Lane(#300RJ)
Stretching a good quarter mile from the road, this gravel lane leads back to
      the Escrowe farm. Trees line the lane, leaves filling out on the limbs to 
      fill the sky with fresh green clouds. In the distance, the farmhouse 
      looms above the treetops, gleaming white as the snow from its yearly coat 
      of paint. Silence prevails here, save for the rustling of the tall 
      grasses in the fields when the wind blows.
The front entrance to the farmhouse is on the porch alongside the gravelled
      road which continues on around the eastern side of the house back to the 
      barnyard. The opposite end of the lane turns back west to empty out onto 
      Sunrise Road.

You paged Auggie, Cutter, and Lucas with 'An unfamiliar car -- a bright green
      new VW bug -- pulls slowly up the lane and stops, keeping the headlights 
      on. A few seconds pass, and then the driver honks twice, deliberately.'.
You paged Auggie, Cutter, and Lucas with 'If there's no response for a while,
      the driver of the New Bug will honk again.'.
From afar, Auggie has just moved to stand on the top step of the porch, glaring
      at the Bug, with his arms crossed defensively.
Cutter pages: There's movement. A guy came out and is headed down the stairs.
      Maybe Cutter's dad. Looks kind of like him, but walks with a cane.
Long distance to Auggie, Cutter, and Lucas: Crocuta remains in the Bug,
      invisible in the darkness behind the headlights.
Cutter walks out into the lane from the front porch.
Cutter has arrived.
Cutter pages: As he steps out from under the shadow of the porch, it becomes
      more obvious that it is Cutter. He just moves like he's older. He's 
      headed for the car.
Crocuta rolls down the driver's side window. "Fuck, man, you guys live out
      _way_ the fuck of nowhere." The NYC accent is pronounced, the girl's 
      voice agitated.
Tall, lean and wiry with long legs and an angular face. The current look evokes
      young Sinatra--the blue eyes topped with short well-kept red hair and a 
      felt fedora with a black feather tucked into the band. He wears a 
      retro-cut black suit and sunglasses with black leather loafers. The spot 
      of color is his royal purple tie.
Carrying:
Butterfly pendant
Crocuta(#3533Pce)
A lean, slim specimen of _Homo gothius punkius_, Crocuta is a little under five
      and a half feet tall and looks to be around college-age. Her smooth, 
      youthful face is attractive in its way; her nose is a little large, but 
      it fits in with the rest of her features, and her dark blue eyes -- 
      touched with green in certain lights -- are especially distinctive. A 
      lack of piercings and tattoos gives the broodling goth-punk the naive 
      aura of a warrior that hasn't yet been blooded.
Her light brown hair has been shaved off along the sides, leaving an inch-wide
      strip down the middle. This has been dyed a toxic shade of green and 
      spiked up into a short but perfectly servicable mohawk.
She's currently dressed in a somber black suit with a dark grey shirt and a
      modest black necktie. Perfect funeral clothes, even if they are for the 
      opposite gender. Her dress shoes have been recently polished. 
Crocuta looks at you.
Cutter smiles as he moves carefully toward the car. "You seem surprised, that
      we would live in the forest like a pack of wild animals. Come on, we've 
      got a walk ahead of us."
Crocuta wrinkles her nose. "Ah, fuck. Thought you might say that." She pulls
      the car to the side of the lane, then cuts the engine and the lights and 
      gets out. "Fuck, shoulda worn my boots."
Cutter slides a black sport bag off his shoulder. "If you'd oblige me by
      carrying this, it would do me a world of good." It's not clear whether 
      this is an actual request or an order, but he does still seem to be 
      smiling.
Is it wise to resist the suggestion/commands of a werewolf? Probably not.
      Crocuta takes the bag and slings it across her body with a, "Okay. Um, 
      anything I should know? Like, what not ta do an' shit?"
Cutter shakes his head. "It's a lot like a funeral. Just be respectful and
      rather quiet, and it should be no problem." He starts to move toward the 
      side of the house. "If I'd been smart I would not have placed it so close 
      to the full moon. But I'm not. I'll go as fast as I can, please keep up. 
      So little to do, so much time."
As the bag bumps up against her, she can feel a definite chill from it.
"'Kay," says the punk-haired kingirl. She sticks close to the Shadow Lord, not
      trusting the night-time wilderness. It is, after all, full of monsters.

Burial Mounds(#3207RJ$)
This wide clearing in the midst of short, dark pines is rough with wild grass
      and bare stone. The air is a bit cooler up here in the foothills than 
      below, and the majestic peaks of the nearby mountains rear up over the 
      eastern treetops. There is a vine-covered boulder standing under the edge 
      of the somber evergreens to the east. The air here is prenaturally still 
      and the grass waves not at all for there is no breeze that blows through 
      the pines. It is silent, no call of bird thrown from the treetops to 
      dance gaily in the open spaces. Occasionally chill fingers run up your 
      spine.
A faint path leading downhill to the west is the only exit from the clearing.
Contents:
Cutter
Olga(#4061PJceq)
Sidhefuil
Obvious exits:
Forest  
From a distance, the Shadow Lord entourage can be heard approaching. Crocuta,
      in two-leg mode, follows Cutter in three-leg mode who moves deliberately 
      and carefully on his cane.
Crocuta's got a black sports bag, the strap slung across her black-suited body.
      The punkling's eyes keep shifting around, and she keeps close to Cutter. 
      Her lips are thinned.
Despite the leaner, swifter form of Sidhefuil in lupus, it's Olga that emerges
      from the forest first, silent and morose, trudging along in glabro. Her 
      bright orange garbage bag is slung over a shoulder. The Fianna isn't long 
      after, mood much the same, head and tail slung low, ears turned 
      listlessly out to either side. The packmates drift across the clearing, 
      and wait for Cutter to begin the ceremony.
Cutter sees the other two Garou arriving as he does, and dips his head. "Glad
      I'm not late," he says to nobody in particular, "It's a bit harder to get 
      around these days and I'm not used to it." He stumps toward the middle of 
      the clearing, spares a smile for one of the trees, and then thumps his 
      cane on the ground. "Just set that down here, if you would. Thank you 
      very much."
Crocuta nods silently and unslings the bag, dumping it on the ground where
      indicated. Then she shoves her hands into her trouser pockets and looks 
      around warily.
	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.
Olga is strong, lithe, and very tall, a little under six feet, eight inches.
      Her large, fleshy nose dominates her face, making her eyes look small and 
      deep-set, and her chin round and unnoticable, with the total result being 
      that she looks very inquisitive and rather stupid. A thin fuzz of white 
      hair covers her neck and lower face, and the hair on her head is wild and 
      thick. She is (usually) wearing a baggy plaid flannel shirt, opened to 
      expose a shirt underneath much too tight for her, showing off her buff 
      but very hairy stomach. Worn olive khakis complete her outfit. She has a 
      bit of a slouch, and looks big, reedy, and dumb, a little like a troll.

Long distance to the room: Crocuta twitches quietly at all of you.
Cutter pages: Bah. Cutter's a mild mannered rage 2 sociopathic killer.
You paged Cutter with 'Well, okay, she more or less trusts _you_. But a wolf
      and a glabro-thug in the middle of scary woods? Eek.'.

Olga greets Cutter with a quiet, strained, "Cutter-rhya," her words a hollow
      ritual, thoughtless. She glances up at Crocuta but her empty, sagging 
      eyes don't seem to be able to form any opinion and she drops them for a 
      moment, taking a step away from Layne and putting her bag down on the 
      ground. There's not a grunt, not a sound, except for plastic crushing 
      grass.
Sidhefuil shifts to homid and regards the sports-bag with a heavy sigh. Arms
      cross. The somber look is much more pronounced on her human 
      features...there's no mistaking a deep sadness, there. Cutter gets a nod, 
      the young woman a vague head-tilt and a semi-curious eying, before eyes 
      swing toward Olga, then down at her boots.
Layne pages to the room: Well, Layne's own boots.

	There's still a darkly brooding look to those shadowed, pale eyes, but it
      isn't without the occasional flash of pearly whites in a grin that any 
      pixie would envy. Those who know her true nature (woof, aroo) might find 
      Layne's remarkably catlike and mercurial moods amusing. In passing, she 
      exudes something like indifference. She seems wary, untrusting, as if 
      beneath the usual devil-may-care attitude, a part of her has hardened on 
      the inside, hidden away. She seems to look her age, at twenty-two.
	No mistaking her Northern European descent: pronounced, elegant features, long
      limbs--at a glance, there's something of an elven quality to her 
      appearance. Since stripped of the unnatural dyes, long hair flows freely 
      around her shoulders, its coloring an ashy blonde, growing darker 
      underneath. When arms are exposed, one might notice a broad, spiderweb 
      scar, which stands out against her left bicep, whitish-pink in contrast 
      to the light tan.
	She's wearing a black sleeveless tee, the bottom of which falls just short of
      a wide, leather belt sitting low on her hips, revealing a belly-ring and, 
      behind, part of a tattoo: a Celtic knot in a circlet of ivy. The jeans 
      she wears, fit snugly over toned legs, are old and fraying around the 
      hems but prove reliable. She seems to favor a pair of thick-soled, black 
      leather biker boots, and the matching jacket when weather warrants such. 
      As far as jewelry goes, Layne is fond of her piercings: studs alternate 
      with hoops along either ear, another ring in her right eyebrow. Around 
      both wrists are black, spiked leather cuffs.
Crocuta, for her part, avoids looking at either Layne or Olga except in a
      furtive, sidelong sort of way.
Cutter drops his cane as he kneels, unzipping the bag and drawing out a large
      block of ice, dripping prodigiously onto the grass as he sets it on the 
      ground, glistening in the fading sunlight. Then he draws out a silvered 
      knife and, delicately, a dandelion flower in full puff-ball mode. Deftly, 
      he nicks the meaty part of the heel of his hand, pressing the cut against 
      the ice block and tinging it with pink, somehow without dropping 
      anything. Holding up the knife, he says "Thank you all for coming. I 
      would like it if you would each contribute a bit of yourselves as we 
      start."
Crocuta mutters, "Kinky," under her breath, then shrugs loosely and puts on a
      brave, tough, oi! punk face as she offers her hand for the knife.
Olga watches the ceremony of unpacking, mute and still, dull and distant, the
      way cows watch things. When Cutter speaks there's a tremor along her 
      back, like she's been mildly startled, and then she steps haltingly 
      forwards. "Y'mean blood?" the Theurge asks without uncertainty, drawing 
      her sweater sleeve up around her elbow. She holds her own thick-skinned 
      Glabro hand out to Cutter, and only as an afterthought does she shrivel 
      up prune-like, into her human skin. The twitch along her shoulders 
      returns at Crocuta's but nothing develops from it. When the cut is made a 
      heavy wince settles onto her face. She emits a small soft sound to no 
      apparent purpose, just under her breath.
Sorrow becomes anger, then bitterness, flashing across the halfmoon's face,
      before subsiding. Layne's features go slack, expression fading 
      altogether, eyes trailing off into the woods as she moves toward the 
      knife. She seems numb to its edge, but bleeds just the same.
Cutter quickly and efficiently tags each of the attendants, and indicates the
      cool numbing of the ice block. "I did not have much time to get 
      acquainted with Jean Michalek, called Shadow by her lupine brethren. It's 
      unfortunate, because I sense there was a great deal of her I was never 
      priveleged to know."
Olga bends over onto one knee and puts the palm of her hand on the ice block,
      turning the freezing water gathering on its surface pink. She doesn't 
      look up at Cutter as he speaks, though there's something intent and 
      attentive as she presses her hand against the cold. She leaves it there a 
      while, and then stands back up, glumly.
Cutter indicates the ice block. "This ice is in transition," he announces
      simply. "It is becoming water. The humans have myths, innumerable shades 
      of belief about what happens when you die. We are lucky to have pretty 
      concrete evidence." He gives a wry grin to an empty space in front of 
      him. "Jean's spirit has been very patiently waiting for me to get around 
      to this since the Great Hunt. Once we have performed this Gathering, she 
      will depart for the tribal home land, where she can be reborn into 
      another Garou warrior and continue the fight. She is in transition."
Layne bends to press her hand to the block of ice. It remains there a while as
      she hears what Cutter has to say. She watches him blankly.
Crocuta waits until Layne stands up before stepping forward and pressing her
      bleeding hand to the block of ice. Her jaw tightens as she presses her 
      hand to the ice, and when it's done, she straightens up quickly and steps 
      back.
Olga waits briefly, watching Cutter's feet as he speaks, blood running down
      from her palm to her fingertips as her hand hangs at her side, and then 
      once more she's up to her comfortable, gargoylish Glabro. The cut on her 
      hand remains a few moments, solemnly bleeding, waiting as if out of 
      respect for the dead, and then starts to knit itself up.
Cutter says "Jean has moved on, and we will likely not meet her again. But she
      has not quit--she is not gone forever." He holds up the dandelion puff, 
      turning it in his fingers, showing its full roundness before he puffs 
      sharply at it. The seeds disperse in a flurry of activity, drifting 
      downward. He twirls the stem in his fingers again, displaying the bare 
      and bereft leftover. "We are left with the simple remains, but she goes 
      on. She has a lot of work ahead of her still.""
Cutter says "Jean died on the Great Hunt, heroically, sacrificing herself so
      that the rest of the expedition would have the chance to return and fight 
      again. More specifically and more painfully, she died saving me." Again, 
      he shows that tight smile with no actual pleasant emotion tied to it. "I 
      have to say I'm a little annoyed to have that kind of pressure put on me, 
      to make her sacrifice worthwhile. But she was thoughtful, and cunning, 
      and I expect that as long as I do then she'll forgive me a little 
      annoyance.""
Cutter reaches into the bag again, and sets a small coaster with three cones of
      incense on the ice. With his lighter he lights all three, and then blows 
      them out so the pungent smoke curls into the air. "Please, at this time, 
      let your thoughts and your memories rise up like the trails of the smoke. 
      She'll be pleased to hear from you."
Crocuta bites her lower lip, remaining silent. She flexes her cut hand
      absently, holding it palm-up.
Olga's breathing gets tighter and more ragged as the bits of dandelion fluff
      float past her, and she watches them closely in the growing darkness, but 
      as Cutter continues on she calms. She looks up at him as the silence sets 
      in, glances once at the woman unknown to her, and then turns to look at 
      her Alpha, her head held at an awkward downward angle.
Layne straightens slowly with a long breath, then allows her eyes to slip
      closed as she begins to speak. "What little I at first knew of Jean, of 
      Shadow...drew me to her quickly. She was short-lived as a Daughter of 
      Chimera, but burned brightly. Gave herself to the Hunt with Wisdom in her 
      heart and fire in her veins..." She pauses, here, as if contemplating the 
      battle, or Cutter's words, then concludes, "Though she no longer runs 
      with Griphus in this realm, I believe we will continue to meet her in 
      Dream." The Fianna's shoulders roll back, chin dropping as she grows 
      silent. Finally, her eyes open, looking off to see the last of the 
      dandelion seeds drift away.
Olga looks to Layne as she speaks, her head occasionall bobbing a half-inch up
      and down. When her Alpha finishes, she looks at the two Shadow Lords 
      awkwardly, unsure whether or how to begin. One foot moves forward a few 
      inches, and her mouth hangs open for a long moment with no words coming. 
      "I, uh," the woman begins, finally, "I didn' know Jean as well as I'd've 
      liked to. She kept to herself; and, uh, now I guess I'm never gonna get 
      the chance. We, um, still, though: she was a packmate, and a friend. I's 
      the one who first put her in contact with Griphus. She used to come 
      around the Zoo Monday nights, when we still had it and all, and we'd jus' 
      sort of chat. She'd help me look after the kid. She'd wrinkle up her nose 
      but not say anything, 'cause that's how she was. She was polite, she had 
      a bit of a wall up, eh? But it was crumbling. We were getting - Jesus I'm 
      gonna miss her. She had the nicest smile, it was like she was sayin', `I 
      know I'm a bit distant sometimes, but I like you, I really do. Don't 
      worry about it. I like you. We're gonna be friends.` And God damn it," 
      Olga says bitterly, angrily, her eyes moistening up even as her 
      sausage-fingers close into a fist, like she's grasping at something that 
      isn't there, "God damn it, we _were_. The last time I saw her, before 
      that night she died I mean, it was, uh, well, you were there, 
      Cutter-rhya," the Gnawer explains with only the briefest flick of her 
      eyes over towards the Fostern, "it was after that. We had a fight, but 
      y'know what, i's okay, I don't mind ending on that. Because it was a good 
      fight, because however angry we were at each other we still loved each 
      other, and y'could feel it. We didn't hurt each other. And I, uh," Olga 
      continues, her head moving slowly back and forth as she seems to be 
      casting about for more to say, but there's too much there to choose from. 
      She rubs at one eye with the greasy palm of her left hand, roughly, like 
      she's trying to crush a bug. "She was my packmate," Olga says, finally 
      gathering herself together, "she was more than worthy and I'm gonna miss 
      her and remember her. We were - we were gonna be such good friends," the 
      woman concludes, pained and awkward. She's suddenly aware of herself, wet 
      eyes moving around to the others, and then she steps back, by Sidhefuil 
      again, and her neck slumps and dangles her heavy head, bending like an 
      overladen tree branch.
Cutter pushes carefully to his feet, getting his cane under him, wincing once.
      For a long moment, he silently ponders the incense. "Cone to ash. 
      Transition. Pine. Evergreen. Ever the same in its nature," he finally 
      says. Then he looks up. "As the incense burns down, so the Gathering is 
      complete. Please feel free to stay as long as you please, or leave when 
      you need. I'm going to stay here and clean up afterwards."
Crocuta nods slowly. Obviously, the mohawked girl is planning to stick around.
      She watches the incense moodily.
Layne murmurs, "Thank you, Cutter-rhya," before dropping down to all fours. The
      wolf hunches down near Olga's feet.
Olga listens blankly to Cutter, and stands there a moment in her hulking Glabro
      skin, unsure of herself and whether or not she should stay. The presence 
      of her Alpha seems to decide it for her and she ducks herself down into a 
      clumsy kneeling crouch, resting a hand on red scruff of Sidhefuil's neck. 
      "Yeah," she echoes the Fianna, voice gruff, "thanks."
The smoke drifts up, fanning out into the air; the light fades as the sun falls
      behind the mountains. When the last of the three cones surrenders its 
      last puff, Cutter drops slowly to the ground and moves the coaster back 
      into his bag. "Kalah," he says firmly as he zips up the bag, "It is 
      finished."
"Amen," Crocuta murmurs, mostly underbreath. She opens and closes her bleeding
      hand and, glancing up and at the nearby trees, licks her lips.
Olga and Sidhefuil watch the smoke drift up into now-dark sky, and when the
      last smoke has dissipated and the end of the Rite proclaimed, they 
      continue to watch. For a few ponderous moments the two say silent 
      goodbyes to their packmate, and then, without a sign beyond a twitch of 
      her shoulder muscles, Sidhefuil gets up, and Olga follows. The Philodox 
      ducks her head respectfully in Cutter's direction, passes Crocuta one 
      last glance bordering on suspicion, but lacking any edge, and then slowly 
      makes her way out to the woods. The Gnawer dutifully follows, her own 
      goodbyes clumsier, and more forced.

Cutter pages: Cutter takes her back to the car. He's got a flashlight in his
      bag.
Cutter pages: But first he spends a minute talking casually to the air.
Long distance to Cutter: Crocuta . o O ( God damn weirdo werewolves. )
Cutter pages: She can't hear the conversation but she gets the impression he's
      talking to dead people.
You paged Cutter with 'She remains uncomfortably silent.'.
Cutter pages: And then he never mentions it again. (: Sees her back to her car
      and thanks her for coming, since nobody else in the tribe seemed to be 
      able to spare the time.
You paged Cutter with '...Yeah, don't think she didn't notice that. :>'.
Cutter pages: He seems a little bitter about that.