the bale onto bare feet and raises a hand. "Excusing," she says. "Letting know for when we are going, da?" She walks around them to Felix and the stranger, adding on a quieter note, "Gospodin Szarpiak, there is being lost cub and they are for finding him." But, perhaps subconsciously, she circles around the stranger and comes up on Felix's empty side.

"You ain't got a claw mark on you. You ain't got a bite. You ain't got a single wound that ain't healed yet. That means you didn't try hard enough." Basil points one finger at Mick. "You, you're the Lion." Basil points at Chris. "You, you're the Scarecrow. We're off to find the Tinman, or at least I am. Anyone else that doesn't want to be bothered or who's going to be worthless can just stay out of my way." Basil turns and looks at Felix, then Anvilhead, then brushes past them both muttering something about stupid Walkers.

"Scarecrow? Dude, I wasn't even THERE." Chris replies, but still turns to follow Basil as he leaves. He pauses at the arrival of Felix, offering him a bow of his head and a "Excuse me, Felix-Rhya." as he follows the ahroun out of the barn.

"Hold it right there," Felix commands Basil and Chris. "What'sh thish about a losht cub? Who is it, and how were they losht? Thish could be a major issue!"

Vika raises a hand at Chris and Mick. "Is good," she says, and faces Felix directly. "I am for telling, Gospodin Felix, if you are wanting? They can help Gospodion Basil find cub, and all is where they are needed."

Mick begins to follow Basil "Oy! Excuse me for surviving and using my head rather than ripping up half a forest on the bawn." Upon Felix' command, he comes to a stop as well, giving the shadow lord a respectful nod. "Felix-rhya, Matt has run off about five hours ago. He's never been really well in the head, and he was cleansed of wyrm taint a few weeks ago."

Victor's study of Vika is interrupted by Basil storming by and Felix getting commandingly at people. His brow furrows. In the end, the tall young man looks to his tribemate for a cue.

"Out'f my way, you sit here and judge something, the men have work to do." Basil dismissively mutters as he passes Felix, his eye staying on the Shadow Lord as he passes through the doors and out of the barn.

Leaving it to Mick and Vika to do the explaining, as frankly he can't be bothered to, Chris moves to follow Basil, a grim look on his face. He does give an apologetic bow of his head to the fearsome philodox however.

There's no gold brick road leading out of the barn, but the door opens up, letting in a ray of late afternoon sunshine to paint the packed dirt floor golden. A wolfskin-clad man starts inside, then stops, letting Basil and cubs by. "Hey, Bas", Reggie greets, as he watches the parade.

Three hundred pounds of muscle, fat, and gristle pour unevenly down a frame over six feet, puddling in an overflowing belly barely restrained by jeans desperately calling upon extra-strong reinforced seams and solid brass hardware. Army-short hair outlines the dome of the skull, newly decorated by a circular slice cutting bone-deep evenly around its circumference. A monobrow shelters sunken, piggish eyes. An unevenly flattened nose and cauliflowered ears have evidently received many a fist in the past. A patchwork of grey wolf fur hangs over his shoulders, arms, and chest, covering distorted, hairfree skin. The hands demonstrate a history rich in manual labor, with stumpy, thick fingers and fingernails broken to the quick. His right arm is a massive length of scar tissue from shoulder to hand, with the muscling of a paraplegic. A black feather is braided into the grey fur on his right shoulder. A thin necklace, made of cedar bark twine, hangs around his neck. A severed finger is threaded through the twine, and hangs flat against the wolfskins.

Felix shoots a savage look at Basil. "A cub is lost," he says to Victor. "And must be found." Turning back to Mick he asks "Where did he run to?"

Viktoriya draws back from Basil's words like she's been slapped, hurt gathering in her eyes as she watches the Bone Gnawer pass. But it's almost like she reaches up and, with gathering her hair off her neck, comes a solid calm that at least turns her expression into something harder. She looks at Felix, flatly, and says plainly, "He is running into woods and trail is getting cold longer they are for waiting. Is being _handled_," she says slowly. "But they are needing for going."

"With all due respect, Felix-rhya, fucked if I know. I chased that bugger for hours and it took me more than an hour to get back." Mick replies, truthfully. Hurrying after Basil and Chris, he calls over his shoulder. "And I don't know the area that well, but if Basil gets to Matt first, we'll be short one cub I'm afraid."

Victor's brow unfurrows. "Wost," he echoes Felix, in a slow baritone. He sniffs, squints a bit at Vika, and then looks at Felix again. "Hunt?"

"It ish not the place of cubsh, no matter how well intentioned, to hunt a lost one alone," Felix snaps. "Or there could be more misshing cubsh than one. Where are your eldersh? And the Gnawer had better not touch a cub not of hish own tribe." To Victor he parenthesises, "Yes. Hunt. You help. Nose, smell?" He touches his own nasal organ to reinforce the point, no doubt fearing that his slurred speech may not otherwise be understood.

Chris winces at Mick's words. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, little-bro." He states simply as he follows the swiftly departing Ahroun. He has a look quite unlike any he's carried before, of set determination at a very unpleasant prospect.

Basil ignores Felix's words and nods at Reggie. "Lost cub. Ran off in the woods. Might be off to kill people or even get with the BSDs, who knows with his cracked little head." Basil hooks his thumb at Mick. "You will lead us to the place where you last scented him. I don't care what you do after that. You, do whatever you want." Basil tells Chris, then points towards the woods. "Move your asses. Get in the woods and shift to Lupus, we need to cover ground quickly."

"Hunt," says Victor again, and whether the cub-hunting urrah like it or not, the big brawny youth follows after them.

Reggie glances from Mick to Basil, and states, "Fuck, that Matt cub? We just got him deWyrmed!" He glances back down the parade into the barn to see who else is coming, then leaves the barn door open as he starts off after Basil and the cubs.

Felix swivels on his heel and follows along with Victor after Basil, though his legs being somewhat shorter he has to hurry to keep up. "Thish ish the little one?" he asks Chris and Mick. "The one who pushed money under the door at me?" He looks at Reggie with a peculiar gaze as the wolfskin-clad fellow blocks his way back to the door. "I need to speak to you," he says to him, "later."

"That's the one, Felix-rhya. The formerly tainted and still batshit nuts one." Chris replies as he follows behind Basil, heading towards the woods as ast as he can run. And then in reply to Basil, he looks forwards again. "I'm coming with you. You'll probably kill him.. I've beaten him before without even hurting him. Maybe we can manage that again. Besides, he's our little brother no matter how nucking futs he is." And that said, he's heading for the woods and preparing to shift as he runs.

Mick breaks into a dash out of the barn and towards the tree line. It seems he's going to be leading the impromptu pack towards where Matt was last seen. "Try to keep up. And if you're faster than me, don't run in front of me or I'll probably lose the scent of my own markers, a'right?"

"Fall in, Reggie. Mick, get your ass up there to lead the way. Everyone else, I don't care what you do so long as you don't suck, get in my way or fall behind." Basil takes off into a sprint towards the Walker cub, making a beeline for the woods. "Whatever, just go!"

With a sigh, Viktoriya drops her hair and watches the others file out. She doesn't follow, though, instead turning for the back door that will lead to the farmhouse kitchen.

The vast majority of all this English chatter goes whiffing right past Victor, but that's okay. The big pretty lug seems to know exactly what to do -- a hunt, yes, he knows this. Though he doesn't smile -- indeed, the way his mouth gapes slightly open just looks idiotically feral -- there's a keen eagerness in his eyes as he takes off after Basil, long legs eating up the ground.

Felix mutters something under his breath that sounds very much like "Fucking Ahrounsh" as he hurries to catch up.

Reggie glances at Felix as he hears someone state wanting to speak to him, and misses a step, stumbling over the dirt. "Uhh!", he exclaims, then recovers before he can lose too much ground behind Basil and Mick. "Oh! Yes. Yes, yes", he assures Felix a bit too fervently, and hurries after Basil.

Felix and Victor make a detour both to collect Vera and get her permission for Victor to be on the Bawn. The Shadow Lords, plus cub Vika, trail the main group.

Found is out here on the eastern bawn, a few small bones held in his jaws as he gnaws happily on a kill he made more then an hour ago. Theres quite a bit of brush about where the wolf is, and more then a few trees and stones. But, when you're a wolf, does it matter?

As soon as Mick hit the treeline, he hit the ground running on all four paws. Following the scent of his own markers to guide his way back, he took the improvised group of hunters on nearly a scenic tour of the bawn, eventually ending where he last saw Matt. The cub starts sniffing, to see if he can pick up the scent and trail.

Bad-Penny is close on the cub's trail and doesn't let himself get more than four to eight feet away from Generous. The boy has little issues keeping up with Mick, either through stamina, familiarity with the terrain or just better understanding of the Lupus form. Likewise, he begins to sniff the air for the Walker cub.

Pounding hard along the ground behind his friend and Basil, Shit-Storm too sniffs out for Matt's familiar scent, trying to get the hang of his powerful lupus sense of of smell. He has to push himself a little harder to keep up, still becoming fully accustomed to the wolf form and having to force himself not to inspect every amazing new smell.

Spits-out-Nails, having shifted to lupus to be able to better run and scent, dashes along a little behind the others. He's with two other wolves, one of whom may be recognised as no less a person than the sept alpha. The third is a stranger to everyone else here.

Snakepatcher huffs hard as he works to keep up with the Walkers and Gnawer, not taking the time to scent anything, but instead is warily attentive to the extra company coming along on this outing--the Lord.

Anvilhead, once Victor, is of course much more comfortable in his birth form, and he races easily with his tribemates, muzzle gaping and tongue lolling out. He's having no trouble keeping up -- those long legs seem to be able to go on forever.

Culls-The-Herd runs in the front of the Shadow Lords, tail held up like a flag.

Farther behind all of them comes a heavier set mottled grey wolf carrying a dark green backpack in her jaws. It's awkward, and she has trouble keeping up, but not once does she ever complain by word or action as she lugs her burden with her. Demands-Answers follows her tribe mates as close as she can, and when she loses it, she follows by sound and what smell she can get.

Found is no more then about half a mile from where Mick last saw him, but, his trail isn't a direct one, rather a bunching of trails that claim he's been all over creation around the area. Still, he dosn't seem worried where he is, his ears perked as he continues to gnaw them bones. Small little snarls with every crunch of bone, it'd almost be cute if he wasn't a ball of fuzzy rage.

Generous follows the scent from spot to spot, keeping up the pace and making sure to pace himself. Likely to be a fight when they finally arrive, after all.

Bad-Penny slows up when Generous does, but he seems pretty impatient and anxious to be following behind the cub especially when time is taken for getting a better lock on the scent.

Casting about himself, though more out of interest and to back Generous up, Shit-Storm follows on a slightly different path, checking for any crossing trails or fresher scents of Found.

Spits-out-Nails runs close behind Culls, though without displacing her from the lead position. His ears and tail proclaim his subservience to her.

Snakepatcher picks his way after Generous and Bad-Penny without taking side trails or scenting, and gives the Alpha and the rest of the Lords plenty of space.

Anvilhead's focus is all on the run, though he remembers himself enough to keep him from passing the Adren. Just barely.

It's too damned hot for this. Demands-Answers drags her bag along, growling when a strap whips a flush of leaves into her face. But this doesn't stop her, even if it slows her down, and she doggedly pursues the others.

Found perks his ears as he hears the sounds of crackling and things moving. Standing up on all four paws, the woof tilts his head back and gives a howl, layering his call so that it's almost impossible to claim that there's only one. Who comes?

Culls-The-Herd grows annoyed at one point at her teeth flash out at Anvilhead at one point, snapping at the air near his nose. At the cub's howl, her hackles lift and her ears slick back.

Generous snaps his head to the direction of the howl and sets off in a direct path for Found, running as fast as his wolf legs will carry.

Bad-Penny doesn't hesitate and sprints towards the sound of the howl without actually replying, his footpaws kicking up dirt and debris as he darts past Generous.

Recognising his tribemate's call, if only by its multilayered effect, Shit-Storm too spins almost on the spot to dart off in the same direction as the others.

That howl makes Nails veer over towards its source. He opens his mouth as though to respond, but then closes it again save to pant; if Culls isn't going to reply, neither is he.

Snakepatcher perks up his ears at the howl, concentrating to make out its numbers. He glances aside at Culls-the-Herd, and moves further aside, even though it was someone else she snapped at, and he proceeds after the speeding Walkers and Gnawers, without himself increasing his speed.

Anvilhead jerks back at Culls' snap, veering slightly away from her. His ears perk forward at the howl, though, and he's all eagerness again.

Lagging behind, but perhaps not so much a bad thing, Demands-Answers labors to carry and run all at the same time. Her sides heave with the effort, ears pulled back, and there's almost a snort of relief as the howl seems, to her, to indicate that the quarry is close.

Found seems to start getting quite skittish, with no reply, and the sound coming closer, the wolf starts to make his way back and forth, looking like he is ready to bolt, but only staying to see what may be coming.

Generous is being passed by the faster Bad-Penny, but does his best to keep up. Ignoring the trailing Shadow Lords, he heads for the missing cub, not replying to the howl.

Neck and neck with Generous, Shit-Storm pushes himself harder yet to keep up with the other two of the lead party, his tongue flapping in the wind as he really takes his lupus form for a hard test-drive.

Bad-Penny calls out in a short series of yips and barks when he's sure he's near to the cub : No move. Stay. Walkers coming. The agile wolf bounds and leaps it's way ever closer, boring down on Matt.

Snakepatcher silently follows along, slowing to a jog when when Bad-Penny starts yipping, and he veers in a circular path that he estimates will take him around to the other side of the cub.

As the pack starts to slow down, Demands-Answers does the same, keeping to the back of the whole and tucking her backpack against a tree where it won't get trampled or lost.

Spits-out-Nails falls back a little to Demands-Answers, giving her a little bark to ensure she is all right as he realises she's been struggling with the pack all the way through the run.

Found seems about to make an escape, when he hears Bad-Pennt. To that end, the cub moves to find a decently open looking spot so he can get good visability all around himself. Barking when he sees the two lead walker cubs, before folding his ears back.

The whine given by Demands-Answers is reassuring, but tired, and she raises her head with a low growl. Worry none for me, it says. I bring heal-things.

Generous steps into the clearing, looking at Found. Seems he's going to let the others do the talking.

Bursting out from cover behind Generous, and panting rather hard, Shit-Storm slows to a stop, his body agitated as well as worked up, tail lashing. Why would Found do this? Very great danger now. He flicks his own ears back, eyes locked on his 'littlest brother'.

Bad-Penny shifts up quickly when he gets near to the cub, swelling to Crinos and leaving little doubt as to who between them is the bigger Garou. ~You should not have run. You stay where your Elders can see you. You do what your Elders tell you. You do not threaten to run off and fight alone, cub.~ Bad-Penny half growls, looming over the cub with his lips peeled back.

Snakepatcher vanishes into the bush as he circles around the found-lost cub being confronted with his fellow cubs and with Basil.

The Shadow Lords make an appearance, with Culls-The-Herd remaining in the lead. When she reaches the edge of the clearing, she settles down on her haunches in full view of Matt. Fool pup, she comments to those near her. I near killed him not long ago, for fighting with a ~Guardian~ and refusing to submit, even when pinned.

Spits-out-Nails trots in behind Culls. Pups are often foolish, he politely reminds the alpha. Only by making mistakes do they learn. But what excuse for foolishness do the grown wolves of his tribe have, for leaving their pups to wander alone and lost so far from the scab?

Found seems a little bit more then taken aback when Bad-Penny accuses him. Giving a yelp, he struggles to convey his meaning. Alone? Disobey elders? He looks more then a bit bewildered as he looks over towards Generous before he replies. That one, that one would spare the wyrm! Elders sent us to be away from scab. To know the bawn! One has done nothing one would be shamed of!

Culls-The-Herd snorts softly, one ear laying back as she continues to watch the cub-drama unfold.

Anvilhead pulls to a halt with the other Shadow Lords like a tank screeching to a halt. He actually paces a few steps away and to the side, panting eagerly, not at all winded from the hard run. Now that the hunt is over, he's expecting what usually comes after a hunt -- violence and killing.

Bad-Penny puts his paw to his head and rubs at his furry temples, his ears splaying at the side. ~These cubs do nothing but fight except for two. Disagree with each other, always.~ Bad-Penny turns his back on the cub and starts to walk away, shaking his head. ~Dumb time over. Cub found. My job is done.~

Cubs are brought by elder, Demands-Answers offers helpfully to Vera, if cautiously, edging up behind the other Lords. Her ears flick in curiosity, nose flaring. But one is not seeing this one before when pups are brought, says her mixed posturing and growls. She remains out of reach, watching the events unfold with intensive scrutiny.

Generous sits not too far from the others, still looking at Found. This one did not say spare the wyrm. This one asked Found to think.

As Found is run to ground, Shit-Storm just glances from one of his tribemates to the other in confusion- and not a little worry as the Sept Alpha arrives on the scene. He looks to Generous with slightly narrowed eyes, stating of the shame of the cub drama dragging in all the adults.

Found stamps his paws and looks to Generous. And one told you to go back, you cannot handle being without the two leggers weaver. Is this what you have done? Led a pack of war to hunt me, so you could keep your weaver toys, disrupted the duties of the strongest? The wolf glances about, his hackles raised, but mostly with burning looks at Generous. He glances over to Demands-Answers, One was with Ears-to-the-Ground-Rhya, and is allowed to be taught from same.

Culls-The-Herd gives her head a disgusted shake and stands, preparing to turn away.

Spits-out-Nails growls. He also turns away, and seeing Anvilhead still poised in hunting mode, addresses him in lupine parlance. Come, shadow-brother. The lost one is found. There is no longer any prey. Come back with me and we can meet our alpha properly, now. You come also, cub, he orders Demands-Answers. You may take two legs to carry your bag.

Anvilhead's mismatched ears pull back in disgruntlement, and he growls with great unsatisfaction as he follows Nails out.

Demands-Answers raises her ears. Why is lost cub found able for being in woods by himself? she asks, backing up, but her attention is stolen by the wolf form of Felix. Perhaps surprisingly, she whines, shaking her ruff, and pads over to her bag. No human fur, she says, and seizes the nylon in her jaws. Now that they aren't running, she seems a little more capable with it.

Shortly after...

Tall Sitka spruce and sequoia crowd around and above you. Many of the trees are old, their branches twisted into impossible shapes, trunks broad and draped with lichen, mosses and creepers. Tendrils of moss hand down from them like green spiderwebs, snaring the unwary with cold, ghostly fingers. The patches of younger growth are dense and pale, needles tinged with silver. Matted undergrowth huddles sullenly in the occasional small clearings, clutching with thorns and burrs at the legs of those who would pass. Deer seldom venture here, but the forest is full of rustlings, and tiny glints from wary, watchful eyes.

The forest spreads out to the east, bounded on the west by Sunrise Road. From farther to the west, one can occasionally hear the distant sounds of the town of Kent's Crossing.

The Shadow Lord Cub and Philodox go back to the farmhouse, leaving Culls to properly meet with the new arrival. While physically smaller then the formidable Anvilhead, her entire posture speaks of dominance as she sniffs him over from nose to tail.

An outside observer might find it humorous to see the giant beast kowtowing so religiously to a smaller one, but if there's one thing Anvilhead understands besides brute strength, it's breeding and rank. His bushy tail wags and his head slinks low, properly and unselfconsciously deferent to the elder Garou. He's also quite happy to meet her, obviously.

Culls-The-Herd settles down onto her haunches after she finishes her inspection and her tongue lolls easily. Welcome. I am Culls-The-Herd, Adren Ragabash of Thunder's Children. You are?

Anvilhead is called Stormcloud-That-Brings-Thunder, full moon of the Shadow Lords. Come from Sept of Painted Rocks. Elders send me, think Spits-Nails maybe needs help.

Culls-The-Herd's tongue dampens her nose, before hanging loose once again. He is staying. We are going to form a pack under Grandfather Thunder.

Anvilhead's mismatched ears perk up at this. Then he pulls himself upright. If Nails stays, he will stay. Tribe needs strength? Am strong. Very strong.

Culls-The-Herd's ears press forward and her tail wags slowly. That is good. Will tell Warder you are a Guest. Chiminage?

Anvilhead's tail drops. He looks blank. He knows what chiminage is, obviously. He just never gave it a thought, just as obviously.

Culls-The-Herd tilts her head to one side. Find ~Wyrm-Things~ and kill them. Then tell me. If you kill enough, I will accept that.

Anvilhead perks his ears up again; his tail rises, curling slightly as it wags. Yes. Can do this. Many ~Wyrm~ will die.

Good, Culls' conveys the words through a few simple gestures. I will speak with you again later. Thunder guide you.

Anvilhead Arrives

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 11:25:29 GMT

Summary: Anvilhead shows up on the Sept's protectorate. He makes friends and influences people... kinda.

It is currently 14:53 Pacific Time on Wed Jul 11 2007.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 94 degrees Fahrenheit (34 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.87 and falling, and the relative humidity is 24 percent. The dewpoint is 52 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (23% full).

WWNP: North Forest

Carefully watched by the National Park Service, Wolf Woods is largely free of human influence despite the number of tourists it draws in each year. A few service roads and hiking trails criss-cross the low hills, through the thin underbrush. The trees are evergreens for the most part, though there are enclaves of oaks here and there. Here and there, trees are marked with small metal plaques - red near the north border of the park, and green further south - to tell humans what wolf pack's territory they are passing through.

This region extends about five miles south from the northern edge of the park, from the Lake Arthur annex and the edge of the old park in the west to the mountains in the east.

Obvious exits:

Park Road Park Gate East South North

You paged Lefty, Jacob, Ian, Stacey, Lara, and Felix with 'A deep, bellowing Howl of Introduction can be heard, coming from the northern extreme of Wolf Woods National Park. Stormcloud-That-Brings-Thunder of the Shadow Lords calls, seeking (very insistantly by the tone) Spits-Out-Nails.'.

You paged Lefty with '...And if you came from Felix's Sept, you likely know that howl. And this particular Slord.'.

You paged Felix with 'Ought to be a very familiar howl to you, of course.'.

Lefty pages: Oh dear god. As who? What kind of lord?

You paged Lefty with 'Lupus Ahroun. Young Cliath. Biiiig fellow, not 100% wolf though. Vicious brutal fighter... but rumored to be an idiot. Oh, and very much follows the Slord party line.'.

Lefty pages: Gah! okie. :)

Felix has been sitting quietly under a tree in a remote spot at the very northern extreme of the Park, singing softly to himself. "Oh my name it ish Sham Hall, and I hate you one and all, yesh I hate you one and all, damn your eyesh..." He breaks off as the howl sounds out and a very peculiar look comes over his face. Not that anyone is there to see his surprise, or to see the man change into a black, scarfaced wolf who makes an answering call. I am here, I am here! I come! And he goes trotting off in the direction of the first howl.

Anvilhead's mismatched ears perk at the answering howl, and he gives a huff of satisfaction and sits down heavily to await his tribemate. Resting in the shade, the big brute of a wolfdog nonetheless pants heavily, pink tongue hanging out from the gaping, befanged mouth.

Only a few minutes pass before a smaller wolf wriggles its way into the clearing where Anvilhead has seated himself. The scent is familiar, as is the form that prances round Anvilhead cheerfully. Only the scar on the face is new since the ahroun last saw the philodox. Here I am! proclaims Nails. Here I am! Have you come from home? Do you bring news?

Anvilhead heaves himself back to his feet, not commenting on the new scar at first and for many minutes primarily concerned with snuffling Nails all over, snorting and huffing as he confirms for himself that, yes, this is the Garou he wants. His bushy tail lifts and curls, and though good humored, the big Ahroun gets rough and physically dominant in his body language, asserting himself and 'testing' the other. From home, yes. Elders want to know. Where is Nails? Where is ~charach~? The last word is given with a bare-fanged growl.

Felix's initial joy at seeing an old septmate soon dampens down, and this combined, perhaps, with the other wolf's physically overbearing size and demeanor makes him drop tail and flatten ears. I came to bring her back but they would not surrender her. She was far enough ahead of me that she gave chiminage here and is now a sept member. So the half moons of this sept ruled that they had the right to punish her. And she lives yet.

Anvilhead's growl turns into an expression of unhappy confusion. What? Lives? But she is ~charach~! Why does she live?

Felix growls deep in his throat. Because the half-moons of this place are weakling scum and feared to have her slain as her sins merited. And you know me. I uphold the law, for when a philodox breaks the law, there is no law. When the half-moons rule, then I cannot go against them.

Anvilhead huffs, shifts his weight restlessly, and then turns his head aside to bite an inch on his shoulder. Bad half-moons. Bad Sept. What now?

Bad Sept, yes, yes, Felix agrees fervently. They are like a ripe apple that goes rotten and fills with maggots. They look well and good but as soon as you look beneath the surface you see filth and corruption. He circles away from Anvilhead, his body language redolent of disgust. And that is why I am staying here, he goes on when he circles back to the ahroun again. There are good strong philodox at the Painted Rocks. Here there are none. I am needed here. I miss home but I know where my duty calls me.

Anvilhead sits down again as Nails circles, thinking on this as he watches the smaller Shadow Lord. His muzzle drops open again, tongue lolling out -- not an expression of joy, just a way to rid himself of excess heat. He doesn't reply for a full minute at least. Nails needs help? Elders say that maybe Nails needs help.

Anvilhead's a big canine, mostly wolf in appearance but not quite. For one thing, he's too big -- well over three feet at the shoulder and nearly two hundred pounds. He has the long legs, massive paws, and general body shape of a wolf, but he's broader in the chest, a bit heavier in the muzzle, and his bushy tail has a tendency to curl. His thick, shaggy fur is primarily black, though there are brown hairs visible around his pale eyes and along his underside, and a single splotch of white mars his right front paw. His left ear, which like its brother is rather larger than a pure wolf's would be, flops over, but this is obviously due to the fact that something nasty's chewed on it at some point in the past.

Lefty, Lara and Jacob arrive together. The three of them have been steadily moving south since hearing the faint call from the edge of the bawn. All three remain in homid, but the Gnawer stops cold when she spies the two Shadow Lords. Her facial expression sours into a grimace, and her one good hand curls into a fist.

She stands at roughly five-seven, lean and fit, even for a woman well into middle-aged. Her ginger-red hair is streaked with strawberry blonde highlights and falls just past her shoulders in a simple, uncomplicated wave. Bright blue-grey eyes produce a rather piercing gaze, full of ingenuity and acumen, while her bearing can be at times almost facetious. The one sober and glaring feature about the woman is a scarred right-arm, completely missing below the the elbow joint.

She wears a pair of faded Levi button-fly jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of scuffed, old sneakers. Overall, a black canvas duster that has seen better years is worn to protect against the weather.

Jacob takes in the sight with a neutral expression, pausing as he sees the already gathered Garou. A hand reaches up to rest on Lefty's shoulder, squeezing gently as if it could control that clenched fist and force it open. "We heard the howl. There's no news of trouble is there?"

Nails is slow to answer that offer. Not need help, no, he eventually responds. Not myself. But sept does. And Thunder's children do. Alpha is Shadow Lord adren. And we have fostern ragabash, and weak philodox, and metis ahroun. And cubs. Tribe tries to be strong but more strength is better. And you are strong, I know, strong enough to... He is interrupted by the arrival of more people, and gives a warning growl by reflex.

A wolf, to all appearances. Canis lupus lupus. Biology would call him a gray wolf, ignoring the fact that his pelt is actually charcoal-black. He appears to be a young adult, maybe 2-3 years old, in prime health and fitness, with keen bronze eyes that take in his surroundings, ears that twist and turn to do likewise, and a nose as black as the rest of his face, also designed to keep tabs on what's around him by scent.

At some time this wolf has evidently suffered a severe facial injury; his jaw hangs askew, and the lower part of his face is almost bald. Perhaps he got kicked by a moose or some other large prey. It evidently isn't a severe enough disability to make him starve, though.

Running Elk shifted to lupus after some time of moving south, the better to scent with. Her ears flicker backwards as she gets her first scent of the two Lords, and then first sight. She chuffs a questioning greeting.

Anvilhead is on his feet with surprising speed considering his bulk, his mood flashing from mere surliness to barely-controlled fury at the sight and smell of Lefty. His snarl is a deep and rumbling as black lips wrinkle savagely away from sharp white fangs. The pale eyes glare with unmitigated hate and hostility. ~Charach!~

Lefty's not exactly a model of civility herself. Jacob's hand at her shoulder bolsters rather than settles her. "Yeah, fuck you too," she answers the Shadow Lord's growl, the Jackal's Voice making the words sound like there's a pig in distress nearby. Her eyes then shift to Felix. "Recruiting now? Why the hell don't you people just go home! you got what you wanted."

Running Elk just hovers in the background, hackles slightly raised, ears back.

This is a Mexican grey wolf, lean, bushy-tailed, long-nosed, and long-legged. She's scar-free, with deep brown eyes and an inquisitive look. She looks quite certain of her footing, although there's something about her ears that indicate a willingness to play at any moment.

Jacob pulls Lefty back a little more firmly this time, "Lefty. Relax." His positioning shifts as well, placing him slightly in front of the Gnawer as he looks to the newly arrived Garou. "Normally, people exchange names, rank, important info and the like when they first meet eachother. You know, a little class. Or should I go back to believing the stereotypes?"

A man of slightly above average height, Jacob stands at six feet tall and is built in a rather non-descript way. There's an obvious level of fitness about him that suggests he is no sluggard, but there is also no show of obnoxious bicep, pec or shoulders. Dark brown hair, worn just long enough to shag across his brow and curl around his ears frames a face that is both youthful and aged. It's hard to discern his age by looks alone, and depending on his mood he can quickly gain or shed a few years in appearance.

Green-grey eyes look at the world with a guarded clarity and apprehension; the kind of calculating look that makes one wonder if he can see beyond them, or through them. He often walks with his hands loosely in his pockets and his shoulders slumped, giving him a rather lackadaisical nature to his gait. Everyday clothes are his typical wardrobe; jeans, tee's and gymshoes.

Spits-out-Nails bristles at Lefty. How dare you presume to know what I want or what my tribe wants, litany-breaker? he demands, before Jacob intercedes and he calms down just a fraction. He looks to Anvilhead. The Gaian does not speak wrongly, he concedes.

Running Elk offers, as if to model the behavior Jacob suggests, I am a half moon Uktena cub who is named Elk Running Off A Cliff. She still looks pretty tense, however.

Anvilhead, too busy staring and snarling hate at Lefty, doesn't even remark on Jacob's comment, though when Nails addresses him he breaks off to look grouchily at his tribemate. Speaks? Speaks what? All I hear is monkey-babble. ...The cub gets his attention, but only briefly -- he does not budge from his tense, angry, hackle-risen stance to go sniff her over.

Lefty gets jerked back slightly by Jacob, but it doesn't stop her from making a rude gesture at Nails. "We're not in Painted Rocks now, Felix. You can take your superior attitude and shove it up your ass." After another jaw-clenching glance to the two Shadow Lords, she re-iterates, "Just go home! We don't need you here."

Running Elk edges away from Lefty. Here... is not a safe place to be, her body language fairly much yells.

Spits-out-Nails moves closer to Anvilhead. She wishes to know your name, breed and auspice, he explains for the lupus. He ignores Lefty's further jibes completely and with scorn.

It's not the first time Jacob has come across this and so he's got an inkling of what's going on. Still, Lefty is not so quick to cool, and she is his first priority. Facing her dead on, he looks to her alone, "You need to chill. This is not your territory, and their coming and going is not your decision. So stop. And if you can't, then take yourself back to the farm and wait for me there." He shifts his forms then, rising up to Crinos and landing just on the other side into hispo. In the moment he turns to face the Lords, the scar upon his chest is visible, and then he drops down. Stills the Dance, cliath of the Children of Gaia. What brings you to Hidden Walk?

Anvilhead shifts his weight, low growls rumbling deep in his throat. Abruptly he turns and stalks toward Jacob, his tail raised and his body language dominant. His 'verbal' introduction is curt enough: Stormcloud-That-Brings-Thunder, or ~Anvilhead~, full moon of the Shadow Lords. The real meat of his meeting with Jacob is, of course, to examine the other's scent. Thoroughly and with much rough, not-quite-bullying jostling. Pretty clear he considers himself alpha dog over the Gaian.

Whether it's Jacob's sensible words or the shift, the Gaian gets through to the Gnawer enough that Lefty turns away from the fracas and walks several steps back toward the bawn. she does not disappear completely, however. she hovers in the background, still scowling and still pacing a bit. Her eyes watch the shadow Lords like a mongoose watches snakes.

Running Elk edges slightly closer to the two meeting, nose flaring; her movements make it clear that while she is not lupus born, one of her primary teachers is extremely comfortable with the form. She's perfectly ready to edge back at a moment's notice.

Spits-out-Nails gives the Gaian a glance of evident approval. And I am Spits-out-Nails, Shadow Lord, cliath and philodox, born homid. I know this ahroun. He is a tried and true warrior of Gaia, and he came here seeking me, for fear that I had come to harm. (He gives Lefty a savage glance, teeth baring for a moment.)

Dance-Ender returns the scent gathering process for himself, nose sniffing into the Lord. The Gaian does not instantly cow to the new Lord, keeping his own posture tall and confident. One rough nosing deserves another, and Dance-Ender prods the Ahroun back with a gruff snort. Are you done? His tail swishes as he asks this, but his ears swivel to listen to what Spits says. Harm- I should be sure to tell him the story of how the very charach you hunted down, came to stop you from such permanent harm. Since he is so concerned with your well being.

Lefty continues to pace, though some of her earlier venom seems to have tapered off. She glares back at Nails, and when Jacob mentions the incident, she mutters, "Something I'm starting to regret, believe me."

Anvilhead answers Dance-Ender's prod with a rough shove and a snap at his ears. Apparently, he's not done at all, since it has not been established to the wolfdog's satisfaction which of them is dominant. The Gaian's comment hardly even distracts him.

Spits-out-Nails looks up at Lefty, wolf eyes meeting her human ones. I erred in my judgment. I have never denied this. You saved me. I have never denied that. That does not make you any less of a litany-breaker, or me any less of a half-moon. If you had let me fall to the claws of the frenzying Fury, you would still be charach.

Dance-Ender gives a snort back, and turns to face the Lord, eyeing him directly now. He's silent, save for the posture that states, no you are not going to just push me around. The staredown brings a bristling of muscles to the Gaian as his nostrils flare and he gazes at the Ahroun.

Running Elk asks, all innocence, ~Is it not the Garou way to punish and then, once punished, let them live their new lives?~

Listen to her voice, Nails bids the cub. It proclaims that she has done wrong. It will continue to proclaim it until she shows herself worthy of normal speech. She has not yet done so.

Lefty meets Felix's gaze, her own just as hard as his are, suddenly. "Better that," she snaps out, "than a conniving little sneak. The whole tribe of you!" Whatever calm she had seems to evaporate in that instant, and yet she doesn't move forward again. Clenching her fist, she looks tot he sky, "Gaia, I don't mind the Voice so much, but why bring a plague of Lords on me? Jesus!"

Anvilhead ignores the by-play, focusing all his attention on Dance-Ender, tail high and hackles raised.

Spits-out-Nails tosses his head scornfully. Your words show your nature, charach. I do not insult your tribe. It has strong and brave members. Why do you insult mine?

Dance-Ender focuses his attention on the other, also ignoring the mess in the background. Finally, after what seems like hours of tension coiled between the two, the Gaian lowers his gaze and his tail, his posture proclaiming his willingness to submit. Another snort follows, and like being broken from a trance, he turns flat ears back to the bickering duo. Enough already! This does not strengthen the sept!

Running Elk ears and general body language do seem to indicate she's not precisely /happy/ to be next to a charach. ~Of course it does,~ she says to Felix. ~But she is still a warrior for Gaia.~

Anvilhead, satisfied with his confrontation with Jacob, swaggers over to give the cub some attention and get to know /her/ scent and standing as well, and again he's very rough and physically dominating about it -- not /quite/ bullying, though some may perceive it as such.

Lefty scoffs, chin lifted as she glares back at Nails, growing suddenly angry as well as excited. "Oh, please, Felix. You and your whole lot look down on /everyone/ that isn't a card carrying son of Lightning Boy. And as far as /my/ tribe goes, don't sit there and pretend that you admire us, when half the time you treat us like we're not even good enough to wipe your ass!"

It does not, agrees Nails with surprising mildness in response to Dance-Ender. I am willing to assist the wayward one in returning to the paths of honor, glory and wisdom, but she must first wish to make the return.

Running Elk seems rather used to this slightly form of lupus-greeting, as she merely makes it clear that the other is, indeed, dominant to her, and snuffles at him curiously.

Dance-Ender moves to the Gnawers side, hackles bristling. She is taking her steps, do not disregard them. He noses up and against Lefty as if trying to urge her to desist.

Of the three strangers that came to greet him, Anvilhead seems the most satisfied with Running Elk. He even seems in something of a good mood -- albeit one soured a bit by being in Lefty's vicinity -- as he swaggers, high-tailed, back to his tribemate. I will meet alpha, he tells Nails with utmost certainty. And tribe-alpha.

Lefty looks from one to the other, specially dance-Ender. But, it's Nails' words that cause a final shudder of revulsion to pass through the Gnawer ragabash. "Fuck all of you," she says, turning and starting to make her way back toward the city. Faintly, as she moves, only some of her last words can be heard. They include, 'If I can help it' and 'last garou on earth'.

I will bring you to both, Nails promises Anvilhead. Thank you, Dance-Ender. I shall meet you again concerning this. He turns his back on Lefty and the others, and only the twitch of an ear betrays that he's heard Lefty's epithets at all as he and his tribemate depart in the opposite direction.