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The Sept Compound

Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing, no more than an open space of grasses and beaten earth in the heart of the forest. Some pains have been taken to keep wear and tear on the area to a minimum, so the firepit tends to shift from time to time. The firepit, several sawn logs polished from use, and a stack of firewood discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp, are the only signs of constant occupation. However, those of a naturalistic bent might think that some minimal landscaping or planning had been done, for nestled among the winter-browned grasses are a few hardy perennials that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing.

A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.

Obvious exits:

Forest

Erik, bundled up in his layers of clothes and tattered gray overcoat, sits hunched near a small cookfire, stirring a watery soup that smells heavily of plant matter (and does not, in fact, smell very appetizing). The metal pot's got a dent in it, and the end of the wooden spoon is discolored from use.

This tall figure, six and a half feet at least, stands out in almost any crowd. His build is skeletal, disturbingly thin and angular, with long arms and legs. His face is hidden by a rather crude cloth mask, off-white, little more than a bag with eyeholes over his head. Only his eyes are visible -- skeletally deep-socketed, misaligned, a brilliant shade of green and raw with undisguised emotion.

A discolored, battered gray overcoat envelopes his frame, the ragged tails coming just past his knees. Underneath, he wears several layers of sweaters and shirts to combat the cold, plus a pair of baggy jeans and scuffed brown boots. A grayish, wide-brimmed fedora, about the same un-color of the coat, and his hands are typically sheathed in black wool gloves. All of his clothing shows signs of hard wear, ragged and stained.

His voice is startling, even freakish in its unearthly beauty and purity of tone; colored with the faintest of Irish lilts, it's attractive and compelling.

Holds-the-Line pads down the trail, fur coat preferable to leather when taking to the woods at this time of year. Her nose works busily assimilating the smell of cooked plants, ears flicking forward and then laying down almost flat as she enters the clearing. Still, her greeting to the Metis is polite enough as she chuffs first to gain his attention.

Erik looks up, misaligned green eyes looking weary and sunken, moreso than usual. Recognizing her, he straightens in mild surprise. "Oh! Um, hello, Holds-the-Line." He ducks his head, respectful as always.

Voice-of-Trees, the other Galliard replies, moving right up to the fire and plopping down on the opposite side from him. Her tail curls tightly around her haunches as she wonders if he is well? No comment yet on that whatever-the-hell he's cooking.

Erik doesn't smell well, not that he did on their first meeting, either. "Tolerably," he says gloomily. "Waiting for the Alpha to get time to have time to see me." He turns back toward her, eyeing her with an omega's sidelong glance. "I, um, wonder if I could ask you a, um, favor?"

Holds-the-Line also needs to speak with Firewatcher-rhya. Her ears splay to either side, showing just how much she's not looking forward to the coming meeting. Of course you may ask.

Erik ducks his head, looking at the Walker as little as he can get away with and still be able to communicate. "I, um. I used to have a violin. It was... lost." He hesitates, then continues, a little faster as though trying to get through it before he can unthink himself. "I can't go into the city myself, and I don't have any money even if I could, and... um. I was wondering if you could, um, help me."

You cannot go into the city? The wolf blinks at that, surprised, then stands up and takes a few steps backwards in order to shift into homid. "Hell, if you want to go, I can take you. I don't know if I'd know what to look for in a violin."

Erik shifts his weight, shoulders hunching again and head ducking down. "I had, um, a problem, some years back," he says, sounding embarrassed. "With the INS. I mean, I was born here, but, um... I can't exactly prove it."

Natalie stares at him a moment longer before Getting It. "Oh! It's not that you can't go into the city, it's too long of a walk. It's that you're an illegal alien. Well, in the 'eyes of the law', anyway." She makes air quotes. "Well hell, that can't be that much of a problem, will it? I mean, they don't require a notarized copy of your birth certificate to buy groceries. Yet, anyway."

Erik sighs. "No... but if there's a problem, and the police are called..." He sounds terribly worried; the boys in blue must have put the fear of God into him. His voice turns apologetic. "I'm sorry to bother you with this. Forget it, please."

Natalie's not about to let something go that easily. "It's not a bother. --Erik, right?" Her voice turns cajoling. "Look, I'll just go into town with you. Or, worst comes to worst, we get you a fake ID of your very own. But I wouldn't know a crappy violin from a good one. Ask me to buy you a power drill and I'm all over it."

Erik nods meekly. "Thank you. I, um... I would really appreciate it. You... have no idea. If there's anything I can do for you in return..."

Natalie shrugs easily, unruffled. "Not a biggie. We'll work something out." Her hands dive into the pockets of her bomber, and she nods toward the watery-soup-thing. "Whatcha making?"

"Uh, this?" The Metis looks down at the unappealing concoction. He shrugs. "Lunch. Ish."

Natalie has more tact than to say, "Ish is right." She does, however, say, "Well, it's a little early for lunch. If you can leave that, we can head into town now and poke around."

Erik looks down into the pot, then takes it off the fire and dumps it over, dousing the flames. "Not especially hungry anyway," he says dourly.

"We'll grab something in town," Nat promises, offering a hand to help the gawky Galliard to his feet. "In the meanwhile... what Gifts do you know? Rites, that sort of thing?"

Erik takes the other Galliard's hand; beneath the cloth of his glove, his hand feels narrow and bony. He gets to his feet with surprising grace. "Um, well. I know the minor rites of Greet the Sun and Greet the Moon, as well as Feed the Earth. I also know the Rite of Contrition, the Rite of Cleansing, Talisman Dedication, Gathering for the Departed, and Unfettered Dreaming." Releasing Natalie's hand, he brushes down his woods-battered clothes. "Um, as for Gifts... I can sense Wyrmtaint, speak to beasts, and uh, create Faerie Light." He shrugs abashedly and stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. "That last is a tribal Gift."

Natalie huhs at the recitation. "Nothing leaps immediately to mind for exchange, but we'll see." Hand goes back in her packet as she considers the man. "I don't suppose you know anyone who knows Winter Wolf, do you? That's one I'd like to learn. Far as I can tell, no one around here knows it."

Erik blinks. "...Uh. I mean, um, no. The last time it was performed here, an elder from another Sept had to come in to do it."

Natalie ruefully nods. "Yeah. I mean, I don't expect it to be a hip and happening request; I just want to know how to do it, you know?" She shrugs and turns for the path, waiting until Erik either comes alongside or at least starts moving before she does. "No wasted knowledge, and all that."

Erik falls into step alongside the Glass Walker, nodding slowly. "Ye-es, of course. There aren't many higher ranks here anymore, are there?" The Metis sounds troubled. "When I, um, left, there were always a few Adren, an Athro or two."

"Just Megan," she answers. "There's, oh, about ten Fostern, and the rest of us are Cliath." She casts sidelong looks up at the taller Galliard. "I heard the Walk used to be pretty big in the mojo department. Don't know what happened, though."

Erik shakes his head. "Nor I," the angelic, lilting voice murmurs from behind the mask. His words have a doleful note.

Natalie barks a little, "Hah," at that. "Look at us - two Galliard without a clue. I tell ya, that'd be an interesting thing to find out. I don't know if anyone here even knows. Megan-rhya just came back a little over a year ago. Same with Signe, more or less." She easily takes the lead as they reach the path, assuming pride of place with unthinking arrogance. "I tell ya, if we could assign our own damn Fostern Challenges, that'd be one I'd be interested in doing."

Erik, for his part, falls into the more submissive place without the slightest hitch. "I'd heard that the caern fell, um, a couple of years back."

Natalie says, "Yeah, that's what I'd heard, too. But did all the big guns die then? If so, was it just damn bad luck that five or so high-ranks died instead of all us cliath? Or was it that equal numbers of Cliath died as Adren and such; we just noticed the death of the Adren more 'cause there's fewer of them?"

Erik shakes his head again. "I have no idea. Alicia-rhya told me about the caern falling, but I didn't learn all the, um, details." The Metis stares at the ground as he walks. "All I know is that the trees burned."

"Trees burned, were cut down... yeah." She shivers and draws her shoulders in a bit tighter. "And then a couple of months ago a Wyld spirit came by and did... well, what Wyld spirits do. Weird stuff. Replaced the central boulder, grew - or regrew, or reversed, or whatever - some of the trees in the caern. Made the people who attacked it years younger or older, too."

Erik blinks and cuts a startled look her way. "I hadn't heard that."

Natalie tosses a look and a grin over her shoulder. "Oh yeah. Get Cole to tell you the story. It got, hm... well, him for one. And Jana, Silver Fang Elder. White Bear, too - I told you about him, didn't I? Let's see... oh. Another one of the Wendigo too. Horace. Ragabash."

Erik shakes his head slowly. "I've met White Bear, by the way," he says, changing the subject. "He was, um." He searches for words.

"Wendigo in sheep's clothing?" Nat offers lightly, not turning back. "Unbalanced?"

"Feral," is the Metis' response. "If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was a lupus."

"Tactfully put," Nat agrees. "Yeah, he's gone feral, all right. Which is why it's a relief that he's not a Walker any more." She ducks under a branch then stops to hold it up out of Erik's way. "What'd he have to say for himself? What was his introduction like?"

Erik sighs, long-sufferingly. "He was annoyed that I was, um, stinking up the Bawn and getting food from it." He ducks down under the branch with a murmured thanks.

"Damn you to hell," she nods, sounding entirely insincere. "Did you use small words to explain that you can't just nip down to the Albertson's whenever you feel peckish?" Hands slip back into her pocket as she drops in behind him this time, her dominance already well-established. "We should probably stop by the Goodwill, too - see if we can't find you something a little less, um..."

Erik glances down at himself and -- as far as Nat can tell for all the muffling cloth -- winces. "...I know. I've been, um, fairly far away from civilization for a few years now."

"We'll getcha taken care of," the Walker promises airly. "Worst comes to worst, you can paw through our stack of new cub clothes. Shirts, at least - I don't think we've got any pants that'd fit you." A pause, then, "I'm surprised your own tribe hasn't volunteered already."

Erik shakes his head at this, not offering up an explanation, saying only, "You're too kind."

Natalie corrects, smile plain in her voice, "I'm a tin-plated bitch. Or cast-iron, depending on who you talk to. Must be that mothering instinct, or something. Nesting. --You have your Chiminage sorted out yet?" A step, and, "Do you need to give it? You said you were here years ago, right?"

"...That's for the Rian to decide," Erik replies with a shrug. "Megan-rhya, that is."

Natalie says, "This is gonna be a hell of a walk on two legs," apropos of nothing. "What say we flip down to four and make it a bit faster? --Rian. What's that mean?"

Erik stops short at the suggestion at going lupus and takes a second to answer the Walker's question. "It, uh, it means 'queen'. In Gaelic."

Natalie huhs again, mentally filing that away. "Learn something new every day." They enter a little clearing and she stops again, glancing around to find the way back to the farmhouse. "That way, I think - you ready?"

Erik shivers, then nods stiffly. "Just, um, let's be quick about it? Please?"

Natalie echoes, "Quick? --Oh, the run? Sure. I dunno about you, but trudging through cold damp forest isn't really my idea of a good time." She steps up beside him, offering another quick grin. "Which is why I mentioned doing this in the first place, remember?"

Erik shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like 'nevermind'. The Metis transforms as quickly as possible, and the gaunt, skeletal wolf that he becomes doesn't wait around to be gawked at in the cold Washington forest, but takes off at top speed toward the farmhouse. Clearly, he knows the way -- and he runs as fleet as a deer.

Grotesquely thin and ugly, Voice-of-Trees is a living spectre of lupine death, standing three feet at the shoulder on gangly, spindly legs. Corpse-pallid skin is stretched drum-tight over stringy muscle and too-obvious bone, the pale hide bald but for a few thin, irregular patches of dull black fur. From a wolven death's head gaze brilliant green eyes, apprehensive in their deep, misaligned sockets.

Nothing should look like this and live, but there he is, moving with the cringing hesitation of a career omega, ratlike tail typically tucked between his legs and hairless ears slicked back.

Holds-the-Line yelps out a, "Hey!" before she joins him - her shift isn't as quick as his, nor her speed as fast, but if he slows to look around, the pale wolf is right there, always in view.

Trees' Voice does not, in fact, look around, nor pause to see if the Glass Walker is keeping up. No, it's straight to the edge of the woods for him. The quicker he can get out of this chilly, naked, all but furless form, the better.

Four feet are far better than two for this sort of thing. Just about a minute after the Metis reaches the edge of the forest near the barnyard the Walker joins him, quickly shimmering back into her breed form. All she says is, "Whisht. I see what you mean. Well, you ready?" A jerk of her head for the barnyard, and all that it implies as gateway to the wide, wide world.

Erik, shoulder-hunched, jerks his head in a nod. He lets her lead the way.

[Travel deleted]

Safehouse: Common Area

Stepping into this ground floor apartment is like stepping into an episode of Hometime. The floor is covered in tarp and plastic, the smell of drywall is strong in the air. The living room immediately off the front foyer is mostly untouched and serves as a staging point for tools, saw-horses, spare lumber, and all the other detritus that goes into home repair. In the back of the house walls have been knocked down between the kitchen and the bedroom off the living room, while the door to the back bedroom has been taken out and framed over.

Up the stairs are a number of empty rooms where anyone affiliated with the Sept can crash if they want, while the Glass Walkers have their own area accessible via a door down a short hallway off to the left of the main doors, near the stairs. The main doors themselves lead back out to the front porch of the house.

Obvious exits:

Guest Room Glass Walker Area Porch

The trip into town didn't take long, though for the most part the Galliard is a careful driver. A stop at the closest Goodwill garnered plenty of clothing - another winter coat for the Fianna, plus a couple of sweatshirts, a woolen sweater, a handful of t-shirts, and three or four pairs of pants. None of them were tried on in-store; instead Nat either breezily scooped them up with only the briefest glance for size or else held them up against the oddly-dressed Erik's form. Conversation with the humans was, to say the least, spotty, with most people choosing to avoid the strange pair. Once out of the store Nat drove them not back to the farmhouse, but toward the northern part of town, stopping at a Wendy's for drive-through and insisting Erik tell her what he want already. When they finally did stop, it's at a quiet Victorian house on the north end of town. Nat chivvied the other man inside with absolutely no concern for any cringing or nerves, instead sending him off to, "One of the rooms upstairs," to change.

[Erik's new clothes!]

He's warmly dressed, with layers of clothing against the cold, and while his clothes aren't the height of fashion, they're at least in decent shape. A heavy green parka (with a hood, usually worn up) and a pair of faded blue jeans is typically visible, along with scuffed brown boots and black woolly gloves. Underneath the parka, a couple of cotton shirts is hidden underneath a baggy gray sweatshirt with a faded SCCU Lacrosse Team logo.

Erik, for his part, is easily cowed, no surprise, though part of this could be culture shock. By the time they reach the safehouse, the Fianna's as twitchy as a racehorse, fleeing upstairs to change with no little alacrity. He comes down soon enough, changed into much less shabby attire and carrying the rest in a bundle. He's still wearing the mask, of course, but perhaps that's no surprise. She got a glimpse of his skull-like face after the drive-through while he wolfed down the burger and fries. Not once during that did the Metis look at her, though.

Natalie, as driver, waits until they get home to eat, so she's still munching on her burger when Erik comes nervously back down the stairs. "Looks good," she says through a mouthful, giving the man a thumbs-up. "Probably warmer, huh? What'dja do with the stuff that didn't fit?"

"Oh, um, it's, um, it's still up there with, um, my old clothes." Erik hunches apologetically, setting the bundle down. "I'll go get them." He turns to start back up.

Nat cuts him off with an airily waved french fry. "Nah. All I'd do is stick them in a bag. They'll be fine where they are. You feeling better? Ready to head out to find a violin? Or want some time to chill first?"

Erik is halted in his tracks and returns, moving slowly over toward her with his hands in his pockets. "Whatever's better for you, ma'am."

Natalie snorts at him and continues to lean on the four-foot half wall, eating straight out of the bag. Manners. "Natalie. Or Nat, if you're feeling adventurous. I don't even know where to start looking for a violin. Music store, I guess, huh? Or antiques?"

Erik looks at his feet, at the construction, at anything but Natalie herself. "Music store. Or, um, sometimes a good pawn shop will have a used one that just needs, um, tuning."

"Well, why don't we call around, see what we can find?" She leaves off fry-munching to dig in a jeans pocket, coming up with a little clam-shell cell phone. "...Um. Cripes." Leaving off eyeing the phone, she eyes Erik instead, with equal amounts of dubiousness. "I don't suppose you've got a yellow pages handy?"

Erik shakes his head. No surprise there. The way he does it suggests that he's ashamed that he doesn't have one right in his back pocket.

Big back pocket. "Oh well," Nat says, off-handedly. "I can call a couple of people, or else we can stop at the library, or something. --Actually..." She flicks the phone open with one hand, punches a few buttons with her thumb. "Jon might be close to a phone book. If you want to call him - tell him you're a cousin of mine, and I'm eating - I can go grab a piece of paper so we can write stuff down."

Erik nods slowly. Even reluctantly. "Um, yes. Um. Phone?" He looks around.

For answer, Nat holds out her cell to him. "He's all ready to go - just hit the button with the green phone on it and it'll dial. He's kin," she adds as she pushes herself off the wall, ready to go hunt down paper and pencil.

Erik actually stares at the little device in Natalie's hand before taking it. "This is a phone?"

Natalie actually grins at him, an easy, open, amused smile. "You got it. We don't have a land line hooked up to this place yet." She pulls her hand back, pointing to the aforementioned green button, then holds it up to her face to demonstrate. "See?" Holds it out again. Now you try. "Hand it back when you're done and I'll hang up for you." Poor technologically deprived Fianna.

The Metis seems less confused than disturbed, truthfully, and he holds the cellphone like he's afraid it's going to spit out wires and attach itself to his flesh. It's with some obvious trepidation that he presses the button and holds it to his ear.

Natalie watches him until it's clear he's not going to try to swallow the thing, then digs into the bag for more fries. After a second she turns, fries in hand, and casts her eyes around the room to look for a pen, probably.

Erik apparently gets an answer. "Is this, um, Jon?" he says into the cell, nervously.

Natalie tosses an encouraging thumbs-up over her shoulder without looking. Another fry goes into her mouth before she heads over to a stack of papers, tool boxes, and a small boom box.

Erik looks in Natalie's direction as he talks. Not meeting her eyes, of course. "My name is Erik. I'm, um, a cousin of Natalie's. I'm very sorry to bother you, sir, but do you, um, have access to a phone book?"

Erik listens a moment, then says, "One moment, sir." He holds the cellphone out toward the Glass Walker. "He wants to talk to you, ma'am."

Natalie releases the catch on the bright yellow tool box and roots around in it, eventually emerging, triumphant, with a flat carpenters' pencil. "Hah! --oh, what? Sure." She crosses back to join him, tossing the pencil toward the take-out bag, and takes the phone from Erik's hand.

The Fianna seems quite happy to be relieved of the thing and absently rubs his gloved hand against his jeans leg.

"Hey sweetie, what's up?" Nat asks the phone. There's a pause, and then she makes a show of rolling her eyes at Erik. "--Well, I knew you'd see it was my number, and I figured Erik telling you he was a cousin would be all right. But we're looking for numbers for pawn shops. Are you near a phone book? Can you give them to Erik? I'm still in the middle of lunch."

"Oh, nothing, *sweetie*," he says back in a mimic of her tone. "It's just a bit disconcerting to have complete strangers calling me on your phone." There's a heartbeat's pause before he adds, "I wanted to make sure you hadn't lost it." [Jon]

Nat says breezily, "Well, I knew you'd see it was my number, and I figured Erik telling you he was a cousin would be all right. But we're looking for numbers for pawn shops. Are you near a phone book? Can you give them to Erik? I'm still in the middle of lunch."

"Because someone might not--" He cuts himself off, and goes on with, "No, I'm not near a phone book. Susan and I just got done with lunch and we're on our way to Border's, then stopping by the house. Why don't you try yp.yahoo.com on the browser?"

Erik stuffs his hands into his parka and stares at nothing in particular.

Natalie makes a little 'eep' noise amd checks her watch, going a little white-eyed. "Cripes. Can you... um, wait until two to hit this place? We'll be sure to be out of it by then. And I never thought of using... that's on the Sidekick, right?" Lunch? Forgotten.

"Two is fine, but I was hoping you'd be there," he says, the edge leaving his voice a little. "But, yes, the browser's on the Sidekick."

"I'm not used to it," Nat tells the phone apologetically. "And I'd love to be here, but I'm dragging Erik kicking and screaming around town. I'll be back as soon as I can - have to drop him off back at the farm first." As she speaks she straightens again, shifting the phone to her other ear and unzipping her jacket to dig at the pocket inside.

Erik seems to wince -- he can't help but eavesdrop -- and skulks a short distance away, awkward and ill-at-ease.

"Alright. I guess we'll see you if we see you," Jon says pragmatically. "If we don't--dinner later?"

Natalie waves for him to come and mooch more french fries. "--Sure. I'll give you a call if it doesn't look like it'll work. Maybe a movie, if dinner doesn't work?"

Erik answers the gesture with a quick shake of his head. Maybe he's not hungry anymore.

"Sure, though keep in mind it'll need to be an earlier start time," Jon says. "Love you, call me later."

"Will do," she answers, falling short of making kissy-noises into the phone. "Love you too. Bye." A grimace and she snaps the phone closed before pulling out a much larger piece of electronica from her jacket's inside pocket. It's perhaps the size of an index card, and half an inch thick. "He reminded me about the browser capabilities of this thing," she explains, pulling the two sides apart to reveal an itty bitty keyboard. "Imagine my embarrassment."

"Um," says the technologically-wary Metis. "I see."

"This'll just take a few," Natalie assures him airly. "If you want to go poke around, or whatever, I'll get numbers and do some calling. Better to call around than drive around. Then, like I told Jon, out of her before two. He wants to give his daughter a tour, and..." She pauses, then continues apologetically, "She's kin, but unclued, and you're kinda a walking... billboard for Weird Stuff. He doesn't want her clued for another five years or so, so..."

Erik hunches in on himself, cringing in a failed attempt to make himself smaller. "I'm making things difficult for you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you to all this trouble, Natalie-rhya, really..."

Natalie only shrugs at him, not apparently all that discommoded. "Ah, I brought it on myself, remember? And really, gives me something to think about that isn't 'when's this damn house going to be done' or 'how'm I gonna finish the damn house when half my help's run off' or worrying about if Susan's gonna like me or any of half a dozen -other- things. So. --OK, here we go. Wanna grab the pencil and write the numbers down?"

Erik nods obediently and takes up pencil and paper, crouching down to use his knees as a desk.

[Handwaved for time: no violins were found, Erik was returned to the farmhouse. End of log]