It is currently 15:09 Pacific Time on Thu May 5 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 65 degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.84 and falling, and the relative humidity is 65 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (20% full). Safehouse: GW Main Area Like the public safehouse, the foyer of the Glass Walker's private area is set off from the living room by a four-foot-high half-wall. The steps to the second floor disappear off to the left, mirroring the other set. There the similarities end - where the public area is painted unoriginal white, the walls of the Walker house are a dusty pastel teal above polished maple hardwood floors. A hallway leads back toward the kitchen, pausing at a computer room on the left outfitted with enough bells and whistles to satisfy a small LAN party. At the back of the house, through an arch, the kitchen is big enough to comfortably allow two active cooks and boasts a half-sized refrigerator and full pantry in addition to the usual stove/fridge/sink combination. A dining room, nearly as large as the kitchen, is set off by another half-wall like the one in the foyer. The furniture throughout the house is in better condition than next door, though only a few pieces are close to new. Stairs in the foyer lead up to the second floor, while a doorway tucked under the curve of the stairs heads down to the basement. A heavy door in the foyer with a monitor and intercom beside it goes back to the area set up for communal use by the Sept's Garou. Grey comes home from work early today, and he's already pulling the necktie off as he heads through the door into the Glass Walker side of the house. Brisk and purposeful, he sets about looking for 'his' cub, the cheeky one with the bright red hair. Said cub can be found splayed in one of the living room armchairs, baggy jeans draped over its arm as she she scribbles in the pocket-sized notebook that was returned to her a week ago. The headphones are on, of course, and she swings her bare feet idly. There's a hamper full of folded laundry on the couch nearby. Grey stops just outside the living room, pauses to take in the cub and her involvement with headphones and notebook, and then just strides forward. A brown and white shoebox taps the top of her notebook. Startling, the girlcub shoves her headphones off and snaps the notebook shut. It takes her a second or two to register the box, and then its carrier... at which point she whitens beyond her already-pale complexion. "Hi," she says lamely, easing the box from his hand. "Afternoon," says Grey, unsmiling as usual. He nods to the box. "I think they're near your size." Cy peeks in the box, and lets out a short breath. "Thanks." The hoarse word comes out reluctantly, but it's there. Sitting up in the chair properly, she sets the book and pencil aside and begins fiddling with the shoes laces, suddenly all nervous energy. "How's work?" The cub keeps her eyes fixed carefully on her task. Grey watches her for a few moments. "Tolerable." He turns to go. "If they fit, I'll Dedicate them to you when I get out of the shower. Then we'll head out to the Bawn." Biting her lip, the red-haired girl nods once or twice--a consent he won't notice, if his back is turned. She slips on one shoe experimentally, bending to tighten the laces. Maybe he noticed and maybe he didn't. In any case, he's off and headed upstairs, leaving the cub a few minutes to test out her new footwear and mentally prepare herself for The Bawn. Sighing inwardly, the younger Philodox laces up and wiggles her toes in the new shoes, eyeing them critically and slumping back in the chair. Her sudden agitation won't let her sit still for long, though. By the time he returns, the laundry hamper is gone and the dishwasher is running. Cy's perched at the edge of the couch... watching infomercials on the TV. Grey returns no less than fifteen minutes later in t-shirt and jeans, Chuck Taylors on his feet, in the middle of pulling on the dark grey hooded sweatjacket. "How are they?" he asks her, ignoring the salesman-babble on the TV. "They fit," she murmurs, promptly clicking the screen off via remote before adding, "Yours are cooler, though." The cub eyes him from her place on the couch, gaze wide and almost wary. "What time did y'say this thing starts?" One knee has started that restless jiggling motion. "About six," says Grey, moving into the center of the room and making a beckoning gesture with his free hand. "It's a bit of a drive, though, and I thought you might like to get some wolf practice. Stretch your legs, that sort of thing." Tugging absently at a ratty lock of hair, the girl nods and hops up from the couch to stand where directed. "..What's a bawn?" She asks the question as though she expects to get smacked for it, at this proximity. Grey seems, though, to have reverted to the calm, unruffled man who tended to her in the bunker, who patiently taught her Mother's Tongue, who cleaned up her mess when she ran away. "It's an area of land surrounding the caern. A buffer zone, of sorts, patrolled by Guardians." Businesslike, he takes one of her hands and turns it palm-up to the little pen-knife he typically carries. Blood for the ritual, just as when he Dedicated her clothing. She doesn't flinch when the blade bites in, but she doesn't look at the wound, either. Keeping her gaze trained somewhere just below his scruffy chin, the cub nods and remains still and complacent as he commences the rite. This time, Grey guides the cub into active participation, getting her to kneel down, dip her finger into the blood welling up from her palm, helping her form rough glyphs on the pristine black sneakertops. He's barely touched on these, but she'd recognize the ladderlike symbol for 'Glass Walkers'. Smooth, fluent Slavic syllables come murmuringly from the older Philodox, half-chant, half-prayer. Ten minutes, give or take. The blood on her sneakers seems to soak into them, vanishing without a trace. Cy cooperates wordlessly, though she falters more than once. Once finished, she stares down at her shoes for a long moment before shivering visibly and wrapping both arms around herself. "Is that Russian?" She hazards a glance up at his face, then averts her eyes again. Grey cleans his penknife off with a handkerchief, then hands it -- the handkerchief, not the penknife -- to her. "Serbian." He straightens up, looks her over critically. "How do you feel?" She takes the handkerchief from him and examines the bloodstains before folding it up and shoving it in a pocket. "Nervous as fuck," she answers bluntly, now looking him in the eye. The cub's own gaze adds truth to her statement. Grey nods slightly. "Understandable. Just remember to be civil, and you'll do fine." He gestures her toward the door, and the way out to the front door. Lane Stretching a good quarter mile from the road, this gravel lane leads back to the Escrowe farm. Trees line the lane, new leaves shading the skeletal leaves to a soft grey-green. 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. The Ford Torino heads south and east, making for Bridge Street, heading over the bridge that spans the Columbia River, and then into land that gets more and more rural. He turns off the highway onto narrower and narrower roads, and the trees go from sparce to thick growth that presses close on either side. There's little traffic and fewer houses to be seen. Finally, Grey turns onto a narrow gravel lane and parks the car near a rustic-looking farmhouse; the cub can glimpse a big barn lurking somewhere behind the house and some overgrown fields. Grey hasn't said a word throughout the whole trip. No word from the solemn cub either, other than a brief request for a cigarette. She smokes and broods out the window in silence during the trip, not even bothering to touch the radio--just absorbing the scenery as it passes them by. Once the Torino's parked, she wastes no time in hopping out of the vehicle, stretching restlessly as she peers up towards the treetops. "Nice place," she notes quietly, almost to herself. Grey finishes his cigarette, crushing it out in the ashtray, then joins her outside. "Little quiet for my taste, but yes." He shrugs out of the sweatjacket and tosses it onto the driver's seat before closing the door with a heavy metal thunk. His forearms, bared this way, visibly display the scarred glyphs. "This is the outer edge of the Bawn. Non-city cubs and lost cubs -- those without kinfetches -- end up here. No phone, no radio, no television." Cy looks down from the treelimbs to wrinkle her nose a bit at the older Garou. "Maybe not so nice," she amends, slipping hands into baggy denim pockets. A brand-new sneaker kicks at a bit of gravel. "Electricity, at least?" "Oh, of course." There's a sardonic edge to the older halfmoon's words. "Can't have vile Weaver influences, but we /must/ have our lights and running water." He snorts, then starts heading around the house and toward the treeline. "No shifting until we're under cover. Then straight to wolf." [Bawn: Western Forest] 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. [Cy (Cypher) in lupus] The dark wolf appears to be somewhat scrawny for her kind, but she's obviously in good health: a compact, young bitch with short but well-built legs and expressively large ears. Her pelt is mahogany brown with black accents, often betraying temper or tension as it twitches over wiry musculature. There's a strange sort of sentience behind those dark amber eyes, fixing their chosen subject with a laser-like intensity. She shows no sign of scarring besides a series of perfectly round holes along the edge of both ears, and a missing left incisor. [Grey in lupus] Black fur covers this adult male wolf from muzzle to tail, the dark pelt unbroken but for a vague, irregularly-shaped medium gray patch on his chest. Like all his species, he is long-limbed and athletically built, powerful and relentless in his motions, a true predator. Rarely is the animal truly relaxed, and often a murderous anger seems to rage just under the surface of his ebony pelt, the promise of violence held in check only by a near-iron control. To Garou eyes, he has the look of nobility, and it's clear that Shadow Lord blood runs strongly through his veins. One feral golden eye glints with a more than animal intelligence, but the other is a blind white that's all but lost within the twisted jungle of scar tissue that covers the left side of his face. There's a secondary scarred area on his right shoulderblade that looks like it might once have been some kind of glyph, but more claw-scarring has removed all meaning from it. However, the claw-made scars on his forelegs -- the glyph for Charach on the right, the one for Dishonor on the left -- are not so obscured. The cub stretches her shorter legs to keep up with him, silently noting their surroundings as they pass beyond the treeline. She doesn't wait for his cue, but as soon as they enter the shade of the woods, she halts and concentrates. Within seconds, she's blurred down into four legs, a tail, and a quivering nose. The cub blinks, lifting her muzzle, and notes that everything smells. Grey follows her onto four legs, stretches, and then gives himself a brisk, full-bodied shake. At her comment, he noses the air as well, then sneezes. Everything smells in the city, too, he tells her. But very differently. Cy tips her ears forward, head and tail held high in abject fascination; there's no hiding her emotions, in this form. She scents the breeze for a moment longer, then plops onto her haunches to scratch furiously at an ear. I like this, she decides. The cub's tongue lolls. Grey's own body language is less enthusiastic. More still, more reserved, more tense. He sniffs the air again as though feeling himself on enemy territory, ears up and mobile; his bushy tail remains close to his haunches. He huffs, shakes himself briskly again, and then vocalizes a sharp command: follow! And then he takes off, running deeper into the forest. The cub scrambles to her feet at the command, kicking up mulch as she scampers after him in a less-than-graceful chase. She follows in his wake as close as she can, and the youngster's gait levels out after a while, instinctively finding purchase on the uneven forest floor. Bawn: Southern Forest Evergreen trees spread their overhead branches wide across the forest floor. Each tree limb interlinks with its neighbor, forming a thick overhead canopy of pine needles that leaves the forest floor dim even at noon. An apparent tenseness seems to permeate the air here, and there is a somewhat less than subtle feeling that perhaps something is watching. The behavior of the wildlife in the area betrays a certain wariness that suggests the presence of predators nearby. The southern edge of the bawn is marked here by the railroad tracks which run from St. Claire and Kent's Crossing to the west, towards the mountains to the east. Grey keeps just ahead of the cub, his tail temptingly close for biting purposes as he leads her in a circular path through the trees in the direction of the Half Moon Pool. Graceful and sure, he leaps over a fallen tree, dodges a thick patch of undergrowth, avoids a foot-tripping rabbithole. No words, no talking, just the thrill of powerful lupine muscles, of stamina and speed beyond human ability, of eloquent wind whipping past nose, through fur, of warm wet ground under one's paws, primal and pure. She follows like a brown-furred shadow: smaller and lighter on her paws, but not quite fast enough to catch him. She gives it a game try though, stretching herself into the run with youthful abandon, surging over and around obstacles with the energy born of far too many weeks spent cooped in a box in the city. The cub's paw-falls are steady and rapid behind him, her breath a wordless underscore to the rush of the chase. Grey slows as they near the pool, looks back long enough to note that this is the place, and heads in. Shore Around Half Moon Pool The shadowy canopy of evergreens recedes here, opening into a small clearing. The grass underfoot is a vibrant young green, luxurient and seemingly soft to the touch; small flowers, some purple and others blue or yellow, add to the spread of color. Immediately to the east, the ground rises into a small, rocky outcropping, at the base of which stands a large pool of crystal clear water; the barest rivulet of a stream wends its way south and west from the pool across the clearing, losing itself in the forest. This whole area has about it a sense of peace and silence; the air is cool and fresh, the scent of the flowers pleasant, the colors of the forest in seemingly perfect balance. Anything not pristine or natural seems almost a world away to you here. The half-moon shaped pool lies just to the east. A faint trail seems to follow the little stream southwest into the forest. Grey arrives first, a mature male wolf with Shadow Lord breeding and a Lawbreaker's scars on his forelegs, leading a smaller, younger female with holes in her large, expressive ears. The older Philodox shifts up, reverting to his birth form as he comes into view; his short-sleeved t-shirt keep the shameful glyphs in view. As the twilight of the evening gathers, Megan is at the shore of the pool with a small fire laid but not lit. She looks around as the other philodox begin to arrive, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Making his way towards the pool with Kenneth, is Brom, wearing a simple black shirt and a pair of torn at the knee jeans. His hair is tied back into a tight pony tail that drapes down just past his shoulders. He looks relaxed for a change, giving the Alpha a slight nod with his head. Already seated at the pool not far from Megan, but far enough, sits a native=looking woman. She holds across her lap a staff of six feet, carved in wood and decorated with an ornate series of designs of both indian and african origin scarred into it. Nascha lifts her head as others begin to arrive, giving each a close look of one studying and memorizing. Nascha is a petite young woman of what would seem, at first glance, a native American origin. Her face is round and her skin of a smooth, light, even copper color. Her black hair is long and thick, frequently tied back with a strip of leather in a braided bun for ease and function and occasionally spotted with beads. Even her eyes, a dark cocoa brown, have that slightly 'pulled back' look, which in her case often emphasizes the thoughtful expression on her face. However, there is something else in her, often taking a good second look to determine. The shape of her lips and the form of her nose, the slight kink to her hair and the faint browner tinge to her skin - all suggestive of African blood. It would seem the less dominant end of her blood. Often she can be seen in traditional dress of leathers and woven cloth, but there are rare occasions when jeans and old flannel tops are required - though not often. Dagger's-Edge arrives with Brom, the black Shadow Lord philodox padding beside his Get packmate around arm's length away. Silent, he sniffs at the various gathered halfmoons, stopping when makes out Grey's scent along with the smaller female's beside the Walker. Pointedly, his ears tip forward with interest, and Edge lays eyes on Cypher. This wolf is large, but young by appearance. A jet coat of fur, long legs and a deep chest show his health, but not lacking in some particular scars on his furred body. His countenance infrequently lights with frivolous cheer, being rather set in an intelligent, reserved attentiveness that presents itself as somehow sinister, driving home the mysteries and suspicious nature many have of the wolf. He unquestionably carries himself with as much grace and agility as he can muster, wrapped in precarious balance and proportion, but a certain quirk of his gait indicates there is something wrong with him as well. Soaked in the color of void, his coat cloaks him with darkness incarnate with hints of ashen and earthen colors streaking the fringes. Silver frosting surrounds his eyes with a lightened mask that adds to the haunting stare of his golden stare, touching down as well at the very tip of his muzzle. This wolf, has the unmistakeable tinge of the city in his scent. He seems to have taken some care to try and cleanse himself of such things, but the tenacious Weaver has undoubtedly clung invisibly to his form. In Grey's shadow, the small female pauses, panting, before she shifts up into a skinny homid with brightly-dyed red hair. Cy stays close to the scar-marked Walker, still breathing hard from the run, and peers at the gathering. There's not much to look at beneath the ratty shock of crimson hair; she's scrawny, and 5'4" would be a generous height estimate. The girl has a pale, weak-featured face that adds to her apparent youth--she could be taken for about twelve at first glance. Round cheeks, snub nose, and large brown eyes are haloed by a hacked-off bob of hair that's been dyed fire-engine red, with an inch of dark roots starting to creep back in. She's not wearing any piercings, but her earlobes are notably stretched into loops more commonly seen on people in tribal body-modification documentaries. She rarely smiles, and tends to squint; her eyes seem to be incessantly dark-circled from lack of sleep. On the occasion she does show her teeth, it's obvious that she's missing her upper left incisor. She's in a worn black t-shirt and baggy jeans rolled up at the cuffs, belted around her hips with braided leather. Though clean, none of it fits her quite right: it seems like the garments are hand-me-downs. Halfway hidden by her large clothing, she's got a sexless build with a short torso and wiry limbs. There are black no-name sneakers on her feet, and her small hands show evidence of compulsive nail-chewing. Sifhuil comes alone, but arrives just after the others, carrying herself quietly into the clearing on light paws. She circles the firepit halfway, then settles onto her haunches. Eyes dart around to those with whom she seems unfamiliar... Grey's expression is flatly neutral; the charach has his defenses up, a fact which shows in his very controlled, tense body language and, for those in wolf-form, a certain edginess in his city-tainted scent. He gives the girl with him a curt nod, then joins the gathering, taking a seat cross-legged on the ground. Megan nods as she notes each arrival, stopping at Cy with a thoughtful, narrow-eyed gaze of unrecognition, but then widens her smile. "Welcome," she says quietly, but it carries nonetheless. "I appreciate that you have all come to this moot of the Philodox. For those of you who have not met me," she looks at Cy, "I am Megan Firewatcher, Adren Philodox of the Fianna. I think there are those here who may not know the others, so I would like everyone to introduce yourself." Letting out a breath, Brom steps forward first and rocks his shoulders back. "I am Brom Gustafson of the Get of Fenrir, Forsetti and Cliath, born into the White Oak Sept, once leader for the Duatha Bloth pack, now Alpha of Requiem of The Hidden Walk." He says, voice booming, holding his chin up high and proud as he resonates with his rich pedigree. Nascha dips her chin slightly to all those present, looking at each face in turn, save one. Grey, it seems, she passes over in the manner of one not acknowledging someone's presence. "I give thanks, for being asked to be here when I am not of the sept. My name is Nascha Tenduzi, rited she who Calls Down the Stars to Judge. Cliath lawgiver of Uktena's children, born of the sept of the Midnight Fire where my uncle, Jacob Cold-Lake, is alpha and former member of the Ghost Walkers who followed Fog." Thomas Grey is a man hard-used by the world. It shows mostly in his face, a hawkish visage that's extensively scarred down the left side, twisting keloid making a ruin of aristocratic features. If not for the scars, he'd probably be fairly handsome in a severe sort of way. The angles of his face are sharply defined, the nobility in them scoured nearly to the bone. His thick black hair hangs just past his ears, shaggy and unkempt, and he wears a few days' worth of black beard-growth. He looks older than his thirty-something years; his deep-set eyes -- the right dark brown, the left blind white -- are often shadowed as though from lack of sleep, and the set of his mouth is usually tight and grim. At six-foot-three, he stands taller than most men, and an inherent athleticism indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an aura of pent-up violence about him, a tightly-controlled rage within the lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if unleashed. His plain white t-shirt is tucked into a pair of slightly faded blue jeans; his footwear consists of a pair of black Chuck Taylors, canvas high-top sneakers with the distinct star-in-circle logo. His bare forearms display glyphs that have been carved, seared, and darkened with ash into his flesh -- Charach on the right arm, Dishonor on the left. Dagger's-Edge shifts to his birthform after a moment, easily sliding into it. Making slight adjustments to his shirt, the Shadow Lord intros, "Kenneth Saitou-Sardelis, rited as Dagger's-Edge of the Shadow Lords. I too, run under Fenris with Requiem." With human eyes then, he visually inspects the others. The bright-haired girl next to Grey sticks both hands in her pockets nervously. "Cy Larsen," she says hoarsely, loud enough to carry--aimed mostly in Megan's direction. "Glass Walker. Cub." With that, she moves to sit cross-legged at Grey's side. A puzzled frown is shot towards Kenneth, but she says nothing. Sifhuil slips up from lupus long enough to deliver her introduction with a human voice--though she remains crouched as if upon haunches. "I am Layne Lohan, Sifhuil...or, Faerie-Blood. Fostern Fianna. Alpha of Griphus, a pack of three guided by Chimera's wisdom." The end of the intro. finds her back upon four ruddy paws, which she slides forward, easing her chest flat onto the grass. Grey maintains a facade of calm, elbows resting near his knees, his hands lightly laced together. Blandly, he introduces himself, not looking anyone in the eye. "Thomas Grey, of the Glass Walkers." Isaac trots into the clearing just as Brom steps forward to give his introduction. With a thud, he drops down onto his haunches and bats his tail once against the ground watching the others speak. His ears pull forward and he leans toward the Glass Walker as Grey gives his introduction, curious and uncertain. He slowly shifts upward then, taking homid like the others. "I'm Isaac. Um. Innocence, sometimes. That's what the Mirror Lady called me. I'm a Silver Fang. I used to be in the Dragon pack with Adam. And I was in a pack with Trevor. But Trevor isn't here anymore." He reaches up and pulls the cowboy hat more snuggly on his head. Isaac appears to be in his late twenties. At about six feet, his broad and muscular shoulders lend his frame a boxy appearance. Dark, reddish hair is cut short, in a boyish rather than militaristic style. His face is cleanshaven, lending him a youthful countenance belying his years. Hazel-green eyes seem unfocused, and rarely maintain contact for long, drifting from point to point. His large hands are warm, and despite calouses of hard use, still soft and often clammy. His, perhaps overly lean frame is clothed in relatively new garments. He wears a clean, white T-shirt, and new, unfaded jeans cover his legs, and mud-stained and scuffed white running shoes adorn his feet. Around his waist, proudly displayed and not through any beltloops, he wears a large belt with a big, bull belt-buckle. A slightly too small black cowboy hat is pulled snuggly onto his head. His round face is not so large as to be too large; neither is it too thin. It is not, in fact, most things; and yet it is pronounced in a way that words do not well describe. It seems that you may have seen this man before; though where you cannot say. Megan favors Isaac with a fond grin, but then drops to the ground a touch awkwardly, to light the prepared fire. Once it's going, she rises back to her feet, and lets out a heavy sigh. "It's been a while since we've done this. For those of you who have never been to one here, I tend to try to have them twice a year, just after each of the equinoxes. This is an opportunity for us to get together, to meet, to get to know one another a little, to discuss issues of the Litany and the Traditions which have arisen in the last half a year to hear opinions, and to teach," she says, with a look and a slight grin for the lone cub. "And a forum by which we can come together to look for teachers or to offer our knowledge to students in the gifts and rites particular to our auspice. Which will come at the end. But first, I know there are several issues several of us have been dealing which may be of interest to discuss." She looks around, eyes resting first on Kenneth, then Nascha, then, lastly and longly, on Grey. "Who would like to go first?" Grey, however significantly Megan looks at him, doesn't seem all that inclined to speak up. Kenneth steps forward, looks around to the others, and then meets eyes with Megan and Layne momentarily. "I believe, I would like to know what the outcome is about the whole Lucas affair. It's been two month's time. Two months, and Dillen and I have been patient." Brom lets out a quick breath and nods his head with a slight rumble in his throat, leaning forward after settling upon his knees, obviously curious of these events. Nascha remains seated on the ground with her hands laid across her carved walking staff in her lap. She, too, listens carefully. Quiet, but attentive. Cy's face reddens a little when Megan's attention is turned to her, but she otherwise stays still and observant, occasionally glancing into the growing fire. Megan slides her glance to Layne, but then looks back to Kenneth. "As far as I'm aware, since neither of us, yet, have had a chance to talk to you or Dillen--and I apologize for that, as I was ill and then busy with other duties--nothing is known yet about the outcome. Proper procedure in this kind of thing is for the philodox who is acting as Judge to at least talk to those involved, first hand, before any decision can be made. Only fair, and all," she comments with a wry grin. "Since we're all here, why don't we begin now, with you? Tell us what happened?" The Fianna wolf has her eyes unwaveringly on Kenneth as Megan speaks, watching through the flames. Ribbons of fire dance throughout the darker, rust-red fur of this wolf bitch, highlighted by silvery guard-hairs spersed randomly across a summer coat. Smears of gray and black mark long, wolven features like warpaint; they splash her underside, tail, and riddle her limbs like shadows sprung upward from the earth that grabbed a hold in passing. This creature moves with a natural, unpracticed grace; from the looks of it, she's spent years in these wilds--prowling, hunting, running--doing as wolves will do. It's the strange coloring of her eyes, then, that seems quite unnatural: a vivid, hazel-blue set within dark, angled sockets. They glimmer with mocking cynicism overlaid by an animal intelligence that, upon closer inspection, doesn't seem very animalistic at all. Grey's guarded gaze lifts from his hands to focus on Kenneth. Isaac crouches down, resting his hands on the damp ground before him and watches Kenneth with an open expression. Kenneth doesn't echo the emotion, neither appearing to readily forgive the Alpha nor seeking to condemn her for the excuses offered. "From the top then," he answers her before turning to the others. "This story ain't pretty. And I'm not gonna spruce it up like some singer-moon. From the beginning, I knew Lucas had problems with his Rage. He lacked control of the Beast." The Shadow Lord's face is carefully tailored. "He frenzied many times from the start, and I was there to see it. But with nothing, usually, to direct the anger towards, those frenzies were short-lived. It wasn't 'til one full moon when he and I went hunting that I saw the Thrall for the first time." His voice's low tone doesn't change its steady line. "The cougar got away. But I knew it when I saw it. We talked to Jarred about it afterwards, and learned of the Thrall shortly after." The halfmoon here pauses, taking in a breath to ease into the next part. The lone Walker cub echoes her scarred elder's posture, perhaps unconciously. She gnaws at her lower lip as she watches Kenneth, her gaze something of a wide-eyed stare on the young Shadow Lord. Megan's arms cross over her chest as she listens to the story, expression schooled into studied, directed interest. The Uktena, who has never heard the story, listens with rapt focus, though her face remains thoroughly neutral save for the intensity of her stare. "That was when we were cubs, before our Rite," Kenneth continues. "Lucas and I kept our own confidence about these incidents. We were cubs, but we knew early on to show weakness, or in anyway show ourselves to be a danger to the Garou, is to be culled." Here he narrows his gaze. "We kept silent for our lives. Lucas and I... we sought out our own ways to try and stop his frenzies, but we didn't know enough. Whatever Jarred did when he took Lucas out alone, it didn't work. My tribemate only continued to lose his control on the fuller moons. If Jarred talked to anyone about this before hand, I don't know. And until we rited, this was how things were." Kenneth takes in another breath and lets go. "Our Rite of Passage did little to help Lucas, but then we were no longer cubs. I felt a responsibility to my tribemate, and then soon to be packmate, to continue trying to keep him in line. We fought more than ever, but at least what blood was shed on my part, kept that blood off the streets. Lucas needed an outlet, and so we formed Requiem with Dillen. A war pack, with intentions to throw our energies into fighting the Wyrm. I thought this was best. And it was working, or so I thought, until the night after that one moot, when I came back to Shadow's End, didn't see Lucas, and decided to look for him. I knew Lucas' habits, and he wouldn't be out on a full moon if he could help it. Dillen and Jarred I brought with me, and we found Lucas. He was in frenzy. And he had eaten another human. At least one." Grey's eyes drop again; he resumes his study of his folded hands. His reactions to Kenneth's tale are muted, mostly a subtle tightening of the jaw when Lucas' problems with his Rage are described, or when Jarred's name is mentioned. Megan's expression tightens at the mentioning of the eating of humans, the beginnings of a frown of disapproval, but she says and does nothing further. Isaac's expression remains placid until Kenneth mentions the eating of a human. At that, his jaw drops open and his eyes go wide. He swallows and brings a muddy hand up to cover his mouth. Kenneth's expression hardens. "I attacked my pack alpha. My tribemate. I attacked with intention to kill him. I already warned him previous, if I ever found him eating people, he would die, or I would die in my attempt to kill him." The Shadow Lord pauses here, fighting down a growl. "Jarred stopped me, then brained Lucas, though not without having his blood shed by his lesser's claws. And then, he took us Requiem back to the End, and chained Lucas up. He gave Dillen and me a week to figure out a solution to this issue. Dillen and I... were at a loss. While we ran our asses around and wracked our brains, my elder did little. We thought it was a test of our capacities to deal with problems. We kept silent again, because to speak up we feared, you all would have likely killed Lucas anyway." Cy stares into the flames as she listens, her firelit features unreadable. She glances at the other Walker once or twice during the tale, briefly. The large Get stays silent as he listens, cracking his joints at time as he shifts his shoulders and neck reflexively. Megan's eyes narrow briefly at Kenneth's last words--Sifhuil and perhaps Isaac, at least, may recognize the flash of anger in it. Her mouth draws into a pursed moue as she shifts on her feet, then subsides. But some of the displeasure continues to linger, a fraction more intense now. Isaac's head sways back and forth in an exaggerated 'no', his hand replaced on the ground to help his balance. "So we had a week. Dillen approached his tribe, and I approached Jamethon. We didn't tell any of them about the Thrall. We only asked if any of them knew how to find a way to control the Rage in Lucas," Kenneth continues. "Eventually our week was up, but Jarred didn't kill Lucas, or us for our failure. Instead he told us this was a matter within the tribe. Dillen thus remained silent and left us. I followed my elder's words. Lucas remained drugged to high heaven." He snorts once. "The moon waned, and for whatever reason, Lucas was released from his chains. He was let out, and he seemed to have gotten better. That was how it remained, but even so, I couldn't keep tabs on him all the time. And I was determined /not/ to lord this incident over Lucas, who afterwards reclaimed alphaship of Requiem from Dillen. We were on our way to investigating the Veil breach from Signe's pack out west with some gangs. In the end, Lucas apparently wasn't cured. He was found to be eating flesh of things in the city, and attacked Alicia and Stacey, as I heard, when they were on patrol. And from there, I believe, you know what happened. Shit rolls downhill faster than water when it comes from the mouth of a galliard, and soon enough the sept knew about Lucas." Megan speaks up finally, to ask, "You were there, the night Lucas died. Even though Alicia has told the story at Moot, I would hear from you on that, as well." "And I do not know the story." Nascha states evenly from the side. Kenneth nods to Megan at her request. The Shadow Lord finalizes, "They performed a Rite of Cleansing on Lucas, finding him to be tainted and cleansing him. Dillen was questioned, and he told Alicia whatever it was that he told her. I was questioned, and as I told Alicia, I knew about Lucas' problem as well... but I didn't know he was tainted. Afterwards, Lucas was to be summoned to the Sept Compound and kept under watch. Alicia, Signe and Grey came to Shadow's End to collect him. Jarred, on rare occassion, was there. What he /didn't/ know, was that the whole goddamn Sept knew about Lucas. And to be honest, I hadn't cared to tell him either." Here at least, Kenneth looks smug in his decision. "He was 'upset' to say the least, that 'his' tribemate... or rather, underling, was to be taken away. Lucas accepted his fate already, and was ready to go with them. I was going to join the party, but Lucas... revealed to me that Jarred had told him to kill me if I proved weak." That smugness disappears, replaced with a simmering anger. "More words were said, and Lucas finally broke off and attacked Jarred, this time again in frenzy. And I joined in. Lucas and I killed that bastard. But Jarred took Lucas with him. And the better part of Shadow's End as well, destroyed." Snarling under his breath, Brom rumbles loudly in his throat as he opens his mouth to say something, but clamps it shut instead. Nascha lets out a breath that had been lingering at the tip of her tongue and her hands close around the staff laid in her lap. She says nothing, though there are words in her eyes, and only looks down to study the carved designs in the wood she holds. Cy has lifted her gaze from the fire to watch Kenneth, by the end of his tale. Her brow furrows quizzically as she draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping both arms around them. She scans the group around the fire surreptitiously. Sifhuil's black lips peel back at one corner in a snarl as Kenneth recounts these events, but no sound accompanies. She only really seems to convey disgust, but has obviously absorbed the Shadow Lord's tale, eyes glossy in the firelight as she considers something. Isaac's head-shake has spread to become a whole body sway, though his eyes are pinned on Kenneth and his jaw is set. Grey eyeballs Isaac sidelong, his mouth twisting into a thin frown. "And therefore acted dishonorably," Megan notes at the end of Kenneth's recitation, giving the Shadow Lord a look, but then takes a sharp inhalation and looks to Grey, nostrils flaring. "You were there when it happened. Would you like to add anything?" Kenneth stands still under the eyes of the others, his own black gaze flickering red and gold by the fire. At Megan's words, he tilts his chin up and to the side to reveal it to the Alpha. His eyes narrow with the sting on his pride visible. Grey's attention is abruptly pulled away from Isaac, mismatched eyes flicking toward Megan and then down. His hands tighten on each other, tension in the set of his shoulders. "It's as he says." The Walker's voice is very bland. "Jarred mocked Lucas' willingness to face judgement. He also tried to provoke Signe-rhya into attacking. She refused to rise to the bait." Cy rests her chin on her knees, observing the interaction between Alpha and Walker. Brom lets out a loud grunt. "Seems like the fucker -wanted- to die. Cowardly pussy." Megan's mouth twitches with a betrail of amusement at Brom's comment, but then asks, "Anyone have an opinion?" Nascha lifts her eyes from her staff and says, most matter-of-factly, "I would have expected little else. Obviously, a great wrong was kept hidden and many suffered, more that had to, especially the innocent humans who had to face an uncontrolled Garou's madness. But who is to blame? Where did it start and who did not stop it?" Brom shifts his shoulders back a bit and says rather bluntly. "Kenneth and Dillen were stupid to have not taken this up with a Theurge, such as Cutter of Lucas's own tribe, or perhaps another who was willing to sense the dark father's touch upon the Ahroun." He rumbles. "It showed a lack of wisdom, but at the same time, if they felt that Jarred would have killed them for this 'leak', then I can see why they'd have kept their mouth shut. Fucking Shadow Lords." He says without so much as cutting a look towards Kenneth. "It seemed to me that Jarred was too busy trying to keep his own neck, then actually 'save' Lucas's, and he manipulated the Cliath's into his direction until he could no longer salvage any silence, thus, he'd ask for death at the claws of Gaians instead of taking the man's way out and fighting the Wyrm. It was /his/ tribe, /his/ problem. Kenneth and Dillen both shown stupidity and unwise actions, but overall..the greatest of fault should have been on the Elder's shoulders. I'm not saying they get off scott free, just saying if they had some fucking /balls/ and thought a bit harder, it could have been easily avoided. Something as simple as getting a cleansing should have been done." Sifhuil finally releases a small snarl on an expulsion of breath, as her lupus form twists into a human shape. The Fostern repositions herself, crossing legs and resting elbows on them. She says, flatly, "Jarred is obviously a non-issue at this juncture. He got what was coming to him, and then some. Lucas' fate is a sorely unfortunate one, but for the best--in ways. Kenneth," she continues, leveling pale eyes on the Garou in question here tonight, "I agree, was ultimately dishonorable in hiding what he and his pack knew about Lucas. This could have caused greater harm to the sept than it did. But I recognize that his concealing this was not done maliciously or with any ill intent. It was more foolishness and oversight. Punishment should reflect that." Kenneth turns to Brom, teeth gritting before he makes himself let go of the anger. "We did. Dillen said he would approach his tribe's theurge. I did the same, and asked Jamethon. We Did look for a solution, but with us being fresh off our Rites, the fuck did we know? And..." The Shadow Lord snorts, tossing off what's left and throwing down. "Fucking Rite was useless anyway. Lucas and I cut deals with a damn vampire for cryin' out loud." "You admit you didn't tell Fights for Hope about the Thralling, just that he had 'anger management problems'." Brom fires right back. "That doesn't exactly say, Hey James Rhya, I think my pack mate may be fucking /tainted/, can you sniff him out for me? Did you follow up with James? Did you even bring Lucas 'to' him?" "You did *what*?" Megan says suddenly through gritted teeth, rage becoming apparent for the first time all evening, cutting through the packmates' arguement. Nascha jerks her head up, eyes widened in shock, which is a very great deal of emotional showing from the straight-faced Uktena. She hisses out something in a vaguely bush dialect, but it takes little effort to determine it is a very foul word. As though he'd hit a brick wall, Isaac's swaying stops and he jumps up to his feet at Kenneth's final statement. "That's BAD!" Grey looks up, though not as sharply as the others; nor does he appear surprised. He glances sidelong at Cy, gauging her reaction to all of this. Cy blinks at the small commotion breaking out around the moot's fire, and stiffly tightens her arms around her knees. She tosses the scarred Walker a questioning look before sweeping her attention back to the other Garou intently. Kenneth slowly turns his gaze to the fire, its burning light consuming the majority of his bitter and cold gaze. "Lucas and I. Our Rite," he dares to repeat, "was to cut a deal with a vampire. Jarred arranged a meeting, sent us to it. The leech was fresh, but had backing. In exchange for his knowledge of the underworld in St. Claire, the Shadow Lords would provide him with our claws to eliminate the competition." Kenneth's gaze slides up to the tips of the flames. "We were to come back with the deal made, or fail our Rite of Passage." Megan is quiet for several long moments--those familiar with the phenomenon might realize that she may be trying to get control of the Beast threatening to break through to the fore. "/Mahiana/." Comes the low snarl from Nascha, her hands further tightening on the staff she holds until her knuckles grow white. She looks rather furious with her jaws set tightly together with the effort of restraint. Brom lets out a loud breath, teeth gritting. "That deal is obviously over now, for when I took Alphaship of the pack, Kenneth and I both went back and declared war and sent them a message. Kenneth was in total support of it. They took something from him and he means to get something back." Grey watches the others, the ones whose tempers are the closest to the fore, carefully, warily. Isaac's arm flings out to point accusingly at Kenneth, but he drops it again to his side with nothing more than a fierce scowl and a muttered, "Bad. Wrong." Layne is also quiet. But instead of fury, she simply looks unsurprised. She turns a contemplative gaze to the fire. The lone Philodox cub watches all of this with wide eyes, one leg beginning to jiggle restlessly as some of the tension of the group filters into her own skinny frame. Kenneth shifts his eyes in his sockets, eyeing Brom from afar. His head bows as he stands there, awaiting the final decisions of the judges gathered. For now, his expression is one of resolution. The Shadow Lord, somehow in his cold and unfeeling calm, looks a level relieved. Megan shoots a fiery glare at Brom, but then looks back to Kenneth. "It's damn well good," Megan says, finally in some control of herself, "that Jarred is already dead. As it is, I'm almost considering going and digging him up and dragging his corpse around the outer rim of the Caern just to convey to his spirit how fucking pissed off I am. This was a start," Megan says, leveling the same intense gaze at the Shadow Lord philodox. "I will want to talk to Dillen and Jamethon to cover all the bases before rendering a decision. I will attempt to have that done before Moot." Nascha takes in a long breath as she stills herself, eyes still burning with anger as she watches the Shadow Lord, but her face overall returns once more to a mask of neutrality. Grey twitches a glance toward Kenneth that /might/ be translated as sympathy, but it's difficult to tell for certain. He soon resumes a study of his fingernails. Brom lets out a deep breath. "Will Dillen and Kenneth be allowed back into the Caern?" He asks, glancing over to Megan. Isaac continues his scowl as he drops back down into a crouch. This time he leans forward on his knuckles instead of his palms, and his lower lip juts outward. Kenneth doesn't speak again. The Shadow Lord, having said his piece, only awaits what is to come. Megan takes a deep breath, then turns to Grey. The faintest of smiles quirks the corners of her mouth as she continues to level her gaze at him, saying only after a few seconds, "I think this Moot should hear at least the brief version of the explanation for those glyphs on your arms." Grey was, perhaps, expecting Megan to bring the subject up. Judging from the tightening of jaw-muscles, the sudden tension radiating from the man, it's fairly clear that it's not something he was looking forward to. Or something he welcomes. He glances up at her, very briefly, and then again, down. "She was," -- slight emphasis on the 'was' -- "a Ronin I'd known for some years." His voice is very dead, very flat; his fingers tighten on each other. "When she dropped out of communication, I went looking for her. I found her sick with some Taint she'd picked up, but not entirely fallen. Instead of culling her, I took her to a nearby Sept that I knew, so that she would be Cleansed. She was. The details of our relationship came out during the Cleansing. We were judged by Bearpaw-rhya, the Alpha and chief Philodox of that Sept." Kenneth retakes his position beside Brom still an arm's length away. The Shadow Lord doesn't look directly at Grey, but in the Walker's general direction as he listens. Nascha listens to yet another story of the broken tenets of the Litant and frowns then, her eyes betraying some deeper, rattled emotion. She says nothing, however, only listens. Isaac stops scowling at Kenneth to blink at Grey. His brow furrows and he lifts one hand to scratch his head, getting mud in his hair. The Silver Fang doesn't speak, instead letting his confused gaze drift over to Megan to watch her reaction to the Glass Walker's words. Cy doesn't look at the older Walker as he speaks; instead, she turns her dark-eyed stare upon the others gathered. The perceptive might notice the line of her jaw set firmly, and she draws up a bit out of her slouched posture. Megan's teeth are gritted and her jaw tight as she nods once to Grey, then looks to the Uktena representative. "Would you like to speak on what you are doing for your Chiminage, since it touches on our duties as mediators, and is different from breakings of the Litany by our members?" Nascha lifts her eyes to Megan and nods her head once. "As chiminage, I have been charged with performing the Rite of Reconciliation for Jacinta Pierces-the-Ice and Natalie Holds-the-Line in regards to their feud. Talks have been held as we attempt to work towards a conclusion, but progress is slow. They are both very proud." Grey shows no sign of relaxing once Megan's attention has shifted to Nascha. One hand massages the other, absently, and this seems to almost completely preoccupy him. Kenneth balls his left hand into a fist, but doesn't say much except to ask, "What's their feud about anyway?" Cy leans back on her hands, watching Grey from the corner of her eye before her attention's diverted by the mention of Natalie. The red-haired cub squints at Nascha from across the fire. Isaac's gaze drifts from Megan to the fire, apparently missing most of Nascha's words. Eventually he refocuses on the Uktena, but she's done talking and he turns to look at Kenneth just as the Shadow Lord ends his question. Nascha turns her eyes onto the Shadow Lord as she crosses her arms in front of her chest. "It is over the issues brought on by the misuse of a Wendigo kin." She says in a very brief and undescriptive answer. Megan is silent for several moments as she waits for anyone else to ask questions of Nascha, then says, "Lastly, the part of the Moot *I* always enjoyed when I was younger," she cracks a tired smile. "The exchange of teaching. I know the well-known Rites of Accord and the lesser Punishment Rites, plus the cliath gifts and a couple of Fostern," she says with a look towards Layne, which lingers as she adds, "And you, soer, I would like to particularly get you some knowledge of the Rites." Looking at everyone once more, she says, "I am willing to teach what I know to those of you I think are prepared, although I may ask for some small chiminage in exchange that should not be too unpleasent or difficult. What others would step forward to exchange their knowledge, or what are you looking to learn?" Brom shifts his shoulders a bit. "I am looking to learn this Ritual which Nascha has spoken of, and some punishment Rites. I only know the dedication and cleansing ones and a few minor techniques that are of no real use." He admits. "In return, I can help toughen someone up." He cracks a slight grin. Isaac leans back on his heels and raises his hand while watching Megan, face returning to the placid expression of much earlier in the evening. Nascha presses her lips together at Brom's words before stating, slow and clear. "It is apart of my chiminage to impart the knowledge of the Reconciliation. Long has my tribe kept it alive when most all let it be forgotten. I will teach it to one, someone who has the honor to keep my tribe's knowledge sacred and has the wisdom to use it wisely." She almost seems loathe to say the words, but then, what Uktena freely gives away their secrets? Cy eyes Brom dubiously from afar for a moment before turning to murmur something to the older Walker, meant for his ears only. From afar, Cy whispers, "Am I supposed to say anything?" Grey looks over at the cub and shakes his head slightly, his answer equally quiet. Brom chuckles at Nacha's answer. "Well, looks like I won't be learning that one." He says, smiling sweetly over to the Uktena. You whisper "You'll learn such things after your Rite of Passage." to Cy. "I said it long ago at moots before. I'll take whatever you got to teach," Kenneth utters simply. "Brom's at least taught me how to keep my shoes on while I shift. That's... not enough." The Shadow Lord curbs his frown. "And beyond that, I /am/ willing to repay the favor." Megan considers Kenneth with a look of open distaste, but then jerks a nod. "I'll look into it. And now--I invite you all to stay and mingle, if you'd like. But I, for one," she lets out a sigh, "am tired, and have a long walk back home tonight. I ask all of you to be safe, and walk in the path of Traditions. Kenneth," she singles out the Shadow Lord once more, "I'll get back to you." Isaac puts his hand down and wraps his arms around his knees with a scowl. Cy turns her attention back to the Alpha of the sept, eyeing the woman thoughtfully as she makes her closing statement. Nascha only gives Brom an impassive look before Megan's announcement catches her attention. Hand on her staff, she pushes herself up from the ground. "Firewatcher-rhya, may I walk with you? I must speak with you." She says, suddenly having grown even more serious than normal. Cy pages: Okay. What vibes are coming off of Grey? You paged Cy with 'Very tense. Very on-edge. Very much he's about to get up, collect Cy, and go now that the ordeal is over.'. Kenneth bows his head low, eyes not meeting the Sept Alpha's in this case. The Shadow Lord then looks to Brom, to see what his Get packmate wishes to do. Brom reaches over and thumps Kenneth on the shoulder. "Well, I don't have anything else to say, except that the raid on the tainted blight of a farmhouse is going to happen soon, in the next few weeks when the moon gets stronger." He rises up to his full height and dusts off his jeans. "Anyone is welcome to come and earn glory." Grey unfolds himself from his seated position, grimacing faintly at legs gone somewhat stiff from being in one position for so long. He gathers up the cub with a curt speaking of her name, obviously intending to leave. Megan turns to look at Nascha and stifles a laugh at hearing Brom's words just after she does so, but then nods to the Uktena. "Of course. If you don't mind doing so as I begin to walk back? It's late, and my mate will be going to bed soon." Isaac looks over at Grey and then to Cy as he speaks her name. He rises and takes a couple quick steps toward them. Kenneth leans away from the thump on his shoulder, but tolerating it nonetheless. His eyes travel beyond the fire towards the Walkers as well, but as Isaac approaches, the Shadow Lord thinks better of doing the same. He turns, and starts off as well. A final glance is spared towards Cy once more before the halfmoon travels the shapes to that of the wolf, and chuffs to his Get packmate. I will be at the cub-safeden. Nascha dips her head. "I understand. I will try not to take up much of your time." She states as she follows after the Adren, seeming to advance no more than two steps behind her. Cy responds obediently to her elder, rising and looking askance in Kenneth's direction as she brushes off her jeans. She's quickly distracted by the approach of the guy in the cowboy hat, however. "Hmf. Alright then." Brom rumbles to Kenneth. "I'll go with you and maybe this time we can fix something to eat without some smart mouthed Ragabash fucking it up." He says with a light growl in his throat. "Good night, Megan Rhya." Grey doesn't notice Isaac until Cy does, and then he follows her gaze to the Silver Fang. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring once before he dips his head to the Fang in guarded greeting. Dagger's-Edge growls low and wordlessly, not offering his good nights to anyone and instead slinking off into the shadows, like any proper Shadow Lord. In his rush to get up, Isaac's hat comes close to falling off. He pulls it down on his head again then gives a small wave, close to his chest. He tries a grin, but it doesn't seem comfortable and slides away quickly. "Um. Hi." Grey's fingers twitch. He pushes his hands into his pockets, frowning slightly at Isaac as he does so. "Hello, Isaac." The greeting is rather stilted. "What can I do for you?" Cy stays close to Grey's side, shoving both hands in pockets as she eyes the muddy Fang. Her head tilts quizzically. Isaac says "You smell like Walker who wasn't Salem anymore. But you don't have the same name, and you don't look like him." He points at the dishonor glyph. "And how come they made a mistake on your arm?"" Grey's mouth thins. "They didn't," he says curtly. He adds, "Pardon. It's a long drive back to the city. Cy?" He looks sharply over at the cub, then turns and stalks out of the clearing. The girl blinks once at Grey, and once at Isaac. She hesitates, then offers the Fang a sheepish look and a shrug, wiggling her fingers in a wave. "Sorry," she apologizes, mostly for her elder. She looks at the cowboy-hatted guy for a moment longer, then turns to hurry after the scarred Walker.