"Do my words upset you, my pippin?"

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.

Erika sits on a stool at the kitchen, with a smorgasbord of food laid out in front of her. Right now she is working at a T-bone pork chop, barely cooked by the looks at it, stabbing at it with a dull wooden-handled steak and forcing large chunks into her mouth. Also on her plate are three eggs sunny-side up, generously topped with pepper and ketchup, and a fourth of a pumpkin pie. Sitting further away on the bar is the better part of a loaf of wonderbread, an apple core, a drinking glass with the residue of some orange juice at the bottom, and a jar of Tom & Jerry's Jelly with a sticky-looking knife balanced across its mouth. The girl is wearing a different shirt now, an oversized blue Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt, and has a wet towel wrapped around her head and hair.

If Erika's been concentrating on her food as much as the residue of it around her suggests, she may not hear the throaty roar of the engine of Cedric's MX-5 as it passes the house and pulls up in the yard. Hopefully, though, she'll hear the fostern's polite tap at the back door.

Erika looks up from her meal, choking down one last bite of pork and wiping her chin with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. As she approaches the door, it can be seen that she is wearing some red-and-green plaid cotton pyjama bottoms, and is barefoot. A broad smile of recognition comes over her face as she runs to the glass door, sliding it open wide with a shove. "Cedric!"

"It is I," Cedric agrees, with impeccable grammar. "Who might you be? I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, young lady."

Erika shrinks back from the doorway, rubbing her hand against her face as though to try to hide it as it blushes red enough to obscure the girl's many freckles. "Geez, Cedric-rhya, I'm sorry. It's me....Erika. Walks-Ahead." Her voice is high-pitched and clear, and redolent with a thick, slightly nasal twang, readily recognizeable as being from Appalachia to most who have spent time in the US.

Cedric clicks his fingers. "And if I'd been thinking straight I should have been able to guess. Who else in this sept have I met without seeing them on two legs? Well, Blackriver, of course, but you're a little young to be her. So you made it to the farm at last!" He saunters inside as Erika moves back, and observes the sundry food items around the table. "Ah, I see you've been enjoying some real food again," he smiles.

"Erm, yeah", the girl says, looking bashfully down at her feet, face still flushed. "They told me I could cook whatever I wanted, so long as I ate it all, so..." Erika bites her lip as she looks at the array of dishes on the counter; from here it can be seen that the mess extends to a frying pan and several unwashed dishes laying in the sink. "Uh, I could fix you something if you like."

"Your manners do you credit," declares Cedric, "but I'm good. I'm sure there are other hungry cubs out here who need the supplies, anyhoo, while I can easily drive into town and get myself food. Actually," he parenthesises, "does the farm need any supplies restocking? I've got money, I've got a car, I can easily help out."

"Gee, I dunno." Erika grabs the bread and closes its bag with a twist tie, replaces the cap on the jam, and plunks the dirty knife and glass down in the sink. She wrings her hands nervously once they are no longer occupied. "Cole-rhya is supposed to be in charge here, but he's been out all day, so I really don't know what sorta things they need and what they don't."

Cedric helps himself to a chair and sits in it with crossed legs. "Not a trace of your moon-mate Dances-Memory," he tells Erika. "I do hope he hasn't gone feral. It can happen, you know. Where a garou for whatever reason goes into lupus form and just stays there, ends up living as a normal wolf to all intents and purposes. I'll need to find Blackriver again and tell her of my problems. Who's Cole-rhya?"

Erika looks down again. "Um, Cole? Howls-for-Glory? He's a Galliard, part of Blackriver's pack." The girl takes the plate now, and spears one of the eggs, barely chewing it before swallowing it down. "He is the Fianna elder, and the guy that takes care of this place. I was hoping to get hold of him this afternoon and ask for some chores or something. Not having anything to do makes me go crazy." Taking out a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, the girl dumps in the remaining food--porkchop, pie, and all--before putting the sealed bag in the refrigerator, and the soiled plate in the sink.

Cedric nods. "Okay. Yet to meet him, or any Fianna here. Are you alone in the house right now? I was hoping to pick the brains of some of the locals about whether there were any likely prospects for houses I could buy near here. I'm sure I saw one place with a for-sale sign outside when I first visited, but no sign of it today."

Erika wipes down the counter with a greyed wet dishrag. "Sorry, Cedric-rhya. There are lots of piles of clothes and personal stuff around, but all the cubs must be having a field-day or something." The girl looks nervously up at the wall, as though looking at a clock, though the wall is bare. "Dances-Memory didn't seem like he was ready to turn into a wolf for good. Looked like he wasn't any more used to lupus than I was...But he did seem sorta emotional and edgy."

Cedric regards Erika coolly with his deep hazel eyes. "I myself don't believe in leaving cubs alone for any longer than can be helped," he says. "So many things can happen to them, and they are so very precious... Gaia grant that he remains safe and well. But perhaps I am being a silly old woman of a homid, and Blackriver is right. Perhaps putting our cubs out in the wild on four legs will make you strong and smart." He looks as though he's far from sure of that point.

Erika falls still, hanging her face to hide her eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. Walking over to the sink, she tears off a paper towel to wipe her nose, then starts noisily running some water and clanging the dishes around loudly as she washes them.

Cedric turns his head a little to watch Erika as she starts washing dishes. "Erika," he says in a very calm, very gentle voice. "Do my words upset you, my pippin?"

Erika picks up a pad of steel wool, scrubbing furiously at the skillet. She squirts far too much dish detergent on it, standing up to bring as much pressure to bear on the pan as her modest size will allow, and scrubs at the pan until the water inside turns grey-black and the teflon lining begins to wear thin.

Cedric sighs. "I am sorry, then," he says, evidently taking silence as assent. "But my words were not untrue. There is no one right way to do the majority of things in this world, and raising cubs is one of them."

Erika continues washing the pan, more slowly now. Her voice has the nasal tone and halting tempo of one who has been crying. "Blackriver does care about us." The girl says, trying to say it vehemently enough to convince herself. "She wouldn't have put us alone out there if she didn't know we could take care of ourselves." Giving up the charade at the sink, the girl turns around and slumps down against the kitchen counter. Her face is red and puffy, her eyes and nose watering, her voice wavering. "Blackriver does care about us. She does. She does."

Cedric pushes his chair back and stands up. "Goodness me!" he spits out, rather more curtly than his usual relaxed mode of speech, and he takes three quick strides over towards the sink. "Erika, I do not doubt for one instant that she does. She is a Silver Fang, and will discharge her duty to those in her care with her utmost efforts." One hand rests on Erika's shoulder. "Let the day never come," he says quietly, firmly, "that I cannot take a different viewpoint to any garou without it being thought I am accusing them of dishonour."

Erika: No longer a child but not yet a woman, the wiry physique of the teenager before you suggests that she will always have a rather boyish figure. Standing a few inches over five feet tall, her narrow face ends with a pointed jaw. Her short, straight nose is generously flecked with freckles, which continue on to her ruddy cheeks and prominent cheekbones in a butterfly-like pattern. Long blonde lashes frame her pale-rimmed blue eyes. A platinum-blonde ponytail flows down to her shoulders from the back of her blue-and-white baseball cap, which is emblazoned with a silver-and-red 'T'. A nut-brown tan covers her face and arms but fades to paleness at the sleeves of her pink and grey T-shirt, which bears the word 'Espirit' in block letters. Her lanky legs sport a threadworn pair of blue jeans with frayed cuffs and carefully mended patches on the knees. The worn tread on her battered silver-and-white Nikes speak of many months of use.

A filthy well-beaten wide-brimmed hat is the first thing one is likely to notice about Fred. Followed by the fact that he is wearing a pair of equally filthy jeans, that are being held up by a pair of suspenders. A once white shirt is only partially closed due to missing buttons and is more of a grayish brown these days, the elbows having long since worn through. Easily visible under the shirt is a necklace made out of turtle shells, feathers, and sinew, that is easily visible to to a shirt that is lacking all but three buttons near the bottom. There are two small but clearly defined sigils on the largest and central shell. Fred's feet are adorned by well used leather boots, dark tan in color and lacking any laces. Across his shoulders, the fellow carries a well worn cloth bag that clearly holds a few items.
Fred stands at just under six feet in height and is Caucasian by descent, with a heavy brown beard that more closely resembles a small forest then facial hair. The parts of his face that are not obscured by the beard are heavily tanned and wrinkled and one would guess his age to be forty or older.


Erika sits on the floor near the kitchen sink, with her back to the wooden cabinets. The girl is wearing a mismatched blue sweatshirt and red plaid pyjama bottoms, and has a pink towel wrapped around her wet hair. Her face is red and glistens with tears, and Cedric is standing over her with his hand gently on her shoulder. The girl shrinks back just a little from the elder Garou's touch, but then relaxes, her body going limp. She stares at the corner of the room and breathes raggedly for a bit, the color in her face gradually returning to normal.

Cedric pats Erika's shoulder twice, and then withdraws a little distance. "I should watch my words more carefully at this time of the month," he says, looking somewhat shamefaced.

Fred arrives at the glass door leading to the kitchen, huffing and puffing away. A largish bundle of what looks like furs is draped across his shoulders, as the filthy Gnawer struggles to get the door open.

Erika rolls forwards onto her feet, and mumbles an apology to the Fostern Fang. "I'm sorry, Cedric-rhya. I shouldn't have broken down." Wiping her face once more on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, she strides towards the back door, helping the man slide the glass panes open along their tracks. "Hello, Fred-rhya."

Cedric cocks his head on one side as he regards Fred. "Good afternoon," he greets him in his usual crisp English accent. He reaches one hand out to greet the newcomer, with perhaps the faintest of hesitation, his own immaculate grooming and dress contrasting utterly with Fred's grimy style.

Fred drops the large bundle onto the table with an audible *thump* and whips his sweaty hands on the front of his filthy shirt. "Howdy," he replies, getting his breath back fairly easily. "Yer soundin' like one of them Red Coats. Yer type in these parts now adays?" He asks, extending a hand.

Erika takes several steps backwards, giving the two men plenty of room as her eyes go from one to the other.

Cedric blinks at Fred, completely flummoxed. "Redcoat? Believe me, sir, this is no holiday camp and I may be a galliard but I'm not an entertainer," he responds, a trifle warmly.

Fred shrugs after taking his hand back and goes to untie his bundle. "Ain't knowin' what yer talkin' 'bout an' was referin' ta the red coats the Brit's army wears. Ma name is Fred, iffin' yer carin'. Bone Gnawer an' Philodox."

Erika darts past Cedric, with a quick glance up at him, and busies herself once more in scrubbing the pile of dirty china laying in the sink.

"Cedric Ambermere," Cedric replies, still seeming a little stunned by Fred. "Silver Fang, galliard, fostern, and newcomer to this sept. I don't know what the dickens you mean about the army, though. Our fellows haven't worn red since the year dot."

Fred shrugs once again, removing a rather bloody looking bundle from the center. At least fifty pounds of deer meet are carried over to the counter next to Erika. "Need ta put this some where so it doesn't soil." Looking back over at Cedric, the Gnawer gives his beard a tug. "They were wearin' them when I was here before, but lotsa things have gone an changed on me."

"Okay, Fred-rhya." the girl says with a smile. Putting the last of the plates back up in a cupboard, she rummages around in the kitchen drawer to produce a large meat cleaver, and then walks over to the living room to pick up a large sheath of old newspapers.

Cedric gives the unwrapped bundle of raw flesh a rather fastidious look. "My goodness," he murmurs. "Erika... can you help the... gentleman get this into the freezer?" He may be the senior-ranked garou present, but he seems the least at ease with the situation.

Fred flashes a yellow toothed grin at the Fostern. "Ya want some? S'good meat. Only brought it here cause I can't smoke it all before it goes off."

Erika returns to the kitchen. "I'd be happy to!" she says, and sharpens the butcher's knife with a few quick strokes from a pumice stone. The girl cuts off two pounds of venison with the cleaver, wrapping it in newspaper and marking it 'venison, October 2006'. "This buck musta been big, Fred-rhya. How many points did he have?"

Cedric shakes his head again. "No... no, very kind and all that, but no, I'm not really in the mood." He's backing visibly away. "So thoughtful of you," he murmurs as he finds the door behind him and slides it open. "Maybe later," and he's through it and gone.

Fred wrinkles up his nose after Cedric leaves. "Big city type, ain't used ta where his meat actually comes from. Can't say I counted."