"Okay, you're a werewolf, I'm a werewolf, we're all happy little werewolves."

Farmhouse: Hallway and Living Room
All doorways in the front part of the house lead to the front hallway, a J-shaped area with the short tail starting at the stairs, the front door hitting the bottom curve, the doorless opening to the living room halfway up the long side, and the also doorless opening to the kitchen and dining room at the very top. The hall has a simple wooden floor, and decorated with a generic print of soft-colored flowers hanging on the wall to the right of the front door, and a tall table sitting under the print which serves as a place to toss keys. A closet under the stairs serves as a place to hang coats or to toss shoes.
The doorless opening to the living room is halfway up the side of the hall's J, and the word cozy might spring to mind when looking into is, as it seems to radiate comforting vibrations. A long couch sits against the south wall beneath a large bay window curtained only by sheers that manages to obscure the view in but only filters the day's light. A variety of out-of-date magazines are strewn atop a low coffee table; more neatly presented are the plethora of books filling the small bookshelves which line the eastern wall. Three chairs sit about the room, focused inward, to allow group conversations. Large floor pillows are stacked in one corner of the room, except one, which lies carelessly in the middle of the floor, apparently left out the last time it was used.
An opening in the northern end of the hallway allows access to the kitchen and dining room at the back of the house, while carpeted stairs twist up at the other end of the hall, leading to the second floor. A door at the base of the J lets out to the front porch.

Cedric comes through from the farmhouse kitchen bearing a late breakfast in the form of grilled bacon and eggs over easy on toast; not high cuisine, but he seems happy enough with his lot. Only the cruel would suggest that the Silver Fang is proud of having made his own breakfast for once instead of having a servant make it for him. He's about to sink into a chair when he hears footsteps from the stairs, and he remains standing, waiting to see who's coming down.

He's short, for one thing, but that's to be expected in children. Of obvious Arabic descent, Hashim has the typical olive-brown skin, dark hair, and other facial features that mark his heritage. Early guesses would put him in his early teenage years, and of roughly average height and build. He often seems caught in mid-frown, and this combined with his generally taciturn and withdrawn nature gives the impression of a somewhat moody, somewhat sullen teenager.
His clothes are a little more ragged in appearance than the rest of him, second-hand cast-offs that wouldn't suffer from a closer acquaintance with washing machines. At least they're warm, if not somewhat aromatic. Those baggy jeans are a little too big on him, and the long-sleeved Mickey Mouse sweatshirt a little too small, but they work well enough. That's all covered with the type of ugly brown winter jacket that no reasonably sane person would buy new, and rounded out with a pair of cheaply made sneakers on his feet, their laces left untied as some minor act of rebellion. Or maybe he's just lazy.

Hashim tromps his way noisily down the steps, no missing him or his heavy feet, with hair still damp from a recent shower. In sullen teenage fashion, he just seems to radiate annoyance, if not at Cedric in particular than at the state of the world in general. A few steps shy of the bottom he pauses. His eyes are drawn toward the sword that Cedric has. "You some sort of ninja?" he asks eventually, and one can almost hear the smirk behind the words.

Cedric gives Hashim a long intent look. Then he places his plate down on the table slowly and deliberately. "I am not 'some kind of ninja', no," he retorts in an icily British accent. "I am Cedric Glazebrook St.Mawr Ambermere, fostern galliard of the Silver Fangs, who Strikes like Lightning from a Clear Sky. This sword I carry was given to me as of right by the Shadow Lords of the Caern of the Dripping Water in Ontario, and I bear it for Falcon and Gaia. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" He gives the word 'pleasure' a heavy, ironic emphasis, and his handsome face fixes in a frown as his eyes transfix Hashim.

Hashim still exudes sullenness, it seems rather ingrained with him. He loses a very, very slight edge of the attitude, though. You'd need a fine measure to gauge it, though. "Hashim," he answers, and just the first name, as if to counter Cedric's length introduction. He does, however, think to add: "Of Spokane." There's some sizing up of the man on his part, too, and whatever he sees, it keeps him quiet for a few moments longer. Until he adds, with another faint smirk, "I'm not a ninja either." Only then does he clump his way down the remaining three steps to floor level.

"Ninjas are rare in these parts," says Cedric with an air of understatement. "So if you're not a ninja, what the dooce are you?" He's still eyeing up Hashim with an inquisitive air. "You got a tribe? Or an auspice?"

Hashim fingers the side of his neck, scratching there idly as he tries to recognize the words. He's not straying from the stairway quite yet even though a glance is given toward the kitchen, his destination earlier. "I-- maybe." He shrugs, then makes some vague motion with his hand as he asks his own question. "So are you one of them? You know?"

"If I wasn't," Cedric deadpans back, "I wouldn't be standin' here watchin' my breakfast go cold. If you weren't," he adds, "I would be killin' you and disposin' of your body while my breakfast went cold. Come on, boy. Give me some information." He takes a step towards Hashim. Just one.

Hashim's posture shifts slightly, something touched more with both wariness and a certain sense of alertness. He's not particularly comfortable in the house here, 'kidnapped' by strangers, but is doing his level best not to show it. "I'd tell you if I could. I told you what I name. Hashim Farah. I'm from Spokane. In eighth grade. Werewolf." That's all said in the same slightly sullen manner he's been exuding, which continues as he draws a hand up, making hooked fingers like a claw. "Rawr." That has to be the most half-hearted, ambivalent mockery of a growl ever given, too.

Cedric doesn't step any closer to Hashim, but neither does he back off. "Okay, you're a werewolf," he drawls, "I'm a werewolf, we're all happy little werewolves. Who brought you here? What did they tell you?"

"I'm not happy," Hashim states quite definitely, lest someone get the wrong opinion here. "And it was... uh, I forget her name. I don't even know where 'here' is, I forget what happened, exactly. I got some story about staying put and doing what I'm told and not trying to run, respecting elders, and, uh, oh yeah, don't tell anyone who's not inside the house about werewolves or I'd be killed. Maybe there was some more stuff, I was distracted."

Cedric rubs his chin. "Goddamn," he sighs. "It ought to sound like a thin cover story, but in this crazy sept I can quite believe it, especially if you're a lost cub. Does the word 'kinfetch' mean a damn' thing to you?" he asks, with the air of a man expecting the answer 'no'.

Hashim doesn't disappoint. "Not a thing." Then he points at the breakfast plate, already going cold. "Is there more of that in there? I'm starved."

Cedric nods curtly. Then he seems to relent a little. "Hell," he says, "have that yourself. I'll whip some more up." He beckons Hashim through to the kitchen. "Let me tell you some stuff. Sit at the kitchen table and tuck in while I talk." The words are spoken pleasantly enough, but he clearly expects to be obeyed.

Hashim actually doesn't hesitate here, and though there's still that sullen teenaged mood that hangs over him like a cloud, he actually does show some manner. "Okay. Thanks." He takes the plate, and scarfs down one piece of bacon before he even reaches the kitchen. "What did you say your name was, again? By the time you got to the end of all you were saying I forgot the beginning." And there goes a second slice of bacon. He'll wait to sit before attacking the eggs.

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.

Cedric walks through to the kitchen with Hashim in tow, and opens up the fridge again. Through chance or laziness he hasn't put the frying pan in to wash, and it's still warm on the stove. "Cedric's enough," he says. "Unless you're one of my family, and..." He looks at Hashim critically. "I very much doubt that, alas. Cedric Ambermere, or Lightning. And it's polite, in our society, to add '-rhya' to the name of one who's your social superior, which I'm afraid is pretty much everyone for you at present, Hashim."

Hashim sprawls in a sit at the table, and attacks the eggs with a fork. Stab, chew, swallow, talk. "Cedric, okay, I think just one name is enough for me to remember, I suck at names. Cedric-rhya." There. He adds the honorific, and if he sounds sullen still, well, that's probably just how he is. "Were you making more bacon? Because I could eat more bacon. More toast, too." You know. Growing werewolves and all.

Cedric gives a dry chuckle and empties the whole packet of bacon into the pan. "Okay, Hashim," he says as it starts to sizzle. "Let's start with the very very basics. Werewolves, or garou as we tend to call ourselves, come divided into a dozen sub-groups or more. Tribes. Some larger than others. Those of us who know our family history know what tribe we're from. These days, though, a lot of youngsters like you aren't easy to place. I shan't patronise you by asking if you had any garou in your family tree that you knew of," he adds, "since garou don't advertise their existence. That's rule one of fight club, as it were."

Hashim resonates with that reference. "Hey, I saw that movie too! I saw it on DVD last summer. 'The first rule of Fight Club is -- you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is -- you DO NOT talk about Fight Club.' Hey, did you see that Gladiator movie? I saw that one too, with what's his name, that guy in it, you know?"

"Russel Crowe?" Cedric asks. "But hey -- this isn't Fight Club. Nor is it the Roman empire, no matter what some folks may say about my tribe's mindset... we have a lot of rules to live by, and I'll come to that in a moment." He prods the bacon round the pan. "I was gonna tell you about the tribes, though. First and foremost, the Silver Fangs. My people. We are in charge of the garou nation," he says forthrightly, "and what we say, goes. Some of the others aren't always keen on that, but when the chips are down they usually fall into line..."

Hashim, to his credit, refrains from commenting much offensively. He finishes off the eggs, and is making steady progress on the toast and remaining bacon. "Is there going to be a test on this?" he does ask. It might be mistaken as a sarcastic question, but his tone is actually quite serious.

"Eventually," Cedric says. "I'm not expectin' you to memorise them all, and if you write it down you'll get slapped for riskin' the secrecy thing -- writin' stuff down about garou is not a smart idea -- but you'll learn them all eventually. Hell," he adds, "you'll meet the tribes, all except a couple who don't live around here. Like the Red Talons," he says with a grim smile, "or the Black Spiral Dancers... to name two vastly differin' examples."

Hashim says, "If I wrote it down, it'd mean I knew where there was paper and a pen. Which I don't." He's listening. Honestly he's listening. It's just that his attention keeps wandering, and now it's straying to that window set on the western wall. More specifically, he's eyeing the land outside. "Where is this place, anyway? How come I don't hear cars and stuff?"

"We're way, way out in the country here," Cedric confirms. "Forgive me if I don't give you zip code and grid references. Awkward if you tried runnin' off. Once we know we can trust you we'll be more forthcomin'. We're in the US, still, despite my voice," he adds, before Hashim can start to worry he's fetched up in England.

You paged Hashim with 'Sorry, I'm starting to flag, it's late here. Will you be around tomorrow, in which case, we can pause and resume? Or would you rather handwave Cedric teaching you some tribal and litany basics?'.
Hashim pages: We can handwave the basics.