It is currently 15:57 Pacific Time on Wed Aug 24 2005.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (68% full).

Lonely Hilltop

This is a truly odd place, startling in its abrupt change of scenery. It is a
      large, grass-covered hill, without so much as a single tree on it. 
      However, all around the foot of the hill, the forest crowds in, trees 
      packed densely together. A large stone, perhaps three feet in diameter, 
      sits on top of the hill. One face has been sheared away as though by a 
      great axe, leaving a glimmering reflective surface. From the hilltop, it 
      is almost possible to see over the treetops, but not quite. The greater 
      heights of the eastern mountains are visible from it, in distant, hazy 
      splendor. There is an air of peacefulness that hangs over the place, 
      almost a sleepy feeling. Most of the time, few noises can be heard except 
      for the blowing of the wind.

The dark green of the forest surrounds the hill on all sides. Going any
      direction will likely be something of a struggle.

Sitting atop the hill is a large white wolf, silver highlighted in the sun that
      concentrated into dark shadows around deeply set eyes that stare with a 
      detatched sort of dignity at his surroundings. Whoever he is, he seems 
      somewhat impatient as shoulders shift and a blast of air snorts out 
      through his nostrils.
Similar to artic wolf, this kingly silvery-white animal is taller and more
      heavily built, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. The fur is thick 
      and dense, broken by numerous scars and missing entirely on the right 
      shoulder where a thick patch of gnarled scar tissue twists the skin. His 
      eyes are a sharp, bright blue, set deep in the strong face.

A mature-looking black wolf, grizzled with grey around the eyes and muzzle and
      with the noble and rather intimidating look of a well-bred Shadow Lord, 
      steps out of the trees and pauses there, staring up at the stranger with 
      ears cocked forward and nose working visibly. After a few moments, he 
      lets out a sharp, authoritative bark. Who are you?

Mad-Dog is detacted from his surroundings and stops at the sound of the howl.
      He is not fully sure what it means although the young Bone Gnawer 
      progresses through the woods towards it more or less out of curiousity. 
      The wolf looks like strongly like a husky with the built of a rouge wolf. 
      His amber eyes stare out with intensity from his muzzle and raises his 
      muzzle stubornly to sniff at the air. Arriving where the two wolves 
      gather, Mad-Dog hangs back, watching quietly.
From this wolf-dog's muzzle, deep amber eyes stare out from a figure that is a
      mix of grey wolf, husky, and even some other breed of canine that is 
      undetectable in his bloodline. Sloping back across his forehead is a pair 
      of tall, tented and black-tipped ears. His muzzle is framed like a wolf's 
      like the rest of his strikingly limber form. His grey and white coat 
      displays the striking patterns commonly found on a Siberian husky. His 
      paws look much too large for his form, although he moves with a certain 
      amount of grace. The wolf-dog's tail wags playfully behind him, although 
      not to be deceived by the intellectual look in his eyes.

Walks-Middle emerges from the woods, her gaze on the strange figure on top of
      the hill. The gray and white wolf walks around the clearing and takes up 
      a spot bit to the side of the black wolf, her posture indicating the same 
      question.
Walks-the-Middle-Road is clean of limb and stands about three feet, two inches
      tall. The young wolf's fur is a silky gray, although one leg and her 
      underside is white, except for the long, deep scar that runs across her 
      abdomen. She as pointed gray ears, which are well placed on either side 
      of her head, eyes that are a light green with dark circles near the 
      pupil, and a rounded, black nose.

The sharp senses of the varied lupus are able to detect the approach of Reggie
      and Clemency, as the last to be on the scene make their way through the 
      forest towards them, and Reggie's shortness of breath makes him far from 
      stealthy.

The white wolf stands, fur shifting to show many smaller scars save the great
      one on his right shoulder. His tail gives a twith, the tip beginning to 
      curl up before it stops halfway while ears are held rigidly upright on 
      his skull. Slowly, the wolf becomes a young man who's very posture 
      reflects the weight of years he hasn't yet reached. "My name is Nikolai 
      Petrov." He speaks in a thickly accented voice, the kind who's been 
      taught the very best formal english but none of the slang. "I come from 
      Russia and the Sept of the Citadel, now fallen. I have heard in this 
      country that my tribe here had suffered great loss. Is this true?"

Long distance to the room: Grey notes that as of this point, he has Truth of
      Gaia activated.

Clemency, entering in tandem with and yet somehow apart from Reggie, steps
      forward. "If to lose two elders within a month, and to be reduced to 
      three members, is great loss, then the First Tribe here has lost much," 
      she says by way of response. Her grey eyes look this newcomer up and down 
      very keenly, and her nosetip twitches as though some part of her wants to 
      sniff at him.

Mad-Dog stands back, watching with his triangular ears pointed straight up while his
      tail hangs loosely between his hindlegs.

Grey rears upward, twisting back into human form with the ease of one born to
      it. His mismatched eyes remain locked on the stranger, and his lean face 
      bears no hint of warmth or welcome. "How long ago did the Citadel fall?"
His attire is careless and rumpled, though clean. A long-sleeved blue workshirt
      hangs open over a plain black t-shirt. His blue jeans are faded, 
      especially around the knees, and on his feet are black high-top canvas 
      sneakers -- Chuck Taylors. The sleeves of the workshirt are currently 
      rolled up to his elbows; his forearms are marked with ash-darkened scars 
      in the shape of glyphs -- 'charach' on the right and 'dishonor' on the 
      left.

Walks-Middle remains in the wolf form, pacing along the edge of the trees, nose
      sniffing the air as though trying to catch the scent of the stranger from 
      this distance. She does catch sight of Mad-Dog, however, glancing at the 
      cub briefly before returning her attention to the newcomer.

Reggie wheezes as he makes his way up the hilltop with short strides. He stops,
      breath rattling, as he looks over the newcomer, eyes counting the scars. 
      One hand flickers faintly in Clemency's direction, as though indicating 
      her forward to talk to him, and Reggie stands, silent except for his 
      wheezing, and red-faced, more than warm from his exertion and from his 
      fur clothing, too warm for the late summer.

Nikolai stands a smidge over six and a half, straight as a board after far too
      many years in private schools. His hair is shaved down to a thin layer, 
      the color such a light ashen grey it's only a few shades off of going 
      white, despite his age which can't be more than mid-twenties at most. The 
      same color is on the stubble on his chin and forms a thin representation 
      of a moustache, though there are several patches where scars prevent the 
      hair from growing in. His eyes are clear and and sharp blue - aquamarine 
      in the light and cobalt in the shadows - almost frequently surrounded by 
      dark, sleepless circles. He dressed typically in nice casual or 
      business-like formal. When he speaks, it's in educated english with a 
      strong russian accent.

Nikolai dips his head once to Clemency, a faint gesture but more than he's
      given anyone else. Grey is brought back into his attention and his 
      question makes the man stand just a bit more rigidly than he was before, 
      if that's possible, and his reply comes out in a strange voice, like he 
      was trying to remember it for the first time. "Near two years. Winter was 
      not far off, the lake was starting to freeze and it made fighting them 
      harder."

Nikolai pages: Nothing pinging as abnormal, just to update you.

Grey's mouth thins. "'Them'? Them who?"

Mad-Dog sits heavily down on his flanks.

Clemency's hands push further into her pockets gloomily. "Tell us more."

Walks-Middle perks her ears forward in interest, ceasing her pacing, but
      otherwise continues her watch of the newcomer.

Reggie's wheeze fades as his gaze sharpens on Nikolai, brow puckered in
      curiosity, and he nods to Clemency's statement.

Nikolai grits his teeth slightly as hands cross across his chest, plainly
      adorned in a black tee that coupled with his beige cargo pants, makes for 
      the looks of a rogue traveler than the well-bred Fang his blood marks him 
      as. "The Wyrm itself, it seemed like. Fomori, Dancers, vile creatures I 
      had never seen nor since. They had planned for a long time. We never saw. 
      There were few of us, only twelve with myself. Five of Fenris' finest 
      warriors and Guardians I have known, two of the Children, two Lords, and 
      three of the First Tribe. My father, myself, and my twin born brother. We 
      were too few and our allies too far. I was the only one to survive."

Clemency's face twists into an expression of bitter dismay. "And the Wyrm holds
      it still?" she asks, with the air of one who knows the answer before she 
      asks the question.

Grey continues to watch Nikolai with the steadiness of a cat just before the
      pounce.

Unlike Grey, the only cub present sits looking at the Fang in a stupor. His
      ears slowly easing back against his two-toned head. Mad-Dog unglues his 
      attention from the foreign Garou to look around him at the others.

Walks-Middle lowers her ears and gives a faint whine, saddened by the story,
      yet still watching the Fang warily.

Reggie listens, intrigued by the story. He's momentarily hesitant to speak, for
      it might stop the story, then commiserates, "Ah, cruel! It lies waste?"

"It does." Replies Nikolai to Clemency, mouth turning to a tight, thin line and
      a bitter growl escapes the Silver Fang. "For generations, we worked to 
      cleanse the lake Baikal, but now the Wyrm wallows in the waste it made of 
      my home. The sept of the Crescent Moon could not afford us aid, nor does 
      it move to reclaim the Citadel. They are too busy and so my home is lost. 
      They could not help us, but I have come to see if I could help this sept 
      and my tribe."

Clemency eyes Nikolai as though she's by no means satisfied by his tale. "Why
      us? Why us out of all the septs that need help between here and our 
      homeland? You saying we're the one that needs your help the most of all?"

"He's not lying," says Grey, finally turning his attention away from Nikolai;
      he directs his statement to Clemency.

	 A thin Caucasian woman standing at some 5'8", Clemency Haynes somehow seems
      to look even taller than her true height. Perhaps it's the confident air 
      with which she carries herself, perhaps it's her angular posture which 
      suggests that one could insert a long straight stick into any of her 
      orifices and still only have the effect of bending her out of shape. 
      Whether standing, sitting or lying she somehow contrives to seem erect 
      and rigid. 

	 Her hair is blonde - bleached, one might suspect, given the darker roots that
      show through - and braided into long neat cornrows, a little unusual for 
      one of her ethnicity. Her face is small, with a sharp nose, and 
      intelligent grey eyes. Her left ear has several small rings through; her 
      right ear sports only one piercing, carrying an earring in the shape of a 
      crescent moon with a smiling enigmatic face. A larger ring decorates the 
      right side of her nose. Her usual dress is a heavy black denim jacket, a 
      size or two too large for her, and with two button badges in her lapel 
      reading 'Crazy Diamond' and 'Get Your Filthy Laws Off My Body'. Beneath 
      it, a scoop-necked black blouse, decorated with a white lightning bolt 
      across the front, and below those, worn black jeans and a pair of equally 
      worn and scuffed DM boots. She often carries a duffel bag that's also 
      seen a good deal of wear. 

	 She appears to be in her early to mid twenties.

Walks-Middle huffs at the Fang's words, frustrated and saddened by the loss. At
      Clemency's words, she tilts her head. This one, at least, thinks that he 
      is here and help is always needed.

Reggie regards Nikolai somberly. He jolts slightly, tilting his head towards
      Clemency at her sharp questions, and glances over at Grey, expression 
      pulling into a moue of distaste at the glyphs on Grey's arms, and, with a 
      huff, turns back to Nikolai, brows rising in interest.

"I can not return to our homeland." Says Nikolai after a long, meaningful
      pause. His eyes narrow and fails briefly to look at any of them. "I 
      should have died with the rest of my sept and I still wish I had. To die 
      honorably would have been better than the shame I now walk in. Those of 
      the Crescent Moon judged me unworthy of my Fostern rank because I let 
      myself fall into the Fox Frenzy and flee. I have traveled too long since. 
      It is time I either regained my honor, or if I cannot, take my own life 
      to repay my debt to Falcon."

Grey utters a curt, non-committal grunt and shifts his weight back onto his
      other leg. He'd turned back to the stranger to listen to his answer, but 
      now returns his glance to Clemency.

Clemency is still looking very intently at Nikolai. One can almost see the
      cogwheels whirring round in her mind as she nods to Grey in 
      acknowledgement of his statement. "Well, I thought I'd come a long way 
      and fallen a long distance," she says, half to herself. "But you've come 
      further and fallen with more of a bang... Where the hell are the 
      Guardians?" she asks, switching topic abruptly. "That howl must have been 
      heard halfway to Canada. Course, /Stacey/ was right on the ball," she 
      says with a brief flash of smile to the young ahroun.

Reggie listens curiously at Nikolai, and jerks his head in noticable surprise
      at Clemency's statement. His mouth purses in brief thought. At her 
      question, he replies in his cigarette-horase voice, "They are few in 
      number and this bawn--", he flings out an arm to indicate the scope of 
      the land, "--goes halfway to Canada."

Walks-Middle lolls out her tongue as Clemency smiles at her, stepping closer to
      the woman. She shifts into her homid form, glancing up at the newcomer. 
      "I no longer help the Guardian pack, but I do know that he will have to 
      be checked for taint. He'll have to speak to Seeker-rhya about permission 
      to enter the bawn. Megan-rhya, if possible... You're here, Clemency, so 
      you can introduce him to Jervis, who can speak to him about chiminage."

Striding into the area is Brom, hefting his war hammer upon his shoulder, eyes
      glowering with frustration. His jeans are torn at the knee and his shirt 
      is tied about his waist loosely. Wearing just a sleeveless denim jacket 
      over his person, he appears to be the typical bar fight starter who has 
      had about five too many.

Mad-Dog shifts from foot to foot when teh Gnawer stands, althogh appears to
      remain waitching from one side.

Grey folds his arms across his chest and, though he continues to keep an eye on
      the newcomer, seems content to remain silent for the moment.

"Jervis... yeah, Jervis," Clemency mutters vaguely, still looking Nikolai up
      and down. "Our glorious Elder. By survivorship if by no other virtue."

Nikolai listens to Stacey with eyes narrowed in thought before again regarding
      Clemency. "I see this will not be like home." He muses faintly, murmuring 
      what sounds like a russian oath of kinds as he glances briefly skyward, 
      arms still crossed about his chest.

Reggie turns back from his regard of the scope of the land, to address Nikolai.
      "Survivor. I am Rags-Torn-to-Rags, Uktena Ahroun Cliath, Reggie Coward in 
      the city, and I feel your pain about losing your home to the Dancers. I, 
      too, had to see my home fall, but I saw it restored to the glory of Gaia. 
      Maybe that will yet happen to your home."
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. There's a faint scent 
      of gasoline, nicotine, and alcohol.

Stacey glances up at the Fang, following Reggie's example. "Stacey Kynds,
      Walks-the-Middle-Road or Peacemaker, Cliath Ahroun of the Children of 
      Gaia," offers the preteen.

Mad-Dog shifts up, standing rather timidly, although without looking too
      undignified. "Aaron Daniel Knight, Slower-Than-A-Speeding-Bullet or 
      Mad-Dog, Ahroun Bone Gnawer Cub." The boy's dark hair is windswept from 
      running in lupus as he looks up towards the new arrival to the sept or 
      those who might have missed his introduction at the moot.

Clemency finally introduces herself too. "Clemency Haynes,
      Fire-that-Burns-Forever, cliath ahroun of the Silver Fangs, daughter of 
      Gavin Keen-Ears who was son of Peter Eight-Out-Of-Ten who was son of -- 
      Hell, we'll spare you guys the family trees. We can swap the full nine 
      yards later, Nikolai. But yeah, like some guy said, you can never go home 
      again."

Upon growing closer, Brom lets his eyes fall upon the new comer and sizes him
      up for a quick moment, before rounding about and standing at Clemency's 
      shoulder, tapping the butt of his heavy hammer's head against his 
      shoulder, giving the new Fang a long, rage fueled stare. He grits his 
      teeth slightly. "This the guy who was howling earlier?" He asks no one in 
      paticular.

Nikolai looks to Reggie and offers a small, bitter smile. "I wish I could share
      your good fortune and optimism but the years have stolen mine from me." 
      To the rest he offers a more polite and formal bow of his head, remarking 
      to Clemency. "I fear that could take the good portion of the night, but I 
      have brought my vodka so it will not be a cold night." He says with an 
      emotionless brand of humor as he gestures to a plain duffle bag at the 
      treeline. Brom is last in line of the Fang's attention, the rageful eyes 
      being met by cool, blue ones. "Yes."

Grey gives Brom a glance before giving his own introduction to the newcomer.
      "Thomas Grey, Philodox of the Glass Walkers." Nevermind that he's got 
      more breeding than any urrah has any right to have.

Reggie nods sombrely to Nikolai, briefly raising an open palm to him, then
      letting it fall. He nods briefly, approvingly, to Aaron for the 
      introduction, before turning to the newcomer, Brom. "This is him". 
      Helpfully, he points out the stranger among the midst to Brom.

Clemency looks at Brom, and then at Brom's hammer, before turning back to
      Nikolai. "Vodka may not be chiminage," she muses, "but it may be the next 
      best thing till that gets sorted out. Been a while since I got to swap 
      grandfather-stories with one of my own people," she sighs, "never mind 
      one so well travelled as you. And so well bred," she adds a little 
      grudgingly, but with exquisite Fangly politeness.

For a Texan, Aaron has all of his teeth and smiles at Reggie with a nod. The
      teen crosses his arms across his chestand continues to listen.

Stacey looks about after the introductions have been given, frowning and giving
      a sigh. "We need more around here who know how to check for taint," she 
      mutters.

"I am Brom Gustaffson, Rips off the Face of the Forath and shoves it back up
      its ass, Forseti for the great Grandfather wolf, Alpha for the glorious 
      war pack of Requiem, currently holding the rank of Cliath." The viking 
      rumbles in his throat in return. "Once of the White Oak Sept, the true 
      sons of Fenrir, son of Samson Gustaffson, Voice which Screams Havoc who 
      gave his life to his Sept, but took the Wyrm to hell along with him." He 
      taps the hammer lightly against his shoulder once more, a quiet rumble 
      echoing in his throat. At Clem's word of chiminage, he sniffs the air. 
      "New Fang, huh? At least this one looks like he's seen a fight or two."

"I hope you're not implying that the other members of the tribe here have not,"
      Clemency says a little acidly to Brom. "I've already had to flash my 
      battle scars once tonight, and I get so tired of having to wave naked 
      flesh at people to make a point."

"It is not of my doing but those who came before." Nikolai remarks to Clemency
      with a gesture of his hand. To Brom, he says. "Nikolai Petrov, named 
      Burned-By-the-Dragon's-Blood. Cliath warrior, son of Heart-Of-Snow, Alpha 
      of the Citadel Sept who died in the final defense of our home, great-son 
      of one of the oldest Kings of the first tribe, Labko Vadislav 
      Fury-of-the-Sun, who's descendant died in the greatest Glory with his 
      teeth buried in the throat of the Wyrm-Dragon Sharkala as it lay dying. I 
      have seen fights, son of Fenris. Many of them. I know few honorable Garou 
      who cannot boast the same."

Aaron clears his throat lightly. "I have heard that this sept has a few
      warriors that have something to boast about." he remarks in a dry tone, 
      mixed with a southern drawl.
Aaron has a fairly Caucasian appearance, with an exception of his almond-shaped
      eyes that show off an Asian decent. His raven-black hair is cut short and 
      spiked with cheap hair-gel and from his chin is a clean-shaven goatee. He 
      has a muscular, gangly form. The young man appears to be in his teens and 
      his appearance is riddled with a sense of inner-sovereignty. A spicy 
      smell of cheap aftershave rises from off of him. He is currently wearing 
      a tee-shirt that fits a little snuggly to his chest, presenting his 
      muscular chest from the taunt fabric. Also he has on a pair of grey 
      sweatpants and sandals on his feet.

"Present company excluded." Brom says as he shifts his eyes to Clemency for a
      moment, then lets his gaze focus upon the Fang before him. "Good title. I 
      heard of Labko from the Skald's stories. So, here's my question, why the 
      fuck are you out 'here'?" He narrows his eyes a bit, suspiciously. 
      "You're practically royalty."

Reggie jerks his head sharply towards Clemency, yellowed teeth bared in a tight
      grin, which he continues to bear as he listens to Nikolai's introduction.

Stacey nods her head to Nikolai. "It was an honor to meet you," she says and
      then glances up at Clemency. "There is no need for me to remain here. I 
      was on my way to see Jacinta-rhya. If I find her, or the other guardians, 
      I will tell them of Nikolai's arrival." That said, she begins walking 
      back to the forest surrounding the hill.

Stacey has light brown curls that have been pulled back into a high pony-tail
      by a purple ribbon, although a couple of the smaller strands have come 
      loose and frame her oval-shaped face. The preteen's features are soft and 
      childlike, with a small nose, slightly prominent cheekbones, and large 
      hazel eyes. A fading tan and a few freckles color her otherwise fair 
      complexion. This slender girl is wearing blue jean overalls with a 
      long-sleeved shirt that is decorated with purple flowers, along with 
      white tennis shoes. A leather thong necklace with a pendant of a dove 
      carved of smooth white shell with bits of mother-of-pearl on either side 
      is tied around her neck.

Clemency seems impressed that Brom knows of the ancient hero of the Silver
      Fangs. "See, I knew you were well bred," she says with a thin smile. 
      "Myself, I am descended from the Tchigorin family of Garbistan, including 
      Pyotr Tchigorin himself who fetched back the Bracelet of Wriothesley when 
      all thought it lost, and whose klaives, they say, are still in use at the 
      septs of Garbistan. But our ancestry is only part of our fame; what we 
      ourselves do makes up the remainder."

An irritated look flits across Grey's face and is quickly squashed.

The form of a lithe, lean white wolf emerges from the edge of the woods, green
      eyes look up to match image with the curious amalgamation of scents he's 
      been been drawn by. Lupine grin melds to human as Jervis shifts to homid, 
      mid-stride and effortless. The Fang is dressed in jeans, and a black 
      button down shirt. No secret is made of his approach, as draws nearer, 
      eyeing the stranger curiously, and amusedly. "New face," he comments, 
      and, upon closer proximity, eyeing the hair, and the eyes. Turning to 
      Clemency, and upon catching the latter half of her own words, the Elder 
      makes his verbal bid: "One of ours?"
He's one of those guys that always looks like he's thinking. Either staring at
      something, or staring at nothing at all. He's timid-looking enough; he 
      only stands five feet ten inches, and really can't weigh much more than 
      one hundred thirty, but his eyes suggest something a bit more active than 
      a lanky, underfed undergrad. They lie somewhere between an cat's eyes and 
      those of a snake; large pupils, with even larger, bright green irises. 
      There's not much white to them. He's Caucasian, that's for sure, probably 
      French and some other ragtag European nationality. Fair-skinned but 
      hardly pale, with lush, almost feminine lips and large, heavy eyebrows. 
      He's apparently been minding his appearance lately. His hair's recently 
      been cut, still parted down the middle, but short, and lightly gelled up 
      to offer up a hard, slightly spiky look. A masculine jaw-line saves his 
      face from appearing girlish, but his body is so frail-looking it can, at 
      best, come across as androgynous. When he moves, it's as if he's a puppet 
      being manipulated by master of the craft; every movement perfect, but 
      joint-motivated and mechanical. Today he's wearing a decidedly 
      inoffensive, almost gentlemanly ensemble of a black fleece turtleneck, 
      expensive looking dark blue jeans, and a well-worn, but obviously also 
      well maintained charcoal black longcoat.

Nikolai holds his hand, palm-up, as he gestures towards Brom to which his focus
      remains fixed. "You missed my tale, Forsetti of Fenris-Ulf." He speaks, 
      his brief lapse into german words flawnessly accented. "You cannot be a 
      king when your intended throne lies in ruin, nor am I so stupid and 
      arrogant as to come here claiming superiority. I fled in madness when my 
      home was being violated. I give no excuses. I am here to regain my lost 
      honor or repay it in my own blood."

As one Garou leaves the hilltop, two sets of eyes peer out through the
      surrounding cover. Only, those eyes belong to a single wolf. Pushing past 
      the surrounding trees, Spider-Eyes steps into the clearing and behind the 
      majority of the gathered Garou. Bat-like ears, extra pair of eyes like 
      they belong in a formor and misshapen jaw make her a rather hideous 
      sight. Only the newcomers is likely to spot her right away.

Spider-Eyes would be a beautiful eighty-pound wolf with a black coat and a
      white star on her chest, if it weren't for her obvious deformities.
The wolf's paws are too large, giving her an almost puppyish look, despite the
      fact that she is obviously full-grown. An impressive scar mars the wolf's 
      left shoulder. Her head is painfully unnatural, with an oversized skull 
      and four eyes instead of two. The lower pair of eyes are normal, while 
      the upper pair are enough to give one nightmares. The pupils are slitted 
      like those of a cat, while the irises are a sickly and almost fluorescent 
      yellow-green. The eyes' outer sclera are the red of freshly spilt blood.
Due to the wolf's overly large skull, Spider's ears rest on the side of her
      head. Much like her feet, the wolf's ears are overly large and almost 
      (but not quite) bat-like in nature and droop under their own weight. As 
      if that wasn't enough, the wolf's lower jaw is larger then it should be, 
      giving her a nasty underbite. 

"One of ours," Clemency confirms to her elder. "All the way from home. Nikolai,
      this is Jervis whom I mentioned."

Brom nods his head slowly as if he was weighing each word of the Silver Fang,
      lightly giving his shoulder another tap with his hammer. "So, you bitched 
      up when the Wyrm came, huh?" He lets that settle for a moment, before 
      giving him a slow nod. "That shit happens, I've seen some things that'd 
      make most Modi piss their fur yellow. Long as you're looking to redeem 
      yourself, thats good in my eyes. Don't fuck up here, or you'll be eating 
      your caviar through your throat, because there's a good chance you won't 
      have much of a jaw left." A slight smirk tugs upwards as he cracks his 
      neck in a slow twist. "We'll talk later."

Jervis chuckles, and offers a hand to shake. "Only good things, I'm sure;
      Jervis Michaels, Light-That-Is-Darkness, Cliath and Ragabash Elder of the 
      Silver Fangs of the Hidden Walk." He pauses briefly to spy Tamara out of 
      the corner of his eye, but turns gaze back to the newcomer.

Aaron turns and quietly begins heading towards the bawn without any excuse to
      leave, although he is sure that no one would really mind.

Grey's attention has been wandering from those now conversing with the
      newcomer, and he spots Tamara a few moments after her arrival. The Metis' 
      appearance gives the Glass Walker a brief shock, as evidenced by a slight 
      widening of mismatched eyes and a sudden stillness in his posture.

Nikolai looks about to offer his hand to Jervis, but then he's suddenly erupted
      into a towering figure of scarred flesh, taunt muscles, and hackled 
      silver-white fur. His ears lay flat back against his skull, muzzle 
      twisted back to show his teeth. His focus? Tamara, who to the Fang must 
      seem like she's crawled out of the nearest Pit and is just shy of glowing 
      green. His eyes have gone so wide there's barely a pupil to be seen in 
      the expanse of Rageful blue.
Lion may call himself the king of beasts, but a Silver Fang is the king of
      monsters, and this one is no exception. A tall, heavily built wolf-beast, 
      this Crinos is heavily scarred, worst of which being his right shoulder 
      which is a knot work of gnarled tissue. The fur on the werewolf is a 
      rugged silvery white, thick and densely packed, designed for cold 
      weather. His eyes are a bright, sharp blue set deep in a broad, heavy 
      face.

Clemency holds up a warning hand. "Metis," she quickly says. "But a damn fine
      fighter. Stand down, Nikolai. All is well."

Erupting into Crinos himself, Forath Ripper grips his war hammer and instantly
      puts himself between the Fang and the approaching Strider, huge paws 
      gripping the handle as he rumbles in his throat. ~Step back, big boy, or 
      so help me I'll smash your fucking head in and take a shit in the dent 
      I'll make.~ He rumbles, almost itching.

Jervis remains utterly calm, crossing arms at the abruptly interrupted
      handshake. "You'd best listen to them, friend," is all he says, voice 
      stern, but unhurried.

Spider-Eyes's ears lay back and she lifts one paw from the ground, prepared to
      leave if necessary.

Dragon's-Blood gives a reflexive twitch with the overflow of too much energy,
      chest rising and falling heavily. A breath rattles out from between the 
      Fang's jaws before he reverts back to his natural form, skin gone a shade 
      lighter. "I see enough faces like that in my dreams, worse to see them 
      when I am awake." Shaking his head, he looks to Tamara. "Forgive me, I do 
      not mean offense."

Reggie dawdles off a short distance, leaving the Fangs to their Fangly
      business, his scarred hands playing with a battered cigarette packet. He 
      stops and turns, his intention of watching rather than intervening, when 
      Brom seems about to use his hammer.

Grey utters a short oath in Serbian, grimacing. He looks away from the Metis,
      pushing his hands into his pockets; his body language's gone stiff.

~She has seen more Glory in the past few moons than some here who have been at
      this Sept for years.~ Forath Ripper rumbles dangerously to the Fang as 
      his entire posture looks tight with frustration. ~You treat her with 
      respect, period.~

Clemency huffs out a breath as she relaxes again. "Do you take us for such a
      puny sept that we'd let creatures of the Wyrm roam around on the very 
      bawn itself, Nikolai? You're as bad as me for not thinking before you 
      act."

Jervis chuckles off the tension in the air; or at least tries to; there's none
      evident in him. "Just about everyone has that reaction to her. And Bug. 
      So then:" he re-extends his hand to the new Ahroun. "...we were...about 
      here?"

Spider-Eyes yawns and then shakes out her fur, attempting to dissipate some of
      the tension that built up in her body. Sitting down, the rather ugly 
      metis watches those gathered and does not appear overly bothered or upset 
      by the recent drama.

Nikolai shakes his head slowly. "No, I do not. As you can see, I am still
      working on keeping my reflexes from acting without me. It is why I carry 
      vodka." Letting out a long breath, he regards Jervis and finally gets 
      around to shaking hands - his being a rather firm, buisness-like, and 
      practiced one. "I mourn the loss of your predecessors. If it has not yet 
      been said enough, it is why I am here."

Shifting back down to his breed form, Brom lets out a loud breath and once more
      forces himself to relax, giving his long hair a shake backwards with a 
      jerk of his head. His clothing rededicates, still torn and dirty.

Clemency folds her hands together and cracks the knuckles of her long, thin
      fingers. "Jervis," she says, "I'm way overdue back at the farm to check 
      up on Andy. That's the third and last member of our tribe here," she 
      explains parenthetically to Nikolai, "and for reasons I'll maybe tell you 
      over vodka later, he's presently... well, blind. Until we can fix that, 
      I'm trying to take care of him."

"Planning on settling down and staying a while, then, I take it? Good. If
      there's one thing this Sept needs, it _is_ more Fangs." Jervis cocks his 
      head slightly, grinning, "Though, from your manner, I'll wager you'll 
      find this Sept quite a bit different than your own." Grin fades, but not 
      completely. "As well as the leadership." He turns to Clemency, and nods. 
      "I heard the Revel was...unkind to him. Is it permanent, as I've heard?"

Other then the newcomer, there is only one here that Spider-Eyes does not
      recognize and the Strider regains her feet with a soft huff. She pads a 
      little closer to the Glass Walker, nose twitching as she takes in his 
      scent.

"Not if I can do anything about it," Clemency retorts stout-heartedly. "The
      Gatekeeper is seeking to commune with our sept's Totem, and Touch Deer 
      has suggested that there are places in the deep Umbra where healing for 
      him may be found. I'll be burned alive as a blood traitor before I let 
      Andy's sight go without a fight. But I must go or he will be worrying." 
      Raising one hand to Nikolai, she says "Vodka, later, tovarishch?" with a 
      raised eyebrow, but without stopping for a reply she fades down into 
      lupus and races off as fast as her white-furred legs will carry her.

"I plan on staying if permitted to. Different or no." Nikolai remarks to Jervis
      before listening for a minute as his fellow Silver Fangs speak. Then, to 
      the tribal Elder he asks. "Is there a place for me to stay for the time 
      being, or would it be better I remain here until I have been checked? I 
      will sleep another night in the forest if I must."

You paged Spider-Eyes with 'He's an urrah and smokes too much (though isn't at
      the moment, of course). Though he's been hiking/wandering through the 
      forest/bawn for at least a couple of hours.'.
From afar, Spider-Eyes nods. :>
You paged Spider-Eyes with 'Oh, and there's the glyphs scarred into his arms,
      of course. One of those being 'charach'. And the massive PB, blah blah. 
      :>'.

Grey glances down at Spider-Eyes, his expression neutral. "Evening."

After the excitement subsides, Reggie casts a disillusioned eye over
      Spider-Eyes, without any offer of welcome, nor one of active rejection, 
      then turns away, going off into the forest.

Jervis nods. "You seem alright. Our tribe has fallen on some financial
      misfortune recently; it's not the Hilton, but you go a few miles East of 
      here, you'll find a large Farmstead that we've been turning into our 
      home. Just knock; we have more than enough room. And watch your step; 
      we've not been able to get everything fixed up yet. But we have managed 
      just recently to get the hot water working."

Spider-Eyes's tail gives a brief wag in a pleasant enough greeting, if somewhat
      neutral. Shifting into her homid form, Tamara offers Grey her hand. 
      "Hello. I am Tamara Spider-Eyes, or Firefly. Cliath Ahourn of the Silent 
      Striders. I have not seen, or scented you before..."

Tamara is a tall woman and just under six feet in height, with a heavyset body.
      She is wearing a pair of well-worn blue jeans, with frayed hems and torn 
      knees. Her upper body is covered in a red t-shirt, while her lower in a 
      pair of ratty blue jeans. Overly large hands are decorated with several 
      cheap bits of gaudy jewelry: plastic, tin, and pewter.
A wide brimmed white Stetson hat tops a head that seems to be somewhat
      malformed. The woman's face is longer then usual and her skull seem to be 
      too big. Her lower jaw is huge and gives Tamara a painfully noticeable 
      underbite. Small beady brown eyes are set too far apart and her nose is 
      set too high on her face. Giving her appearance of someone with a 'mental 
      disability'.

At this, the newcomer actually smiles. Not much, but some. "I can offer you aid
      there. My mother, she is kinfolk and holds the blood of the old Tsars. 
      Her family is no longer royal, but it is only a title. If it is money you 
      need, then I can get it."

Brom continues to listen with uninterested eyes now that the
      excitement has died down. Shifting his eyes to Grey for a moment, he lets 
      out a quiet snort before starting off through the woods without another 
      word.

Grey accepts the handshake firmly and without hesitation. "Thomas Grey,
      Philodox of the Glass Walkers. And I usually don't have the time to come 
      out this far." His manner is brisk, not overly friendly but in no way 
      hostile. Brom's snort provokes a tightening of the urrah's jaw, but he 
      doesn't look the Get's way.

Jervis smiles genuinely. "Well then--old blood--it would be most appreciated,
      if you'd so quickly entrust your funds to us. My lineage, though among 
      the purest of us, is mostly lost. Call me a dark horse prince. Well 
      then...I'll be seeing you around, Nikolai; we can talk chiminage 
      tomorrow."

Tamara grins, showing off overly blocky teeth, as she takes her hand back.
      Still, there is something in her face betrays a certain amount of 
      surprise. "I would not have taken you for one of the Glass Walkers."

Nikolai dips his head to Jervis before moving to collect his bag. With a
      parting greeting spoken in russian, the Silver Fang sets off in the 
      indicated direction for the home of the locals.

Grey's shoulders lift and fall. "It's a long story," he answers in that tone of
      voice that people use when they don't want to go into detail.

Jervis himself makes a nod to the rest of of the Garou gathered. "Nice seeing
      you again, Grey," he says, before walking off in the opposite direction.

"My apologies," Tamara mumbles quickly. "I meant no offence." There is a brief
      pause, as the Strider regains her composure. "Now, I know this may sound 
      odd, but do you use guns much? I am currently teaching a cub that is 
      rather obsessed with them. I need to find someone who has experience with 
      such things, so as to explain their limits to him."

"No offence taken," Grey says smoothly, pushing his hands into his pockets. His
      mouth thins at the question. "I know a bit, but I'm no expert."

Tamara ahhs softly. "Well, if you are interested, I would be glad for any help
      that I can get. The boy is a Ahourn, but talks as much as a Galliard and 
      twists his words like a Ragabash. He has spoken more then once about the 
      need to be 'armed', as if his own claws and teeth were not suitable. 
      Actually, from what he has said, I do believe that he thinks they would 
      be next to useless in the city."

Grey grunts. "Since one can't go Crinos with abandon in the city and claw and
      bite injuries tend to look suspicious... Frankly, he's not half wrong. At 
      least on /this/ side of the Gauntlet."

"Against humans, yes, but he continually speaks of using them against the
      servants of the Wyrm." The rather ugly Strider lifts and lowers her 
      shoulders in a shrug. "As I said, only if you are interested. I am often 
      in the farmhouse."

Grey nods. "You have a point. I'll see what I can do. For now, though, I must
      be heading back."

"Then, may Luna light you path," Tamara murmurs and then with a half-bow and
      prepares to leave as well.

"Likewise," says the Glass Walker, and starts heading westward, toward the city.