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Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.11 and steady, and the relative humidity is 83 percent. The dewpoint is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

The first two levels are relatively open to each other, the second being only little wider than a catwalk going around all the walls but the front one, which has massive, twenty foot tall doors set into it. The third level is a true second floor except for a place cut out that allowed hay to be tossed down to the ground floor when the farm was actually worked. Now, it is a hayloft where Garou can sleep outside of the house.

There's an unfamiliar little green truck out in the lane, and the barn doors stand partially open to admit a light breeze inside. Caught in the light stands Natalie, her back to the doors and eyeing the punching bag. Her leather bomber has been tossed to a nearby hay bale.

Kevin, taking his usual longing gaze through the window at the world outside, sees the vehicle and, not without caution, slips outside to investigate the truck and its driver. He looks at the former with a distinct frown on his face before noting Natalie and relaxing a little; as though he was expecting the truck's driver to be someone else, perhaps. He signals his presence by a small, discreet cough.

Natalie doesn't notice the discreet cough - at least, she doesn't turn around. The woman lifts her arms cautiously, wincing at the pull, and swears under her breath as her right hand goes gingerly to her left shoulder. "God dammit."

Kevin hesitates a moment and then sidles into the barn, coughing louder and then speaking. "Help you?" he says in a slightly nervous British accent.

Now she whirls, hand dropping from her shoulder into an obviously 'ready' position. A second to recognize the face - or realize that she doesn't recognize the face - and she relaxes slightly, though doesn't lose her wariness. "Who are you?"

Kevin freezes, a nervous smile plastered on his face. "I'm Kevin. I live at the farm, now, or I suppose you could say so." As she turns and the damage on her face becomes apparent, the British cub sizes it up in a moment. "You were in that fight the other day," he says respectfully, the sentence phrased as a statement rather than a question.

"What fight the other day?" Nat retorts, relaxing even further as Kevin speaks. "You're a cub? What tribe?"

Kevin shuffles his feet and re-introduces himself more formally. "Kevin Lockwood, ragabash cub, as yet of no fixed tribe... seems nobody knows quite where I belong. And I apologise if I spoke wrongly... but I saw several return to the farm from an attack of wyrmcreatures, bearing wounds looking sort of like that. Have I added two and two to make five again?"

Natalie's right hand lifts to the scabs on her face; a little half-smile is sabotaged by another wince and she drops it. "Ah. No. At least, I don't... here. Might as well do it properly. I'm Natalie Baker, called Holds-the-Line. Cliath Galliard of the Glass Walkers, and beta of Havoc. I haven't been out here for... cripes. Weeks now. So no, no Wyrmcreatures for me. This was just a little, um, disagreement with a tribemate."

Kevin's eyes go round and for a moment he plainly doesn't know what to say. "You should see the other wolf?" he hazards with a smile. "I'm sure you've had a fair shot at taking down plenty of wyrmspawn in your time, though, Natalie-rhya. Not had the chance myself yet, obviously... nor for that matter have I met one of your tribe before."

Natalie snorts carefully. "The other wolf," she stresses, "Is just fine now, thanks. He got the best of me. Not surprising, really. I was lucky to get a hit on him in the first place. --So you're a lost cub, huh? Suppose that means we all get to trot out the Tribal spiel and try and convince you to join." She sounds more resigned than eager; shoots a rueful look toward the punching bag before moving for a hay bale and waving him to join her.

Cocking an eyebrow, the youngster correctly divines that Natalie may not be in the most responsive of moods. "That would be cool," he says as he sits where she indicates, "but I don't suppose there's any rush for the recruiting drive. Another time would do fine... maybe when you're feeling less knocked about?"

Natalie lifts her uninjured shoulder and lets it drop. "Now's fine. Just don't turn out to be an agent of the Wyrm and we're all good." She studies him for a second, then asks, "So what do you know already?"

Kevin frowns for a moment at those words. "If I prove to be that you can take me and shove a spit through me and roast me slowly," he comments. "Some things even Ragabash don't joke about. Not this one anyway. Ah well, dear me, how prickly I am today..." he continues, regaining a modicum of humour. "I know I'm not a Fury, a Fang or a Talon," he says, counting them on his fingers, "for reasons of gender, birth and blood. Likewise, though I've not met any Uktena or Wendigo, I'd be very surprised if they'd want a British kid hanging round them. I've yet to meet any Shadow Lords or... damn, what's the other one... begins with S...." He snaps his fingers, trying to recall the name.

"Silver Fang," Nat supplies helpfully, even though he said them already. "Silent Strider. Stargazer."

Kevin stops finger-snapping and points. "Silent Striders, yeah. None of them have strode my way yet. So. Your own people aside, I've had pitches of varying enthusiasm from the Bone Gnawers, Coggies..." He uses this slang term with complete nonchalance, evidently having learnt unofficial garou parlance as well as the more formal variety. "... Fianna and Get of Fenris. So far, only the last ones have impressed me much at all. Emma-rhya gave me sparring practice in Crinos. I still ache." He gives a surprisingly broad grin.

Kevin Lockwood is a somewhat gangling mid-teenage boy. Starting at the top and working down, he possesses a close crop of very dark brown hair that might be mistaken for black in some lights; a long Caucasian face with a rather large nose in the middle; brown eyes under heavy eyebrows; a downturned mouth, and a distinct Adam's apple. He either doesn't need to shave yet, or does so closely enough to have no visible stubble on his prominent chin. Below the neck, his body looks fairly fit, and is clad in a rather grubby blue sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, both of which are too big for him and the latter of which has to be hitched up every few seconds. He's barefoot. His legs seem a little long for his body, as though he's just undergone a growth spurt and his lower limbs reacted to the hormones before the rest of him.

Natalie's eyebrows go up, she gives the teenager an appraising once-over. "And she didn't break the skin? She was holding back. Emma's one of my packmates - we run under Wolverine. Well, what do you know about the Walkers, if anything? I don't want to bore you with repeating stuff you already know."

Kevin quite plainly relaxes at the news that Natalie is a packmate of Emma's; the Get has evidently made an impression on him. "Well," he says cautiously. "All I have to go on really is what Trevor-rhya said, which was that you were a technological tribe more at home in cities than most and... oh, I'm sorry, I forget the rest of it. Something about binding the Wyrm in chains or something." He flaps his hands in annoyance at himself. "There's such a lot to learn all at once. Some of it gets away from you."

"I know." Nat doesn't look or sound as though she's taken offense. "It'll take time, but one morning you'll just wake up and," she snaps her fingers, "It'll be there. So." Abruptly she stands to pace some twenty-odd feet away before turning. "Back at the dawn of civilization, when humans were just beginning to figure out this nifty 'fire' thing, a pack of Garou were sent to watch over them." A little eyebrow waggle invites him to guess who. "We moved into their villages and cities, watching and tending over them. Back then we were called the Warders of Man."

Kevin sits and listens with respect and also with obvious genuine concentration, nodding slowly as the cliath pauses for breath to invite her to continue.

Nat says, "Time passed - and I'm talking thousands of years, here - and we remained in the cities, with the humans. Rome, Jericho, London, Paris - were were there for the beginnings of them all. Some tribes think the humans need to be wiped out, eradicated, but not us. Gaia made them too, you see. The monkeys are clever: they adapt, they change, and Gaia changes with them. Who's to say that this isn't what she intended all along? So we continue to do as we've always done - we live in the heart of the city, studying it, adapting to it, thriving. The other tribes hide in the woods and howl for what was lost centuries ago. The Walkers... we look forward, to the future. Steam engines, computers, cyberware, genome splicing... we'll be there. Keep her Cities healthy and Gaia must follow." She winds down from her little speech with another half-smile and one-shouldered shrug. "S'what you get for asking a Galliard."

Kevin's responses vary throughout this, including fascination at the grand sweep of history covered; discomfort at the talk of monkeys, for he's a new enough cub to feel himself still barely sundered from the humans who were his world so recently; thoughtfulness at what he realises is the Garou equivalent of theological speculation; and finally comprehension as the Galliard draws to a close. "Quite so," he responds. "Your auspice has a real way with words, I've seen. Mine's supposed to as well but... we shall have to see about that." He kicks his legs idly against the haybale. "I'm not intending to make any final choices till I've spoken to everyone who might want me (or as many as I can before I have to choose), but I do like the idea of a prospective instead of a retrospective outlook, I must say. Doesn't it set you at odds with the other tribes though?"

Natalie rubs a knuckle along her jawline, smirking sardonically at the boy. "You could say that, yeah. They think we're too close to the Weaver. We follow Cockroach, you see. Cockroach isn't Spider - it runs through the webs, isn't caught by them, doesn't weave them. So yeah, the most conservative Walker you'll ever meet is a flaming liberal to the rest of the Nation." An easy shrug's interrupted by another wince - forgot her wounds. "That's life. When you choose... if you choose us, I'll have to introduce you to Tu. He's another Ragabash, like you. You might want to ask around, see if they'll let you off on a field trip. We'd let you come hang out at our safehouse in the city for a while. It's still under construction, but there's always people around."

The mention of a field trip gets Kevin bouncing up to his feet from the haybale. "Damn that'd be good. I get so fed up of being cooped up in this farm. That's why I was so happy when I got that bout with your packmate... it finally let me work some energy off. I was fit to burst. You see I'm a runner," he clarifies, "an athlete, and I've gone so wretchedly unfit and out of form since they shut me up in the farm..." He tails off, aware that his words may be construed as disrespect. "Sorry, said too much," he mumbles.

Natalie only shakes her head, unruffled. "Nah. It's all right, I understand. What sort of running do you do? Sprints, cross-country, marathons...?"

"I'm a sprinter," Kevin clarifies, not without a touch of pride. "That's why I was over here, for the junior athletics internationals. I was first reserve for the British 100 metres and 200 metres under 16s... when I didn't get picked for the finals I threw a hissy fit and stomped out, which is what led to my furry arse being hauled over here, when if I'd kept my temper I might have not undergone my first change till I was safely back in England. Funny how hindsight is." He sighs.

Natalie snorts at him - not derisvely, but in understanding. "Well, look at it this way - you could have gotten shot like I did. There's worse ways to First." A pause while she cocks her head to one side. "Your parents Garou? Do they know where you are?"

Kevin blinks in surprise for an instant before recovering composure. "Dad's dead, he died when I was little. Trevor-rhya said he'd 'take care' of telling Mum... he wouldn't say what that meant. I worry a lot." A cloud crosses over his face. "Neither of them was garou as far as I know -- if they were I'd know what tribe I was... right?"

Natalie hmms as she continues to study him. "Probably. Say your Dad was Garou. If he didn't do the Rite of Baptism on you when you were a baby, there's no way to know if you are one or not, or what your tribe is. Supposed to be, anyway. Maybe he didn't do it because he didn't know it, and he couldn't find anyone who knew it in time. Maybe your Mom wouldn't let him." She pauses, then adds, "Maybe the man you thought of as your Dad isn't your father. Biological, I mean." Then before he has time to do more than take breath she adds, "That's my story. My Pop - the man who raised me - is no more related to me than you are. Mom got pregnant by another Garou to have me."

Kevin ponders these different scenarios and looks rather shell-shocked at the implications of some of them. "Stone me," he mutters, and sits back down looking deflated and, if truth be known, not too far from tears.

"Wouldn't do much good," Nat says lightly. "Couple of seconds in glabro and you'd be good as new. Look, Kevin - I need to get back. You gonna be all right? Any time you need to talk to me, just ask someone to call. I've got my cell on me all the time -- well, whenever I'm not out here, I mean. I'll try and find Trevor or somebody to see if you can come spend a few days in town."

Kevin nods and turns to walk to the door. "Thanks," he says. As he's about to exit, he turns back and strikes a pose. "I am your father, Luke!" he declaims in ringing tones, then gives a very wry smile. And then he slips through the barn door and he's gone.

Natalie snorts and wails a credible imitation of Luke's, "Nooooooooooo!" as the cub disappears into the evening.

[End of log]