Gaia puts things in their place for a reason and humans move them around and then wonder why the world goes so awry.

Train Tracks
Little more than a break in the lush thickness of the surrounding forest, a set of railway lines make their hesitant way east and west. Woodland dirt and underbrush gives reluctantly over onto gravel, and then to the rusted iron bars themselves; the wood lengths that bridge the span between them at intervals are gnarled and cracked with age, some looking uncomfortably rotten. Long, spiky weeds shoot up defiantly between and amongst the wood and metal, proclaiming clearly that this particular length of track has suffered some disuse in recent times. The sounds here are as soft and natural as anywhere else, and insects make their unhurried ways from flower to stalk unconcerned by the ancient construction.
The beginnings of various small paths twist off through the forest to the north and to the south.

The sun has well begun to warm this early autumn day, and along the train rails, the wildflowers and Douglas Firs are tousled by the breeze. The goldenrod are almost spent, their saffron-yellow flowers wilting and turning brown, but the fireweed is just beginning to put on its fall show of blood-red leaves. Some milkweed plants, their waxy green leaves laced with orange and brown, begin to shake more frenetically, offering some wispy, silken seeds up to the wind. The source of their disturbance is a small white wolf, who climbs out of the underbrush to trot along the train tracks in a westerly direction. There is a pluck in the pace of the cub, and her tongue hangs out of her mouth in a carefree way.

And here comes a second white wolf, larger and male, but equally comfortable in his surroundings, if no better camouflaged. An observer -- though there are none -- might hypothesize that the two are related, some genetic throwback giving them a pelt more suited to arctic conditions than the temperate Washington fall. On catching sight and scent of the first wolf, the second one lets out a wuf to call her attention, and breaks into a canter along the disused railroad.

Called from her lupine reverie by the greeting, Walks-Ahead's ears perk up, and she hops over one of the iron rails to move more quickly on the less uneven ground between them. Without glancing up from the decrepit wooden ties that sometimes trouble her path, she bays out a greeting. Lightning-rhya! Hello!

Lightning comes jinking down the tracks happily. Greetings, young cub who learns so fast, he bids her as he catches up. You smell healthy. I do not know if Dances-Memory smells healthy, though, because I have not found him, no.

Erika finishes the last few steps towards the elder Galliard, her tail wagging energetically but reservedly low in height. She walks up to smell the other wolf, tongue licking at the air in front of his breath. No Dances-Memory. One has not seen him. Where does he go?

When we are wolves, Lightning points out, our wolf nature rises in us and we wish to run free. We are not easy to find. And I have never scented him so it is not easy, no, to tell him apart from wild wolves, all the more so when we are near the place where wolves run wild yet under guard. I shall find him. And others. What of you? What have you learnt today?

Erika chuffs at the sky. Today one was taught by the red squirrels, Lightning-rhya. They arise at first light, well before dawn, and start their little circuit of their territory of trees. The pine cones are starting to dry from their greenness, and the red squirrels cherish them and hoard them jealously. One little red squirrel stood in a pine in the north valley, chattering and chastising everyone for not recognizing the greatness of his little empire of trees. Along came a challenger, a smaller squirrel already turning grey for winter, but one with more spirit. The two squirrels had quite a chase through the branches, up one and down another, but they were silly and chased each other down, onto the ground and across the fallen pine needles. Snap! Here the cub leaps halfway forwards, bringing her jaws together with a hollow clapping sound. Yes, today red squirrel fed me, and reminded one of the importance of humility.

Lightning expresses amusement. Squirrels are small, but when one hunts alone one small prey is best. One wolf cannot take down a deer where a pack can. In my land, once the squirrels were red. But then grey ones came, brought by humans, and the grey ones killed the red ones and now few remain. Gaia puts things in their place for a reason and humans move them around and then wonder why the world goes so awry.

Walks-Ahead huffs in agreement. Here the red squirrels chased away the grey ones. They are faster and more careless in how they pick their fights. What does Lightning-rhya do when he is not searching for lost pups out in the woods?

Lightning tells Walks-Ahead that he drives around in his car, which he likes very much, and he looks around to see if there are any suitable den-places for him to make his own for chiminage, and he goes back to the city, for now, to eat and sleep. There are garou in the scab, I know, he continues, but I only know one and he is dour and distrustful. I do not want to push myself into his company until I am better known and trusted here.

Walks-Ahead curls her tail about her hindlegs and sits down on her haunches. Blackriver says that one is soon to go to live in the human den with the other cubs. She says one must learn the ways of the other tribes and know how to lead them.

Lightning chuffs assent to this plan. To lead, one must know one's followers. A good alpha knows every wolf behind him, their strengths, their weaknesses, their scents, yes. Some of the others are not too unlike us but some are very different. What tribes have you met, youngster?

Walks-Ahead rubs at her eyes with a forepaw. Howls-For-Glory is a Fianna. He told much about his tribe. And, Bloods-Bane is a Get-Off Fenris. One also met a Black Fury from Blackriver's pack. The cub licks her muzzle and blinks thoughtfully. That is all.

Lightning corrects Walks-Ahead's posture slightly by example. Get of Fenris. See? Like this. (His hackles rise and he gives a snarl with one paw slightly off the ground.) They come from Europe like the Fianna. And like me. I think the Black Furies do as well, or at least some. I do not know them well though I met one at the cub den. She is with pup. But pretty even so.

Walks-Ahead painstakingly imitates every inflection of her elder's posture. Get of Fenris. An odd name! Who is the Fury who is with child? How did she find a father?

Lightning gives a nudge of approval to the cub. She is called Child-Holder. I do not know what she was called before the pup grew within her, or who its sire is. The Get claim descent from great Fenris, the strongest and fiercest of all wolves, one of Gaia's spirits. I have never seen Fenris but I have met plenty of his children and they are fierce too. Be careful what you say to them. They have short tempers and sharp teeth. But they are good to fight alongside, they never give up, no.

Bloods-Bane seems easy enough to get along with, Walks-Ahead decides. But yes, one must stay on his good side. The cub whines a bit, her ears folding back in worry. Bloods-Bane has challenged Blackriver. One thinks it is for leadership of Wildfire pack. One fears it plays on her mind.

Wild wolves challenge, Lightning reminds her. Wild wolves know that to lose to a stronger wolf is not shameful. The strongest should lead. If Bloods-Bane is truly stronger than Blackriver he should lead. But most garou who talk of challenging the Silver Fangs, he adds with a note of pride, find their courage lacking when the time comes.

Yes! Yes! The cub barks. Blackriver is a strong wolf. Even if Bloods-Bane wins, she will just challenge him again. She is a strong wolf! The cub pauses a bit. Blackriver has not told many people of the challenge. She did not tell me not to talk about the matter, but perhaps it is something I should not have shared.

Lightning pushes his black, moist nose into Walks-Ahead's neck. I am a song-moon, he reiterates. A good song-moon knows what news to spread around, and what news to keep to himself. I shall keep this news to myself until I know it is right to tell others.

Walks-Ahead snorts and shakes her head, holding it low. Perhaps Lightning-rhya will teach one such tact.

Lightning promises that he will try. And that it will also come along with other knowledge. When you know garou better, how they think, how they react, then you will be able to tell what effect news will have on them. Did Blackriver say how many turns of the sun it will be before the challenge? Or before you move to the human den? She is born of wolf and does not see time as you or I probably see it.

Walks-Ahead takes a deep breath and flicks her ears in a negative reply. She told me nothing of the time. Blackriver always only says that I will go once I am ready. The cub paces back and forth nervously, batting at some dandelion puffballs that peek out of the green and greyed tufts of grass. Turning to address her elder, the cub implores him, Teach me something, Lightning-rhya! Please? What would you do if you were in one's place? My belly is full, and Blackriver is so jealous of her woods, one cannot cut any firewood or put any food by for the winter. Give me something to do, Please? Teach me something?

I shall teach you something, the fostern replies indulgently. Would you learn something in lupus, in homid, or in crinos?

Which do you like, Lightning-rhya? One spends all day in lupus, and is still so clumsy in crinos. Is there something in homid that you would like to teach?

We call crinos the war-form, Lightning points out, but we do other things than fight in it. In our ceremonies, we use it, and we use the Mother's Tongue. Have you been taught that yet? If not I shall teach you some of the simplest parts of it.

Walks-Ahead glances around, up and down the track, and then shifts up into crinos form; when she changes, it is very quick. In the war form, Walks-Ahead is still tall, over seven feet, but short by the standards of the Garou; her limbs are still long, and her build is willowy rather than powerful. Her command of Mother's Tongue is halting, but those words she does know seem rigidly correct in form. ~Blackriver teach Walks-Ahead Mother's Tongue. Teach complete Litany.~ The cub takes a few unsure steps, and leans forwards on her arms for balance as she rests.

Lightning joins her in crinos form, in which he's a good head and a half higher. ~Very good. Can you introduce yourself? Give me your name, tribe, breed and auspice.~

The cub bows back again at the Fostern's sudden height. ~One is called Always-Walks-Ahead, cub of the Silver Fang tribe, born under the Galliard moon.~

~Very good,~ Lightning compliments her. ~You should have added you were of homid birth, for completeness, but very good. Now, I will teach you the other tribes and auspices. One day, probably not far off, you will be meeting these, and you should know them.~ He runs her through the other auspices, then the twelve other tribes, until he's satisfied that she is fluent in that at least.

Walks-Ahead imitates the well-travelled Galliard as best she can; often, she gets things wrong at first, and some signs require a half-dozen repetitions before the cub gets things right. The younger Galliard is astute, at least, in realizing when her forms need improvement, and though she does not get through a particularly large new vocabulary that day, those few words of wisdom she does glean from the elder Galliard as the day grows long are thoroughly and fastidiously correct.

Lightning finally allows the lesson to come to an end. ~The Tongue is not like wolf-talk which comes naturally and it is not easy to learn, but it will come. I must leave, now, to see about the new cub-den. You have been a good student. Is there anything you desire which I could bring you next time I come?~

~Thank you for lessons, Lightning-rhya. Kind.~ The cub paws at the ground, her ears flitting back in embarrassment. ~A month in the woods without good supplies has matted ones hair until one looks as feral as Blackriver. Simple things like a brush or small mirror would make one look less shameful when one must go to meet others at the cub house...and would bring much appreciation.~ The cub looks up with a grimace of self-reproach looking nigh-comical on her monstrous crinos features.

~I shall bring them then,~ Lightning declares. ~To be well groomed makes one feel good, and when one feels good one fights and functions well.~ Cedric drops back to his homid form, looking at which the cub may well believe that he knows the value of self-grooming. "I'll be back," he vows with a toothsome smile, and starts to stride back along the tracks towards civilisation.

"That's why galliards need to tell stories carefully. The more we change, the more we get away from the truth."

Train Tracks
Little more than a break in the lush thickness of the surrounding forest, a set of railway lines make their hesitant way east and west. Woodland dirt and underbrush gives reluctantly over onto gravel, and then to the rusted iron bars themselves; the wood lengths that bridge the span between them at intervals are gnarled and cracked with age, some looking uncomfortably rotten. Long, spiky weeds shoot up defiantly between and amongst the wood and metal, proclaiming clearly that this particular length of track has suffered some disuse in recent times. The sounds here are as soft and natural as anywhere else, and insects make their unhurried ways from flower to stalk unconcerned by the ancient construction.
The beginnings of various small paths twist off through the forest to the north and to the south.

Along the rotting railroad sleepers and mossy ballast, picking his way between the rusting rails, comes walking a tall, handsome man, dark gold hair tied back in a ponytail, clad in a neat well-cut suit and tie. His only concession to these rural surroundings as far as clothing goes is a pair of running shoes in lieu of more formal footwear. He's glancing round as he goes, but not apprehensively, more in the way of someone looking for something or someone he knows is to be found hereabouts somewhere.

Having spent several hours in the sunshine chasing ducks on the stagnant ponds that line the railroad, and then moved on to the more fruitful but less spontaneous pursuit of small furry animals, the cub tips her nose to the sky when she catches the smell of a human nearby, carried on the day's fitful breeze. The cub follows the scent as it grows stronger towards its source, careful to take full advantage of the fall foliage that obscures the woods from the railroad clearing.

Cedric in homid has that peculiar quirk of scent which makes his odor different from that of Lightning in lupus, and yet akin to it. As a cub, of course, Erika may or may not have figured that little odity of garou out yet. In any case, he and his scent keep tramping along the railroad at a gentle saunter, enjoying the sunlight that filters through the trees, still checking all around.

The cub continues to trot along parallel to the train tracks, having to take a circuitous course around rocky outcroppings and boggy hollows, obstacles the railroad engineers long ago made straight for those travelling along the tracks. She tries to cross a narrow ravine on a makeshift bridge of the trunks of two saplings that long ago started to rot in the fetid forest dampness. When she is about three fourths of the ways across, the rotten branches that hold up the trunks snap and shift somewhat, and the cub looses her footing on the slick lichen-coated logs. With a stifled yelp, the cub lands in some brambles that eked out an existance on the slope of the ravine, and stands stock still as the sounds of her clumsiness resound beyond the woods.

Cedric freezes for a second as the sound of the cub's downfall comes to his ears. He turns, silently, on the balls of his feet, then takes two long quiet steps which bring him to the edge of the railroad cess and to the mossy brick parapet over the little ravine. Looking down, he sees a familiar white form trying to hold still against the greens and browns of the ravine and the brambles and foliage that cover its side. "Four legs are a bastard to control all at once, aren't they, when you're used to two?" he remarks conversationally.

Walks-Ahead looks over her shoulder with eyes wide in fear, yelping as she yanks herself free from the purple raspberry vines. A few bounds, and the cub is free, leaving large tufts of white fur as trophies for the thorns. The cub takes several strides along the ravine, deeper into the forest, tail between her legs, then turns around to regard the unfamiliar human with a slouching posture and back-bent ears.

Cedric looks left and right along the railroad line. Unsurprisingly, nobody else is in sight. His body seems to swell up and the natty suit is absorbed into a thick white fur which sprouts over it as he looms up into crinos, and then down again into a wolf, whereupon he barks reproachfully. It is me! Me! Me! Do you not remember me?

Walks-Ahead takes several steps back, lips tensing in surprise, but then pauses, and her tail waves back and forth once. Yes! She chuffs. Yes! Lightning-rhya. Hello! Bowing her head and ears in a lupine admission of sheepishness, the cub begins to pick her way up the slope towards the elder Fang.

Lightning watches the cub's unsteady progress up the ravine. It might be easier in a form that has hands, he points out gently. That is a steep slope for even a strong full-grown wolf.

I can do it! Watch me! The cub gets a running head-start and uses the momentum to bound a third of the way up the hill. Then, keeping her center of gravity so low that her belly scrapes the ground, the cub starts slowly creeping up the hill. The matted layers of damp pine needles and rich loose loam offer poor purchase, tending to flow in sheets down the hillside, and once the cub loses her footing entirely and rolls over on her side, all four legs scrambling and finally bringing her to a halt more by virtue of an opportunely placed clump of ferns than the cub's own prowess. Growling, Walks-Ahead resumes her progress up the slope, almost maddeningly slow now, until at length the ground flattens out, and the cub dislodges most of the dirt and pine needles from her mane with a shake. See?

Lightning's tongue lolls out in benevolent amusement. You have learnt much, clever cub. Can you tell me this? Do you know where the other cub is to be found, the male one whom I must teach? I have howled for him but he did not answer and I have found only old scents of wolves around where Blackriver told me he dwelt.

Walks-Ahead trots up to the elder Silver Fang, nostrils flaring as she sniffs curiously, tail held demurely low. One does not know. One has not seen him since the waning half moon. Blackriver-rhya says he lives in the mountains to the east, but other than the night he came to me, one has not smelled his scent in the woods. Sometimes Blackriver howls for him, but he does not answer. The mountains are craggy and high and deep.

Lightning turns towards the mountains, though they are barely visible through the trees. That is so, he agrees. It is a good place for wolves to live, where humans cannot go easily. And for garou too. The wild remote places are where the Weaver has least power. Do you know of the Weaver and the other members of the Triat, Walks-Ahead?

Whining softly, the cub recites, In the beginning was Gaia, and Gaia made all things, and she made the Triat to watch over them. She made the Wyld, the spirit of change, and she made the Weaver, the spirit of form, and the Wyrm, the spirit of destruction. But something bad happened to Weaver and she went crazy, and began making patterns that were not in balance. And she trapped the Wyrm, and made him go out of balance too? The cub sits down on her haunches and tilts her head at the last statement in uncertainty.

Pretty much, agrees the fostern. Some tell different stories. The Walkers upon Glass do, for they love Weaver and place the blame on the imbalance on Wyrm. But this all happened so long ago that none save the spirits can tell what truly happened on that doom-laden day when the world was tipped off balance. We have the stories which are passed down from one generation to the next, but stories are changed and altered with the years. This is why song-moons like you and I must be very careful, yes, very, to tell a story as we hear it, not to change it if we can.

Walks-Ahead's tail thumps on the ground. One remembers how it was told. One does not understand any of it, but one remembers. But Blackriver and Talking Cub tell the story differently. One is straight forward and direct, the other has many fancy words that are hard to understand. One tries to tell it the way Blackriver did.

Wait a moment, Lightning orders. He steps back, and once more checking for observers, he shifts into homid form once more. "I told you that in lupus form," he says in an easy, relaxed tone. "Now I'm going to tell it again in homid, and you'll see how different it comes across. All the tribes," he begins, "have their own agenda. The Glass Walkers make it all the Wyrm's fault and say Weaver was an innocent bystander, but then they would. Weaver and all Weaver's things fascinate them. Really, all we have is guesswork and old stories. The stories are passed down over generations, and every time they're altered a little, until you end up like the guy in the story with his grandfather's axe -- it's had two new heads and three new handles but it's still his grandfather's axe." He smiles. "And that's why galliards need to tell stories carefully. The more we change, the more we get away from the truth."

Walks-Ahead startles a bit when the Fostern changes, then plants her rump on the ground and stares at him with rapt blue eyes. Different. Easier to lie in human tongue. Or, not lie, but say the truth but color it with ones own desire. One has a good memory for history though! One can learn!

Lightning smiles. "Yes. It's not impossible for wolves to lie, but it doesn't come naturally to them, or to us in lupus, the way it does to humans or homid garou. Food," he says solemnly, "for thought, I always think. As a Silver Fang, your regard for truth must be higher than any others'. But also, you must know when to lie -- sometimes we must -- and be prepared to do it well and convincingly."

Getting up and pacing nervously, Walks-Ahead huffs. One could never do that. Not that one has not tried. No, no. One used to have to care for horses. Many strong horses, requiring food and constant attention. One took two high spirited horses to back pasture two springs past. One saw that the fence was broken, needed repair...But one was weak and tired. One thought the horses would stay where they were put and eat fresh green spring sprouts. That night there was rind and rain, and when the sun rose and broke through the clouds, the horses had run, gone a long way to trample the garden of angry man. One went with one's sire to bring back the horses. Sire is a quiet man but he sees much. He asked if I thought the fence had fallen in the storm during the night. One said she wasn't sure...but one's face could not lie. It was a bad thing, bad bad. Sire was a good man and worked hard for us, and yet one behaved so shamefully. One put up new fence all along pasture but still knows she did a bad thing.

Lightning nods from time to time as the wolf tells her story. When she finishes, he nods again. "And just to stack the odds against a lying garou further, some of us can tell when a lie is told, can know beyond doubt. The spirits whisper in their ears when they are lied to. There are some of us who will say that we should never lie, ever. Many of them lupus. I don't know what Blackriver thinks, perhaps we should ask her. But me, I've seen too much to think we can hope to win our fight without bending a few truths here and there. Course, it's not pleasant to have to lie, but not many of the things we have to do are pleasant..."

Walks-Ahead sits back on her haunches and huffs, giving the elder Fang her full attention. Lightning-rhya, what are some of the hard things you have had to do? Can you help one understand?

Cedric is silent for several moments, though if Walks-Ahead is observant she'll see a flash of something almost like pain cross over his face at her question. Cedric observes her notice it and sighs. "One example immediately came to mind," he says. "A few years ago now, forces of the Wyrm were circling around my caern, back at home in England. They were trying to spy on us, break open our cover so that they could destroy us one by one. I had a message to pass to another sept member, and although she was not even kin, I gave it to my sister to pass, because I had other commitments. She was observed, and they killed her. I told my father, the earl, that I knew nothing about it. He never said anything about her death to me again, and within a year he was dead too. I think... no," he corrects himself and looks to one side with a meek glance at nothing in particular, "no, Osric, I am almost sure, yes... that he knew I was lying. If you're going to lie," he concludes gloomily, "lie well."

The cub bays, a piercing, mournful sound, and walks forward with her head held low, making to try to lick the man's hand. A sad story. To lose a sister. A sad, sad story.

Cedric gives an odd little movement, shaking his shoulders for a moment. "The message was delivered," he says in a forced, cold voice. "No garou were lost, the caern was not endangered. No garou except I myself thought there was any problem."

Walks-Ahead stands up as tall as her small stature would allow, trying to make contact with the man despite his downturned glance. Not your fault, Lightning-rhya. A sad thing. But one cannot do everything. One just has to try, and try ones best, and do the most important things first. You cannot do it all on your own, and you do not have to. Others have their duty, let us do our appointed task, however small. Someday I too will know what my small task will be. And if a small person should fall doing their small duty, for us there is still full honor.

"By gum, Osric," Cedric exclaims, "this one is a natural. Yes," he says resolutely. "Yes, let us do what duties are detailed for us. I do. That's why I'm here instead of enjoying England, home and beauty. I don't know exactly what Falcon called me here for, though I don't mind guessin', but honor lies in the doing of one's duty above all." He sets his jaw in a resolute pose, which has the effect of making his always noble features look still more arostocratic.

Walks-Ahead walks a stately circle around Cedric, her tail swishing back and forth across the ground. What was she like? Your sister? Did she have pretty hair? She was really truely a princess?

Cedric shakes his head. "Not a princess. No. Just... my sister. She did have pretty hair, yes. Same colour as me, nearly." His eyes follow Walks-Ahead until she passes out of sight, then move back to pick her up when she appears from behind him again.

Walks-Ahead finishes her circuit and lays down in the gravel, resting her head on her forepaws and staring up at the towering human. One misses her family to. Her brother most of all. But one is here now, and Blackriver and the other Garou are watching out for me. And someday one will be able to help them too. We are almost family now.

Cedric squats down near the cub. "Almost? We are family. More so than any other tribe, we are all related. Sisters, cousins, aunts." He sighs. "Now... what the hell did I come here for? Oh yes. To ask about Dances-Memory. Really must find him, if I can..." He stands up again.

Walks-Ahead also rises to her feet, four in this case, and shakes herself off. Is there some message one could give to the other cub if he comes to my campfire again?

"Tell him," Cedric says, "tell him that I have been appointed his tutor, and that I will come out here regularly to find him. He should not hide from me or fear me."

Walks-Ahead chuffs softly in agreement. That one will do, Lightning-rhya! That one will do.

"Farewell for now, then," Cedric bids Walks-Ahead, with a gentle rub along the side of her neck. "You and I shall meet again, that's sure."

Walks-Ahead wiggles under Cedric's hand pressing her neck up against his fingers to make sure he scratches the right spots. One looks forwards to it! Yes, one does! Travel safe, Lightning-rhya! And with two shakes of her tail and the briefest of glances backwards, the cub is off once more into the underbrush, off to find whatever else the day will bring.

And females are good, but then I would say that, because I am male. I do not suppose you have discovered males yet.

Undeveloped Forest
This tough group of thinning trees has never known the forester's axe, or indeed any blade of man. Lack of easy access routes and the rocky nature of the ground have conspired to make it of little value in human eyes. Those of a more natural bent, however, can appreciate the quiet glades, small brooks, and the healthy flora and fauna that live here.
Eastward, the land grows more rocky and rises upward into the northern range of the Blue Mountains. The area is bordered on the north by the railroad, on the south by the border of Wolf Woods National Park, and on the west by State Route 22, winding its way south towards the park entrance.

It's a bright and sunny day, the light draping lazily over the pure and pristine forest south of the bawn. Blackriver is busy patrolling her pack's territory, ears pricked forward to catch each leaf fall, every rattle of dry branches as squirrels scurry across them. As she ambles about, her nose is towards the breeze, sifting through the scents on the wind, and her head turns about slowly to watch the forest.

A lupus's keen nose is easily able to pick up an unfamiliar scent. But it's only unfamiliar for a moment; then it's recognisable to Blackriver as that of Cedric whom she met yesterday. It's too strong a scent to be left over from then, though. It suggests that he's either not left, or that he's returned.

Blackriver freezes in midstep, nose wiggling frantically as she works to pick up Cedric's trail. Her fur bristles, her hackles raise, and a low growl escapes her throat. Throwing back her head, she lets out a short bay.

The bay from Blackriver is met with an answering call through the trees towards the rail tracks. This one is placatory and apologetic, where Blackriver's is menacing. It definitely sounds like Lightning's.

Blackriver lets out a returning howl, letting Lightning know that she's listening, and starts off on a quick lope through the woods, towards the tracks.

In a clearing in the forest, Walks-Ahead looks up from a colony of gophers at the sound of the calls resounding through the forest. Her attention span spent, the cub trots off through the underbrush in search of her beloved mentor, and whatever lessons are destined for the day.

Lightning is easily to be found, sitting on his haunches and seeming a little abashed. When Blackriver canters towards him, he greets her with flattened, humble ears. Greetings again, honoured alpha of our tribe. I wished to meet you again but coming to do so on two legs, I stumbled into your territory earlier than I had thought I would.

Blackriver's tail wafts upward, and her ears prick forward. Settling down onto her haunches, she wraps her tail around her forepaws, and looks a little worried. You did not sense the rite?

Walks-Ahead plows through the underbrush, sending a small stand of sumacs waving their crimson leaves in the wind as she brushes against their trunks. Emerging into the clearing that lines the railroad tracks, the cub approaches the elder wolves to a respectable distance, her ears tweaked back and her neck kept tensed and low in apprehension.

Lightning looks as shamefaced as a wolf can. It is not strong hereabouts and I was thinking of other things. I acknowledge this land as yours, yes, yours, not mine. I will leave if you order but I do need to tell you some things.

Blackriver tilts her head to the side, and carefully considers Lightning. A soft, high-pitched noise barely escapes her throat, and it seems that she feels a bit odd, having a Fostern apologize to her so. Thankfully, Walks-Ahead's arrival provides an easy distraction, and she turns her head slightly, giving a soft chuff of greeting to the younger wolf. Say what you have to say. She replies calmly, looking back to Lightning.

Walks-Ahead trots up towards Blackriver, her posture visibly relaxing as her presence is recognized. She bounds the last few steps up to the Philodox, touching her nose to the elder's mane and struggling to keep the height of her tail within the bounds of propriety as it enthusiastically wags in greeting.

I met the alpha-of-alphas, the elder of the sept, Lightning confirms. She was not pleased with what I told her, no. She thinks that for me to serve chiminage by teaching my own tribe's cub does not serve the sept's needs. She does not see that to have another adult Silver Fang in the sept will be good for all garou.

Blackriver sniffs back at Walks-Ahead, tail thumping happily against the ground. When Lighting speaks his part, her ears flatten and she gives an annoyed huff and a slight grumble. Flicking her tongue out to lick at her nose, she sighs. Stupid Shadow Lords. But she is alpha and we do what she says. You said you knew rites yes? And gifts? You can teach some of those.

Walks-Ahead sniffs at Blackriver a few more moments, and takes a few steps back before bowing her head and dipping her tail in greeting to the visiting Fostern.

She had an idea of her own, Lightning says. She says that the cub-den is too small and old, and the sept would like a new one. I would be able to do that for the sept. But I will still teach the cub because that is my duty, he adds.

Blackriver's ears flatten further, and she thinks that over for a bit, fur bristling. Looks like she doesn't think the cub den is too small and old at least. She cants her head to the side and looks back at Lightning. There is forest near here the humans and weaver are claiming. One of our members wanted to claim in back, but he left. Since you are born of human, can you take some of it back and give it to the sept?

Walks-Ahead glances back and forth between the elder Fangs, then steps back to where the long grass begins on the verge of the tracks. Finding a spot relatively free of rocks, she turns around twice before laying down, her head tilted to the left as she listens and regards the elder Garou.

Lightning turns his head on one side. Perhaps I could. I would need to find out more from those who know about these things. If I made a den of two-leg-things, it would be ours first, our tribe's, and the sept would have use of it too but it would be ours, yes. It is good for a tribe to have a den of its own for homid-borns. The urrah have them but often we do not except in septs where we have reigned for many generations and have dens that we have lived in for as long as that too.

Blackriver licks her nose. The last Silver Fang that was here, Promises-Kept, made a den for the Silver Fangs, but he was a bad Garou and I made him leave, and he did not leave us the den. But if you make a Silver Fang den on the land you claim, you must open it to the sept as well, so everyone can use it. And it must be close to the bawn, to protect the bawn from humans and the weaver.

Walks-Ahead blinks a few times, opening her mouth and letting her tongue hang out. Judging by the way her eyes scarcely leave the others Fangs, she seems to be trying her best to follow the conversation.

Lightning isn't having too easy a time of the conversation himself. Such homid concepts as money and housing do not fit well into lupus "speech". Culls-Herd-rhya also says it should be near the bawn. This is good. If you wish it to be fully open to all, then it can be. But lesser tribes must behave while there, yes.

Blackriver on the other hand seems to understand just enough of the concepts behind the conversation, that she's not having nearly as much trouble. You could have part open to the other tribes, and part not. She suggests, chewing thoughtfully on a forepaw. In my old sept, Snow Born Moon, that is what our tribe did with their human den.

Walks-Ahead yawns once, her long pink tongue sticking out astonishingly far, blinks a few times, and focuses once more on the elder Fangs.

That is a good idea, yes, Lightning responds. And it will give me somewhere to live that is not the heart of the scab in a den where travellers live and the food is bad. I need that.

Blackriver blinks, apparently that went over her head. She flicks her ears in a sort of shrug, and goes back to chewing on a foreleg.

Walks-Ahead sniffs the air and creeps forward towards the Philodox, nostrils flaring as she smells the air.

I shall find out more, vows Lightning, and report back to you. But I can do nothing about this till tomorrow so I shall go and hunt the other song-moon cub now, yes, I will.

Blackriver flicks her ears in understanding, and stands up stiffly. If you wish to talk to Walks-Ahead, you can call for her out of the forest. She is living here until she understands enough about us to be near the other tribe's cubs. With that, the Philodox turns and begins to weave her way through the trees, back towards the heart of her territory.

Walks-Ahead retreats once again, glancing back and forth between the bushes where her mentor disappeared, and the strange new Fang whose height towers over her.

Lightning sits back down on his haunches and licks his nose. Well, he addresses Walks-Ahead. Would you rather live in a hole in the ground or in a cub-den made of stone and wood?

Walks-Ahead begins to slink towards the underbrush, but then turns around when addressed and trots up to face the Fostern, her head bowed. A hole or a human den. One does not know. What is the right answer, Lightning-rhya?

There is no right answer, the fostern replies. Only the truth. The truth is important, always. Especially to we song-moons, for we spread news and orders and stories, and if we present something as true when it is not, we besmirch our own honour, yes, it is very bad. Lesser tribes may lie, Thunder's children and the urrah, but we should never do so unless we must.

The cub bows her head and ears. The truth is one wishes one was back home in mountains towards the sunrise, watching brown horse grow gravid with foal. But one knows she can never go back. The cub turns her nose to the sky and inhales the odors carried on the breeze, wet pine needles and algae and mud from the standing water that forms along the train tracks. Blackriver says that the woods will loosen the weavers hold on my spirit. And she is strong and wise. Sometimes it is hard though, as I am still clumsy with my paws and fangs when the prey is at hand.

We cannot go back, no, no, Lightning confirms. He climbs to his feet, moves to the cub, and bumps his head into her in a gentle gesture of solidarity. Sometimes I too wish I had not changed yet and was young and innocent and enjoyed hitting balls back and forth over the net. Before I found out who I was and found alcohol and females and fights. But we must go forwards, yes, forwards. We decide which way we walk. Weaver has no power over you, nor Wyrm, nor even Wyld, no. You are a Silver Fang and you walk the balance between the three as we all seek to.

Walks-Ahead backs up a little but relaxes the tension in her body slightly when the elder wolf touches her. Alchohol and fighting is bad. Females are bad. One does is confused when the elders talk of the triat, but one remembers and hopes one day to have understanding like the elder Silver Fangs.

Lightning gives a little wruf of amusement. Fighting is good when it is against the right people. And females are good, but then I would say that, because I am male. I do not suppose you have discovered males yet. You will, yes, yes. But alcohol is not good and I was wrong to use it as much as I did when I was younger, a cub and a cliath. Some garou need it to keep going. They are weak. Do not be like that.

A curious fierceness enters the cub's eyes as she chuffs at the elders' words. Most males are pushy, rude, assertive, arrogant. One must always show them proper place! Alchohol makes human males worse...must be terrible on Garou. Lightning-rhya, you have travelled and seen many Garou?

Lightning gives an affirmative answer. I have come half way around the world, yes, and met good males and bad males and some who are both at different times. Good males are strong and bold and brave. Only bad ones are rude and arrogant as you say.

Walks-Ahead bows her nose to her forepaws, her tail up in the air, and gives a playful yip. Around the world! Around the world! What stories Lightning-rhya must have to tell!

Lightning moves into action. I will tell them, he teases her, when you can catch me as I run. Catch me! Catch me! And he springs forward, yapping like a cub himself for a moment, all four legs whirling round like a cartoon cat's, and then starts to race at a reputable speed away from Walks-Ahead and out of Blackriver's territory, though staying in the woods. Catch me! Good practice for cubs! Catch me!

Walks-Ahead bounds after the Fostern Fang, tail held high and tongue and ears waggling in the air as she gallops and bounds over the railroad ties and autumn-painted underbrush in playful pursuit of her quarry.

"I've had a bellyful of being in the press, thank you very much."

Porch
A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The bright colors of fall lend an atmosphere of wistful remembrance to this place, a memory of the summer past, and the knowledge of winter to come. Fallen flower petals dust the earth around the base of the low shrubs surrounding the porch, their delicate brittleness testament to the closing of the cycle.
An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside them.

It is more dark then light at this early hour and the cool air causes ones breath to become visible. Bundled up rather heavily and seated on the front porch is Vera, watching her breath mist and the early morning quiet.

All's quiet and still on this fall morning. The occasional birst of birdsong is audible, and the faintest of hums from a jet plane flying far overhead, presumably heading for Seattle or Vancouver, leaving a vapor trail in its wake. No doubt Vera is enjoying this rare moment of calm in her busy life. If so, it's about to be shattered, for the sound of a car engine becomes first audible, and then quite loud. And in a few more seconds, the car itself comes into view, racing up the drive to the farm at a higher speed than is perhaps advisable. It's a yellow sports car, open-topped, the driver's hair blowing in the wind. He's grinning as he scoots past the farm building, and there's a squeal of brakes and a rattle of dislodged gravel as he brakes to a stop in the farmyard.

Vera sighs heavily, and sinks further into her heavy jacket, gloved hands briefly making a appearance to cram her hat on more firmly.

After a few moments, the tramping sound of feet is heard and the driver of the car comes walking back round the farmhouse. "Thought I saw someone here," he says in a cheerful British accent. "Super morning, isn't it? So bright and clear and cold. Makes you glad to be alive." He favours Vera with a broad, open smile revealing very even white teeth.

Vera is a woman of average height in her mid to late twenties whose features have been prematurely aged though hardship and the elements. Prominent crows feet are visible on the woman's face, along with a number of deep lines around her mouth and across her forehead. Plain dark brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, framing fairly angular features and a smallish nose. The woman's eyes are a dark brown, almost black in colour and hold little emotion. She carries herself with an aura of confidence and there is the faintest hint of a Russian accent in her voice.
The woman dresses in a fairly neat clothes, consisting of a pair of black pants and a flattering red top. Around her neck, Vera wears a dark iron brooch shaped in the form of a perched crow, polished black. The bird's features a extenuated by a pair of tiny red gemstones for eyes. Known for being thieves, the crow appears to have stolen a pearl that almost seems to look like a miniature moon plucked from the sky.

"Ah," Vera replies in her accented voice, Russian coming through a little more clearly during this early hour. "Only if one is accustomed to it. Who might you be?"

Cedric sticks his right hand out in Vera's direction. "Cedric Ambermere," he introduces himself. "I've visited here a few times. New in town, if you follow me?"

Vera seems almost reluctant to remove her self from the bundled warmth of jacket and blanket, but manners win out in the end. Standing, the Shadow Lord removes one glove and offers Cedric her hand in return. "Vera Mikhailovna Yadviga, the one responsible for the people here. Well met."

Cedric grasps the hand with every appearance of genuine pleasure. "Aha! You're Vera-rhya? Been hoping to catch you for several days, now." Having squeezed her hand firmly but not tightly he releases it. "Cedric Ambermere," he repeats, "Strikes-as-Suddenly-as-Lightning, fostern and galliard of the Silver Fangs. And if all goes well, future member of your sept and good news for it."

Hand released, Vera retreats back into her warm coverings. "Too many years in the Amazon, then others in the dry air of Mexico," she offers as explanation. "Vera Culls-The-Herd, also known as Separates-Wheat-From-Chaff. Adren Ragabash of the Shadow Lords and daughter of Black-Fang, Fostern Philodox. Granddaughter of Rides-The-Lightning, Adren Ahroun and once Warder of the Sept of Dark Snow, and great granddaughter of Finds-The-Lost, Fostern Ragabash. Elder of the Shadow Lords and Alpha of the Hidden Walk. May I ask what you plan to offer in the way of Chiminage?"

"I have met with Blackriver," Cedric says, "and arranged with her to teach our tribe's cub, Dances-Memory. He is of my auspice, and needs to be brought to the point where he's ready to Rite. I understand," he goes on, "that in this sept, the tribal elders rather than yourself fix chiminage? If I'm wrong, Vera-rhya, my apologies."

Vera lifts a hand and breezily brushes away Cedric's concern. "My questions comes from previous experience. The last member of your Tribe who arrived here had little to offer and ultimately, his Chiminage was rejected. While it is Blackriver who is to set Chiminage for those of her Tribe who wish to join the Sept, she does appear to have forgotten the rules I set. Chiminage must benefit the Sept as a whole, not only the Tribe of the arriving Garou. Also, Chiminage may not be something that a Garou would be 'expected' to do as a Sept Member. I will speak with Blackriver."

Cedric inclines his head. "By all means. I shall start to teach the cub anyway, but if I need to do some other service in addition, I shall quite understand. Of course," he adds chattily, "the successful riting of a cub of any tribe benefits all Garou indirectly, but that doesn't nullify your point."

Vera tilts her head to one side. "If the cub successfully Rites. There are no guarantees and it is something that you would be expected to do as a Sept Member." The Alpha shrugs easily, glancing over at the yellow sports car. "You do not appear to lack for money and that is something that the Sept rarely has an excess of."

"Oh," Cedric responds. "If you need a cash injection, that would be the easiest thing. I'm not Bill Gates, or even the Duke of Westminster. But I am," he confesses with a rogueish smile, "connected to the nobility. My brother is the Earl of Tottenham -- but I'm not titled myself, I'm just a Hon."

Vera nods. "That may be the easiest route to take. Something as simple as paying for repairs to this house," she indicates the farmhouse with a wave of her hand. "The building is old and always in need of repair. Buying some land, as many of the areas surrounding the Bawn are being developed and every house purchased keeps one more human out of our backyard. You could even purchase a home as a sanctuary for your Tribe, so long as it remained open to the Sept, if the need for a secondary safe haven ever arose."

"I'll speak to B... no," Cedric corrects himself. "I never yet met a lupus-born garou who could quite understand why us homids (it is 'us' homids, isn't it?" he asks Vera with a keen glance) "need to have a stable base to live in. I'll speak to others of the tribe, see what they think we need. And of course any house we may own will be thrown open to any of the sept if need arises."

Vera nods. "I would find that more then acceptable, so long as it bordered the Bawn and always remained open. There are more then enough human backyards in our own these days. Explain it to her as Territory. It is a concept she will have an easier time grasping. And yes, I was born a human."

"Course," Cedric says, "would take a few days to sort out money transfers and such back from England. My family over there," he continues, "by which I mean the human one rather than my garou kin, tend to find me somethin' of an embarrassment. Partly the wolf thing... though they don't know that, they just know I hang out with odd people... and partly a distressin' tendency I used to have a few years ago of gettin' into tabloid newspapers. They generally don't mind throwin' money at me, long as it keeps me away from ye olde ancestral home."

Vera chuckles dryly. "Ah. While my own family is far from poor, I surrendered any claim to ancestral wealth when I left Russia for the Amazon all those years ago. I would suggest remaining out of the tabloids, as it was the mention of werewolves in the paper that ultimately resulted in the Chiminage of another being rejected. The last nail in an already heavily nailed coffin, as it were. Mathias Sorrendale, Promises-Kept. One of your Tribe, so the name may be familiar to you?"

Cedric shudders a little dramatically. "Goodness me. I've had a bellyful of being in the press, thank you very much. If I hadn't been part of the nobility and an eligible young playboy, I don't suppose anyone would have cared, but everyone loves a lord, they say. I played along for a couple of years with the papparazi, which was crazy of me, but it was all nightclub stuff, the press never got a hint of my other side." He rubs his chin. "Sorrendale... West Coast family, aren't they?"

Vera shrugs her slim shoulders. "I'm afraid that I would not know. All I do know if that he did not make the most logical decisions when I permitted him to join the Great hunt as a guest, offended a handful of Sept members, and was at the very least, partially responsible for allowing a Fomor to be captured by police. This is of course, how mention of werewolves entered the local papers."

Concern appears on Cedric's face. "Most regrettable. I can give you my solemn word that I am mindful of the Veil always. What did the papers learn? And has the breach been papered over?"

Vera sighs, looking out into the distance. "The Fomor committed suicide, which was our only saving grace, as he was labeled as being mentally insane. While there was mention in the papers, it did not spark the humans to take any actions against us. Investigational, or otherwise. Unfortunately, that does not mean that the article did not attract less mundane attention. Something that we are unlikely to ever discover. As for Mathias, his Chiminage was rejected and he was told to leave. It is unlikely that he will ever be welcomed back here."

"I am truly sorry," Cedric says, and he sounds it, "that one of the First Tribe should cause such problems here. I hope to be able to show you that he is the exception rather than the rule, and that we are good folks to have on your side. I have a damn' good reason to take pains to show Thunder's grandchildren that that's the case," he adds in a slightly quieter voice. "Your tribemates in Ontario honoured me in a way I doubt I can ever fully pay back."

Vera's eyebrows lift, as she shifts under her blankets. "I do know that Mathias is an exception, as I has also performed Rite of the Heroes Pyre for one of your Tribe. As for hearing that you have good relations with Thunder's Children, that is welcome news. The automatic bitterness and suspicion becomes tiresome after awhile."

"Not to put too fine a point on it," Cedric says, "I was a member of a sept near Toronto for eighteen months. There were many of your tribe there. To begin with they kept their distance. Fear and hatred drove them. But slowly I showed my worth and kept myself open to them, a little at a time. And slowly they came to tolerate me, then respect me, and I like to think that by the time I left one or two were my friends. Do you know a ragabash fostern by the name of Reuben Vadascovinich? ~Life-out-of-Death~ is his deedname."

Vera shakes her head slowly. "I am afraid not. I do not know many of my Tribe that reside to the north of here."

"Well," Cedric goes on, "when I first came he was so opposed to my presence that he pleaded to the sept alpha, a Get, that I should not be allowed to stay. But by the end... he gave me a gift, an artefact which, he said, none but Shadow Lords had ever carried before. But he said he had never met a garou so deserving of receiving such a gift as me." He chuckles in a self-deprecatory way. "That is how I came to bear a klaive. Which is at your service and the sept's service."

Vera blinks, falling silent for a moment. "Really. That is quite an interesting story. What was this fellows full introduction, again?"

"Reuben Vadascovinich, ~Life-out-of-Death~, fostern ragabash," repeats Cedric. "Of the Sept of Dripping Water. Alpha of a pack called the Hundred Legs. Very much a Shadow Lord, as I am very much a Silver Fang... The klaive has a name, but I can never pronounce it," he goes on. "It's something like Udarac-Nogom-Menechesto."

Vera nods and smiles, making a few mental notes at the same time. "Ah, a good story and a real honor for you."

"For me, yes," Cedric says, "but for him too. Few would have been so ready to take such a step. But then, don't you know, I am the Chosen of Falcon after all, and he couldn't really argue with Falcon."

Vera smirks, amusement in her eyes. "Yes, yes, you are. If you speak with Blackriver before I do, please tell her what I said and my suggestions for an alternative Chiminage."

Cedric turns his head to one side, and stares at empty air for a few moments, his brow furrowed. Then he shrugs. Then he turns back to Vera. "I shall. And thank you. Very pleasant to meet someone else who can see... things that aren't always obvious. But I suppose that's what makes an Adren, what?"

Vera inclines her head. "Experience has some benefits." The Adren shifts under her heavy coverings, then briefly looks up at the brightening sky. "I believe that I have had enough of the cold for now and will take my leave. Good day to you, Cedric of the Silver Fangs."

"And to you, Vera-rhya," murmurs Cedric as he heads back round the house towards the barnyard.

Do not fear me, young one. I am a friend of all those whom Falcon calls His own.

Train Tracks
Little more than a break in the lush thickness of the surrounding forest, a set of railway lines make their hesitant way east and west. Woodland dirt and underbrush gives reluctantly over onto gravel, and then to the rusted iron bars themselves; the wood lengths that bridge the span between them at intervals are gnarled and cracked with age, some looking uncomfortably rotten. Long, spiky weeds shoot up defiantly between and amongst the wood and metal, proclaiming clearly that this particular length of track has suffered some disuse in recent times. The sounds here are as soft and natural as anywhere else, and insects make their unhurried ways from flower to stalk unconcerned by the ancient construction.
The beginnings of various small paths twist off through the forest to the north and to the south.

It's a bright, sunny day, with a light breeze, the first time in about a week that it's actually been pleasurable to be outside. Blackriver is in crinos, near the train tracks, giving Erika a rundown on all the glyphs Garou use. She draws each glyph, explains its use and meaning, and then lets the Galliard try to imitate the drawing, forcing her to draw it over until she gets it right. There's a good fifty well and crudly drawn glyphs carved into the dirt around the two Garou. Looks like they've been at it for a while.

The lesson is interrupted by the sound of an echoing wolf-howl that drifts through the trees, from a point further down the abandoned railroad track to the west. Hear this! it calls. Hear this! I seek she who has marked this territory as hers! I seek the alpha of the first ones!

Walks-Ahead startles and looks up from her lesson, pacing back and forth and glancing anxiously at her mentor.

Lightning(#2777Pc)
This wolf's coat is so pure white that it seems more like an absence of colour than a colour in itself. Set him against winter or arctic snow and his camouflage would be superb; only his black nose and his golden eyes might spoil the effect, and perhaps the pink tongue which now and again lolls out when he opens his jaw to pant and to reveal teeth of a whiteness that rivals his pelt. The purity of his coat is reinforced by the thickness and the neat grooming of his fur, the wolf evidently being in the prime of life and well able to take care of himself both in a fight and in matters of self-maintenance. He moves about with total confidence, as though unlike most of his kind he has never seen the world as a threat but more as his personal domain, an attitude reinforced by the way in which his ears stand pointed and upright and his tail flags in a raised, dominant pose. Certainly the wolf's whole air is that of a noble creature who is aware of, and pleased with, his own nobility.
Carrying:
Klaive(#3507)
>>>>>Lightning just looked at me. Another devoted fan!

Blackriver's ears perk up, and she lets out a return howl. Something to the effect that she is coming, and the first caller should stay where he is. She shifts down into lupus, tail wagging twice in excitment, and lopes off towards the howl, signaling with a flick of her ears that Walks-Ahead should follow.

The cub imitates Blackriver in shifting into wolf form, and trots along to keep up a position at the larger wolf's flank.

It doesn't take long as the lupus canters along the tracks before a white dot hoves into sight, evidently the source of the howl. He's standing facing them, midway between the tracks, stock-still and alert, waiting. He lets out one further wuff as he sees two of his owk kind approaching, but doesn't go to meet them, preferring to remain where he is as bidden by the owner of the territory he is presently standing upon.

Blackriver picks up her pace as the other wolf is spotten, ears cupping forward and tail raising up. She pauses about a yard away from him, and draws in a quick breath of air before closing the final gap of distance. Swims-the-Black-River, she introduces herself, cliath Half-moon and elder of the First Tribe here. Alpha of Wildfire under the honorable Wyvern, whose territory you are on. Pup of Fireclaws, pup of Seeks-Raven, adren and alpha judge at the Crescent Moon sept. Her ears flick once and she looks at the stranger expectantly, head tilting slightly to the side.

The smaller white wolf keeps a position behind Blackriver, her tail held submissively low. When the Philodox addresses the newcomer, the cub sits down on her haunches, looking back and forth between the elder Silver Fangs with her tongue dangling out of her open mouth.
Lightning sizes Blackriver up as she nears him, his own posture not conceding dominance to hers. The two stand nose to nose for a long moment as he introduces himself in return. Strikes-as-Suddenly-as-Lightning-from-a-Clear-Sky, pup of Singed-Whiskers, pup of Licks-her-Plate-Clean. Song-moon and fostern of the First Tribe, and the chosen one of Falcon whose appointed path I have followed here. And suddenly his tail ratchets down and his ears flatten somewhat. Though I bear greater rank than you in the Nation, yet this is your territory and you are Elder at this sept, and so for this time and this place I defer to you. While this exchange takes place he barely spares the smaller and obviously lesser-ranked wolf a glance.

Blackriver's tail inches a centimeter higher, and she sniffs carefully at Lightning. Introduce yourself, she intructs the cub to her side with a glance, attenttion mostly on the Fostern in front of her. Why do you howl? She asks.

Walks-Ahead comes forward as bidden. She is very small for an arctic wolf, under eighty pounds, and wiry muscles can be seen to tense and relax under her coat as her large paws skip over the gravel and train track ties. She comes to a halt just behind Blackriver and to her left, ears perked but head drooped and tail down in proper submissive form. One is called Always-Walks-Ahead, a Galliard and a Silver Fang cub. With a sidelong glance at Blackriver, the cub takes a few nervous steps backwards.

Lightning ducks his head away from Blackriver and examines the smaller cub, sauntering towards her hindquarters and (possibly to her discomfiture if she is unused to lupus-form greetings) pushing his nose in close to her rear end. Well met, Always-Walks-Ahead. Your auspice is mine. Perhaps one day I may teach you, if the elder permits. He turns back to that elder. I howl for you, he informs her, because you are alpha of our tribe here and because it is fitting that I, a new arrival, should introduce myself to you. For Falcon sent me here, as he has sent me to other septs, and my duty is to offer my services to the tribe here and to the sept as a whole.

Blackriver licks her nose, and shifts her weigh arond on her legs, eyeing Lightning carefully, a tad bit uncomfotable. Do you wish to offer chimminage and join Hidden Walk? Or do you wish to stay here as a guest?

The cub shies away from the larger wolf at first, then stiffens and allows the newcomer to complete his inspection, sniffing nervously at his mane. When his attention turns once more to Blackriver, the cub tucks her tail loosely between her legs and takes a few steps back before her posture somewhat relaxes.

Lightning keeps his head ducked under Blackriver's. I will offer chiminage and stay for so long as Falcon commands me to stay. Will you set me a task or a duty? Or should I refer to the sept elder for that?

Blackriver indicates that she will set chimminage. Plopping down on her haunches, the Philodox licks her whiskers and makes a soft huffing noise. What can you offer us? She asks.
Walks-Ahead paces back and forth behind Blackriver, her paws barely clearing the train tracks, ears flitting back and forth nervously.

Lightning sits down, also, when Blackriver does, and not before. He turns his head briefly to watch the cub pacing. Do not fear me, young one, he urges her gently. I am a friend of all those whom Falcon calls His own. Then to Blackriver he replies, I can teach. I can fight. I can guard. I can tell a story on two legs or on four. I know many of the gifts that spirits show us. I even know a rite or two although they are not so much my forte. And I bear a spirit-weapon that was surrendered to me by Grandfather Thunder's tribe when its previous keeper confessed that I was worthier to bear it than he.

Blackriver's ears strain forward in curiosity, tail swishing back and forth once across the grass before coming around to curl on top of her forepaws. What is the fetish?

Walks-Ahead chuffs twice, and sits back on her haunches, her right hindleg coming up to scratch her ear.

Lightning somehow manages to convey a glow of superior pride in his posture even while remaining inferior to Blackriver. It is a klaive, borne previously by the Shadow Lords.

Blackriver lets out a soft chuff, she's impressed. I would not ask you to give up such a thing for chiminage. She decides out-loud. So I ask this. There is another cub of our tribe here, Dancer-of-Memory, who is getting close to the time of his Rite of Passage. He has few things left to learn, including the duties of his auspice sign, the gibbous moon. Teach him. I would ask you to teach Always-Walks-Ahead as well, but she is still new to the Garou, and it would take too long.

Walks-Ahead huffs again, and lays down in the broken shale-grey railroad rock.

Lightning twitches an ear. I am not the sort, he states with a slightly peeved air, to carry out chiminage and then to consider my duties done. I will always teach Falcon's children who need to be taught, cub or adult. Where is Dancer-of-Memory? When would you have him Rite?

Blackriver's lips curl back half an inch, revealing the tips of some very pointy teeth. I would expect you to teach the cubs of our tribe, regardless of what is asked of you. But I do not expect you to teach Walks-Ahead all she needs to know as your chimminage, because it would take too long. I do expect you to teach her after, because she if a cub of your tribe with your moon sign. Blackriver tries to explain, somewhat annoyed herself. Dances-Memory is in the mountains near the place the Wendigo claim as theirs, and at the den the cubs live at. He will Rite when he is ready, and no sooner. But if you teach him, he should be ready soon. He is quick to learn.

Walks-Ahead lays down in the scree and gravel, her tongue lolling out again in a dopey grin.

Lightning drops down to his belly. Your pardon, elder. I am homid-born and do not always understand well the way that my sisters born of wolf communicate. If I have caused annoyance, I crave your pardon. I did not intend any, no, no. I will find this other cub and teach him, teach him well. Do you wish me to set him his Rite task, or will you yourself retain that duty?

Blackriver flicks her ears in though, and she cants her head to the side. I will. She decides, but you will tell me when you think he is ready, and then I will go and see if I agree. A pause. I will be teaching things too of course. She adds, Non-Galliard things. He still must see the umbra, and to do that he must go to the caern.

Walks-Ahead's tongue still hangs out as her eyes glance back and forth between the elder Fangs, before being distracted by a flight of goldfinches that buzz by overhead.

Lightning's head pops back up and he looks up at Blackriver. As regards the caern, may I enter the bawn while I perform my chiminage? Child-Holder of the Black Furies has told me I am free from the Wyrm's scent.

Blackriver lets out a soft huff. I cannot decide that, only the Warder can, I will ask him if you may.

Walks-Ahead gazes back to her elders, tilting her head in contemplation.

I will not go where I am not welcome, the fostern demurs. I do not come here to stride into the sept and impose my will on it, Silver Fang though I am. The First Tribe cannot defeat the Wyrm by itself. But with the others at our shoulders, then we will. he turns to Walks-Ahead. And even the youngest garou will play their part in its defeat, he tells her with an encouraging thump of his tail.

Blackriver smooths back her whiskers with her tongue, and sniffs the air crisply, not one to be impressed by pretty words. Do you know the rite to give cubs when they are ready to be tested? She asks idly, ears flicking once.

Walks-Ahead's ears flit forward, suddenly more attentive to the elder Garou's exchange.

Lightning puts his head back on his paws. I do not. Such rites are more common among half-moons.

Blackriver chews idly on a forepaw, and flicking her ears in an 'okay'.

Walks-Ahead gets up from where she lays on the gravel, wandering off into some goldenrod and heavy-grained heads of grass that grow on the railroads shoulder. There are a few small tunnels there, the entrances about the size of a wolf's paw, and the cub begins to sniff at one of these that is haloed with fresh dirt.

Lightning turns his head to watch the cub. What have you found, young wolf? he asks, nose twitching a little.

Blackriver idly watches Walks-Ahead, jaw opening slightly, and then turns to sniff at a clump of grass near her feet.

Walks-Ahead sniffs at the tunnels some more, arching her neck proudly with her tail stiff out behind her. Ground squirrels. Male and female. With a hoard of nuts! The cub whines a bit, and starts digging at the sod around the nearest hole.

Lightning rises to his feet and walks over to the holes. You will not find your dinner by digging, no, no. They dig themselves deep and safe. If you want to catch one it is best to lurk by the hole, downwind so they do not smell you, and then pounce when they come out.

Blackriver stands up and stretches, yawning and showing off her healthy pink gums and sharp white teeth. Shifting her weight stiffly from one paw to another, she walks forward a few feet and peers at the two conversing Galliards.

Walks-Ahead growls down the hole in frustration, then prances around excitedly. That would take forever!

Lightning stretches his front paws out in a playful manner. Try it, try it and see! he invites. You will go hungry if you dig. I must go now and find the others I need to see, the sept alpha and the Warder, if Blackriver does not see him first. And of course, Dancer-of-Memory. I look forward to teaching him. The male wolf turns away, ducks his head once more to Blackriver respectfully, and trots off in the opposite direction from the caern.

"Not only do I never stop talking, but there's not too many garou who can order me to shut up."

Farmhouse: Kitchen and Dining Room
Homey is the first word to come to mind when looking at the farmhouse's kitchen. Dark, wood-paneled wainscoting covers the walls to about waist height, dark beige wallpaper continuing to the ceiling. Twin refrigerators occupy the north wall, facing the large six-burner stove on the south. The kitchen counter runs the length of the eastern wall, broken only by the double-basin sink. Cabinets run above and below the counter and a twin-pane window is set in the wall above the sink. A small pantry is set into an alcove alongside the refrigerators, presumably holding the deep freezer as well as shelves of dry goods.
Some twelve feet above the floor, a large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, lighting the dining room and casting long shadows over the bar to the kitchen. A long table occupies the center of the dining room, three chairs setting along each side, and one on each end. On the west wall, a large window looks out on the trees alongside the western pasture. Set into the north wall is a large cabinet, its glass doors closed on shelves containing a full compliment of fine china and glassware as well as a few decorative nicknacks. On the east, a wide bar separates the dining room from the kitchen.
An opening in the southern wall allows passage to the front entryway of the house, while a sliding glass door in the kitchen opens to a clearing behind the house.

It's still not even noon yet and already someone is quite out of it. Aja is currently seated on top of the table in the middle. Her longs limbs have folded up to enable her to sit cross-legged, indian style while food decorates the remainder of the table around. Someone has a bad case of munchies as bread, mustard jar, ketchup bottle, bologna, cheese and other such goodies are placed before her, while in the center is the ultimate sandwhich made up of all those parts. Piled high and standing proud, the sandwhich practically begs to be eaten. Aja's stomach growls hungrily as she reaches over to snag the plate and drag it closer to her.

She may or may not have seen it, but a couple of times in the last few days a bright yellow Mazda sports car has been seen zipping up and down the lane from the farm, or parked in the yard. If she has eyes and ears for anything but her food, Aja may note that it's just arrived again. Even if she doesn't note the car, it'll be hard for her to miss the entrance through the back door of Cedric, long hair blowing in the gentle breeze. He gives a cheery wave and a "Hi there!" as he comes into the kitchen.

AJA: Reaching a height of five foot nine, the girl can't be more than sixteen years old. Her brown skin is quite dark, contrasting sharply against her white, straight teeth. Her almond-shaped eyes are mud-brown in color, while her broad but small nose is set above her overly full lips. A large and well-tended to afro sprouts out from her head, the dark curls frizzing out to an even and clean cut halo, reminiscent of the 70's hair-style. Her body is quite long-limbed and sinewy; her curves appearing a bit exaggerated due to her lanky build. She usually moves with an unfocused, lethargic grace that adds onto her apathetic but calm presence.

She is wearing a white tank top that stops just at her navel. Her gold and wine-red skirt is a wrap-around that hangs low on her hips and reaches her ankles. The skirt has the tendency to flap about her and offer glimpses of white bicycle-shorts worn underneath. She is also wearing a pair of brown flip-flops, showing her rather calloused feet. Her only accessories are a pair of bright, amber-lense sunglasses used as a hair-band and golden hoop earings. A keychain dangles from a loop on her skirt, supporting a large number of keys. Constantly on her person or around her at least is a MkVII British Gas Mask bag.
Carrying:
keychain

Snapping her head up as if expecting Cedric to snatch her glorious sandwhich away, Aja is immediately on the defensive before she blinks at the sight of Cedric. Her hooded-eyes hood even more as she leans forward, studying the man intently, "Oh man," she whispers, "I absolutely fuckin' love your tie. Do you have one with bright colored fish on it? Or Hawaiian colors and print?" Aja asks before bringing the sandwhich up and taking a huge bite out of it. Some of the mustard and ketchup ooze out of the sides, but the sandwhich remains intact, somewhat.

Cedric reaches to his own chest to flick his tie outward into his own field of view. "Oh, that one," he says as he checks which one he chose that morning. "Nnnno, I don't think I have one with fish on. Got one with little skulls and crossbones, one with racing cars, one with Jessica Rabbit from that film..." He smiles as Aja takes a healthy bite from her sandwich. "Miss breakfast, did we, young lady?"

"Mmm, Jessica Rabbit," Aja manages to make out without being disgusting enough to show the food in her mouth. Chewing, she hurriedly swallows a large bite before she finally speaks a bit more clearly, "Fuck naw, I had breakfast three hours ago." Picking and tearing off a chunk of bologna that pokes out of the sandwhich, Aja pops it into her mouth before sucking on her thumb briefly as she continues to be transfixed by Cedric's tie. "And trust me, I ain't a young lady. I'm guessing you're the one with the flashy yellow car that I keep seeing zooming by here?"

"That would be me," confirms Cedric. "Cedric Ambermere, your very humble servant. A true pleasure to meet you. May I learn your name so I don't have to keep callin' you young lady, since you seem to find that a trifle distressin'?"

"And fancy talks," Aja remarks with a grin, "You're just flashy all over aren't you? Aja Fox, at your service within reason. Recent arrival, but hopefully a long time resident soon enough. Here is a tip for your car, Mr. Ambermere, if you mix alcohol in the gask tank, your car would use less petrol and you'd get like, more than ten percent extra mileage. It's cause of the ethenol," she rambles, waving her hand excitedly, "shit really works!"

Cedric gives Aja a slightly reproachful look. "Where I come from, Aja, they teach us manners. Especially where the fairer sex is concerned, mmm? As for my wheels... well, even after so long living over here, gas prices still seem so ludicrously low that I don't worry too much about fuel consumption. So, tell me, Aja, do you know the owner of this house? Vera, I believe, is her name?"

"Fairer sex?" Her eyebrows quirk upwards before murmuring, "Know quite a few people who wouldn't like hearing that." But still, Aja seems to shrug it off and take another big bite from her sandwhich. Chewing hungrily, she waits until she swallows before speaking, "I haven't met her yet, been meaning to, but like I said, recent arrival. I've met Veronica though, and Reggie, and that white wolf who looks like he's about to eat me even if I was towering over him. Circle Keeper! That's it, he kind of creeps me out."

Cedric nods slowly as Aja delivers her list of people. "I don't believe I've met any of them. I've met Thomas, over in town, and Laura, and that youngster, what was her name? Stacey. A white wolf, eh? One of my tribe's? Silver Fangs," he adds as though any garou above a cub couldn't tell that by looking at him. "I need to find some of them."

As he states his tribe, Aja's eyebrows shoot upwards before she just stops and stares at Cedric, "I...I've never seen a Silver Fang before. You're a-..." She stops herself and shakes her head quickly, "I mean, uh, oh wow..." A bit awestruck, Aja takes a moment before she realizes something, "Stacey? Stacey! Little girl, right? I need to see her pretty soon, but I've been uh, busy and I hear she's even more so. She's one of the Children of Gaia right? That's mine," Aja puffs up a bit more proudly, "Shrouds-the-Truth, Cliath and Ragabash of the Children of Gaia."

Cedric turns his head to one side somewhat, giving Aja a profile-shot of his noble features. "Not so many of us as there used to be," he says, "but we still keep things tickin' over. They call me Strikes-Like-Lightning, and I'm a Galliard fostern. Which means," he adds with a grin, "that not only do I never stop talking, but there's not too many garou who can order me to shut up. Some would envy me, but... I have responsibilities too."

A Fostern one too, Aja's eyes practically bug out as she stares at Cedric. Once he gives her his profile, she can't help but mutter, "Good enough to be stamped on mint coins. That's just...crazy though." She shakes her head before giving him a broad and toothy grin, flashing her pearly whites; "So you should be Mr. Ambermere-rhya," Aja declares before moving to take another bite. Hesitating, she eyes her sandwhich mournfully before extending her hand to offer the dripping mess towards Cedric, "Yea, but you can order all us little grunts around. Sandwhich?"

Cedric looks at the sandwich, oozing mustard, ketchup, mayo and who knows what else at every edge, and shakes his head. "Most thoughtful of you, Aja, but I ate already. Rhya me if you will, but please do call me Cedric, or Lightning if you're in the war-form. I have more names than the average car has wheels, but I tend to only trot most of them out on ceremonial occasions. You say you're a recent arrival, too? Where do you hail from originally, if it's not pryin' to ask?"

"It's not pryin'," Aja remarks as she happily brings the sandwhich back to it's rightful place, up to her mouth. Taking a smaller bite, she quickly chews and swallows before continuing, "Oregon. South of here actually. They have better pot there, but beggars can't be choosers. They do have better music here though." Aja shifts her weight on the table before canting her head to one side as she studies Cedric, "What about you, Cedric-Rhya? What did you call home before?"

Cedric's eyes narrow a fraction at the mention of pot. But he doesn't mention the subject, preferring to simply respond to her question. "Carolina, Virginia, Connecticut, Maine, Ontario, Newfoundland, and England, in reverse order of time," he responds. "Falcon's path has led me half way round the world, and I wonder if he doesn't plan to take me on round the other half yet."

"Newfie land? You went to Newfie Land?" Aja declares with a broad grin, "Damn, did you freeze your tootsie off?" She makes a face before shaking her head. "I can stand cold, but not that cold. That is fascinating though. I've only been out of Oregon once, and this is it." Making a face, Aja shakes her head, "Not so glamorous but hey, we each have to make do. So what did you come across over there? I mean, did you see some really nasty shit?" She inquires with a broad grin like a thirteen year old kid at the promise of blood and gore details. She is definitely out of it.

Cedric had already suspected something of the kind. "Silver Fangs," he declares, "come from Russia and cold places like that. Newfoundland doesn't even make us break out an extra pullover. As for, ahem, 'nasty shit'... that is everywhere, until we get our act together and wipe this beautiful planet clean of it. I could definitely have done without the wrecker's yard full of fomori and spirits. Got my face half burnt off by battery acid..." He leans forward towards Aja, a lock of his hair falling over his prominent cheekbone. "See, there? Could have blinded me. But there was a truly awesome member of your tribe, another Fostern, and he put my face back together so well you can't see the join. Can you?" He pushes the hair back, inviting Aja to examine his smooth-skinned physiognomy. Certainly if there's any scar there it'd take a microscope to detect.

Fascinated by the story, Aja leans forward to take a peek herself. She has no qualms about getting right into Cedric's personal space as she gets a little 'whoa' look while staring at his face. Aja tilts her head from side to side before shaking it, "Shit! Not a scar. Whoever that fucker is, and I mean fucker in utmost respect, I want him to do my plastic surgery. Or shit, learn Mother's Touch from." Aja continues to take sneak peaks towards his face before she suddenly blurts out, "you have crazy eyes."

"Rex Benson was his name," Cedric rattles off, "and ~Bad-Attitude~ was his deedname, though I don't know why, because he seemed a right-on fellow to me." His eyes twinkle as he's complimented upon them. "Crazy? Well, they work, I've had no complaints about them."

"Yea, crazy as in good, not as in, you know, 'crazy'." She wriggles her fingers at the second crazy to emphasize the spooky quality of the word. Aja then grins broadly once more as she grabs her sandwhich and turns to jump off the table. "I better get back outside for uh, a smoke. It's one of those days," she murmurs the last bit sagely before biting into her sandwhich.

Cedric peers through into the empty living room. "And if neither Vera nor anyone else is here," he comments, "I may go for a walk around the bawn's edge, just to see if anyone is about. I won't cross into it, of course, unless invited." He crosses the kitchen and pushes open the back door. "Sometime," he adds, "maybe when we're both less preoccupied, I'll have to take you for a run in my wheels."

At that suggestion, Aja perks up before she glances towards him, "I would love you," she mouthes to him before grinning once more. "Thanks, Cedric-rhya. Pleasure to have met you," she finally manages with normal volume as she lifts her free hand in a lethargic wave, "See you around."

Cedric lifts one hand to his mouth as he stands in the doorway. "Steady, now," he murmurs. "I know some septs where even saying something like that can get a girl into trouble." And he gives Aja a knowing wink before he slips outside and crosses the barnyard towards the fields.

"I hate to say it... it sounds damn' boastful... but, well. I am the Chosen of Falcon."

Farmhouse: Kitchen and Dining Room
Homey is the first word to come to mind when looking at the farmhouse's kitchen. Dark, wood-paneled wainscoting covers the walls to about waist height, dark beige wallpaper continuing to the ceiling. Twin refrigerators occupy the north wall, facing the large six-burner stove on the south. The kitchen counter runs the length of the eastern wall, broken only by the double-basin sink. Cabinets run above and below the counter and a twin-pane window is set in the wall above the sink. A small pantry is set into an alcove alongside the refrigerators, presumably holding the deep freezer as well as shelves of dry goods.
Some twelve feet above the floor, a large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, lighting the dining room and casting long shadows over the bar to the kitchen. A long table occupies the center of the dining room, three chairs setting along each side, and one on each end. On the west wall, a large window looks out on the trees alongside the western pasture. Set into the north wall is a large cabinet, its glass doors closed on shelves containing a full compliment of fine china and glassware as well as a few decorative nicknacks. On the east, a wide bar separates the dining room from the kitchen.
An opening in the southern wall allows passage to the front entryway of the house, while a sliding glass door in the kitchen opens to a clearing behind the house.

The rural peace surrounding the farmhouse is shattered this September lunchtime by the roar of an engine and the sound of gravel from the drive being flung aside by swiftly turning wheels, both audible inside the farmhouse, not to mention outside. There's a squeal of tires, a screech of brakes, and the engine is turned off. If Laura looks through the kitchen window she'll see a yellow sports car parked up in the barnyard at a jaunty angle; and whether or not she does, within a few seconds an equally jaunty knock sounds at the back door.

All thoughts of a quiet cup of tea are quickly dismissed as stones fly and rubber is burned outside. The Fury, previously just turning to pick the whistling kettle off of the stove, instead turns about to face the window. Before she investigates that strange glimpse of yellow, the knock comes. The woman takes a moment to straighten herself then walks to the back door, leaving the kettle howling. "Hello?" she asks as she sets a hand on the sliding door.

A gleam of smiling teeth almost shines through the crack in the door which Laura opens cautiously. "Hello, there!" comes a voice from behind the teeth. "Do I have the right place? Are you... ahem... a friend of Stacey's?"

"I am," Laura confirms, stepping back and aside and opening the door further. "Come in. She isn't here right now, if it's specifically her you're looking for." She glances at the kettle, then walks over to take it off of the stove.

"No, she wouldn't be," the man agrees. "I would expect her job keeps her from visiting very often." He raises one eyebrow to Laura in a signal that his words have an extra meaning. "I'm really after another friend of hers named Vera, or a woman whom I understand they call Black River?"

Laura pours the boiling water into the teapot, then pulls a cloth satchel from her pocket. She dumps the contents into the pot. "I haven't seen either. The latter prefers walks in the woods, though. She may be more difficult to locate than Vera." She turns about, her eyes slightly unfocusing, her nostrils flaring slightly.

"Again, I'd expect no less," drawls the man. "Oh, to blazes with this charade. You quite plainly know why I'm here. My name is Cedric Ambermere, and I'm here to join you." He thrusts out his hand in a vigorous movement towards Laura as she turns.

"Good." Laura shakes the hand firmly, then steps past to shut the door. "My name is Laura, Theurge of the Black Furies. Elder to my tribe and daughter of Great Wolverine, in the pack called Havoc." She rattles off the introduction quickly, already heading for the teapot again. "Tea?"

Cedric gives Laura's hand a squeeze that's firm but not too firm, for just the right length of time. "I'd murder for a cup," he declares. "In full, I am Strikes-as-Fast-as-Lighting-From-a-Clear-Sky, fostern and galliard of the Silver Fangs, and... whoa. Havoc? You're one of Clemency's packmates?"

Laura nods in response, pulling the necessities for a civilized cuppa from the cupboards and fridge. "I am," she states simply, pouring her own cup and offering one to the elder. "She's gone to Falcon, a few months ago," she adds thoughtfully, stirring some honey into her tea.

"I spoke to her cousin," Cedric says in a slightly strained voice. "It was she who suggested my leadership skills might be needed her now that Clemency is fallen." He takes the offered cup and stares into it as though reading tea-leaves, despite it being still full. "My destiny," he goes on, "has led me halfway round the world, and may lead further yet, but... we shall have to see." He half-turns his head and gives a little rueful smile to empty air.

"I don't know the state the Silver Fangs are in. Blackriver is their elder, and I've heard here and there that there might be new cubs in the tribe." Sipping to test the taste of her drink, Laura nods to herself. "What does your destiny speak of, or is it something between yourself and the spirits?"

Cedric looks back to Laura. "I didn't just mean the tribe," he explains. "From what I hear your sept, though strong, is not unified. I can help with that. Yes," he says, finally taking an appreciative sip of his tea. "That's my destiny, you see. I hate to say it... it sounds damn' boastful... but, well. I am the Chosen of Falcon." Cedric gives Laura a rueful, abashed smile.

Laura's eyes narrow, but her smile quirks up at the edges. "Something I've never heard of. How does one become the Chosen of Falcon?" she asks, studying the Silver Fang again. "And what does it mean, aside from all of those qualities associated with your noble totem?"

Cedric rubs at his fine, dark gold hair distractedly. "It isn't a tribal post or anything," he explains, still seeming somewhat shy. "It's a literal thing. Falcon came to me, told me I was His chosen one to reunite the Garou and lead us back to glory and triumph over the darkness of the Wyrm, and gave me His guide to lead and accompany me. I don't expect this to be an easy role to fulfil, or a quick one, but it is my calling and I follow it." His face tilts up a little and his chin points towards Laura in an expression of the firmness of his resolve.

Laura's back straightens a little in response and she crosses her arms. "Then I hope Falcon has judged well," she finally says, having another long drink of tea. "Especially in sending you to this place. You know, I imagine, at least some of the history of this caern and this state?"

"Not as much as I'd like to," Cedric replies, pulling out a chair for himself with a raised eyebrow to Laura that invites her to forbid him to sit if she wishes, or perhaps if she dares. "As a galliard, I'm always more than ready to hear a good tale, though."

Laura instead makes a gracious motion with one hand, no sense of denial about it. "I'm no Galliard. All I can tell is what I have heard and what I was told. My best friend...well, she was, at one time. She told me plenty of what there was to know. So. What can I fill in for you?" She pours herself more tea, then takes a seat opposite the fostern.

"Let's see," Cedric drawls as he sits back and lids his eyes in thought. "Caern lay dormant for the longest damn' time up till '90 or so. Since then, been a real pick-n-mix of the tribes ever since. Spirals took it once, briefly, then got kicked back out. Know a few names of my tribe from up here... Justice, and Brittany, and... mm... Velia was it?"

"May have been," Laura says with a shrug. "Originally the caern was a Wendigo caern, the Wheel. They would know more of what happened to lay it to rest the first time, but I believe a great beast came and killed them. Then it was reopened by Garou of several tribes, and ever since it's been that way. It was the Wheel Renewed for some time, until it became the Hidden Walk when a new totem spirit replaced the old. Before the Spirals took it, the caern totem was Fog. When we reclaimed it, the totem became Chimera." She taps her nails on the table, then continues. "If names are important, I can tell you of Tobin, a student and great friend of mine, and Wilbur Wright, my respected equal. I met Brittany once...and there was Brigid, whose life I saved. Others may know more about Jana and the others...They're just a few of your tribemates who've walked here."

"Wilbur Wright, Wilbur Wright," Cedric muses. "That name rings a bell too. Even in this sad age, there are still too many members of the First Tribe for one galliard to remember the name and deeds of every second cousin twice removed across an ocean. Which I suppose we should take as heartening." He gives Laura another of his little smiles. "And by the looks of you, would I be right in guessing that there may be one more Black Fury on her way?"

"You would." The woman touches her side briefly. "Another sign not everything is lost. I suppose you haven't had time to cool your heels and start a family, or has Falcon asked that of you?" Laura sips at her tea, reaching for the pot to warm it up.

Cedric smiles more broadly at that. "If I have left any little Fangs behind me in my travels, I don't know about it. I won't say it's impossible," he concedes with an airy wave of his hand. "I'll be honest enough... especially to a Fury... to admit that my predestined path as a wanderer does grant me the fringe benefit -- if benefit it be -- of being impossible to tie down. I don't have a girl in quite every port, but there's been a few."

Laura's eyebrow rises slightly. "I can't say I approve, but I won't tear into you for it. I'm not your mother, I'm not the tribesmate who'll have to pick up after the Change. If we didn't need more Garou, though..." She shakes a finger at him, but there's a slight smile backing it up. "Tsk tsk."

"I neither expected nor requested your approval," Cedric responds with perfect smoothness. "But you asked, so I answered. It is a Galliard's job to pass on information when asked, surely?" He sips tea genteelly. "In my defence, ma'am, I should perhaps say that to my knowledge, none of my paramours..." He pauses there a moment as though mentally checking something, then resumes. "...have been kin to Garou of my tribe or any other."

Laura nods. "Mm. Of course, and that is your business." She inclines her head to him, then sits back. "So where were you last? California? Seems we see more than enough from there."
Cedric shakes his head. "I've driven across country from the South," he says. "And before that, down from Canada. Stopped off at several septs for brief spells, and at two for a year or more each, since I left England. And no, I'm not renouncing to Strider," he quips. "Are you from hereabouts originally, Laura?"

"Canada, actually. Quebec, to be further specific. Spent my formative years around the Wendigo in Northern Quebec, then came here awhile, went back and then came back here. Whereabouts in Canada were you?" Laura offers him the teapot to freshen his cup.

Cedric finishes his cup and pours himself a second. "Near Toronto, mostly," he replies. "Couple of hours' drive north-east of it. A sept led by Shadow Lords. It was odd," he says with an almost nostalgic look on his face. "They started by giving me the frozen shoulder, then graduated to keeping me around like some kind of mascot or pet, then by the end they respected me enough that they looked up to me and gave me an artefact of the sept, even. I could have stayed, but they were on the right path, and Falcon called me on once more."

Laura cants her head to one side. "An artefact? A fetish, or something else?" She leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on the palm of one hand.

"A klaive," Cedric replies in the most studiedly casual manner, as though a klaive were part of every well-dressed garou's everyday wardrobe these days.

Laura's hand drops to her thigh. "A klaive?" she repeats, now staring at the Silver Fang. "You carry a klaive? Which one?" She glances down, as though she'll see it through the table.

Cedric can't suppress his look of pride. "It was given to me by Rubin Vadascovinich, ~Life-Out-of-Death~, a Shadow Lord, as I said. He told me that though none but Shadow Lords had ever held it before, he saw it as his duty to surrender it to me as I was the only garou he had ever met who deserved to wield such a blade. Its name is..." He lifts his hand to his mouth, concealing a smile perhaps or a grimace, hard to tell. "...is hard to pronounce. To one who speaks no Serbian."

Laura leans back in her seat and gives the Silver Fang a look of admiration. "Impressive. More than that. You must be very impressive as a leader as well as a warrior to have earned such an honor," she says, inclining her head slightly to him. "We're honored to have you and that which you carry with us."

"I can show you if you wish," Cedric offers. "Though as a visitor to this sept who has yet to even agree chiminage, far less perform any, I will not carry silver into the presence of another garou unless specifically invited and permitted. What kind of service would usually be seen as chiminage here?" he asks, as though the mention of the subject has reminded him of this question. "And is it organised by tribal elders or by the sept elder?"

"Tribal elders take care of chiminage. I know that some have had to do guard-work as chiminage, others were to teach rites, some were to perform rites. I was asked to instruct a cub in the Ways of my tribe," Laura rattles off, still starstruck at mention of the klaive Cedric carries. "I won't ask to see the klaive until you're a septmate."

"Suffice to say," Cedric declares, "that within reason I shall be glad to perform any task, service, or education. Rites are not a strong point with me, but between spirits and other garou, I have picked up various gifts; perhaps I can teach some. Your packmate Thomas Grey suggested that the city over yonder badly needs some attention," he goes on, "whereas the bawn's edges seem well guarded. My howl of introduction was very soon answered by a young cliath named Walks-Middle who asked me all the right questions. Although she could not test me for the Wyrm. Do you know of one who can, apart from Blackriver?"

Laura smiles slightly. "I already have, or else I wouldn't have been quite so loose with the information I've given you. I will tell the Guardians and anyone else who needs to know that I've checked you, and I state that you are untainted by the enemy's touch." She stands, then tucks her chair back under the table. "But for now, I should visit my son. If I meet those you need to speak with on the way, I'll tell them you're looking for them."

Cedric lifts his teacup in salute to Laura. "Be well, Fury. Do I have permission to remain here meantime?"

"You do." And with that, Laura turns and exits the building, hurrying off to parts unknown.