Bawn: Western Forest

Tall Sitka spruce and sequoia crowd around and above you. Many of the trees are old, their branches twisted into impossible shapes, trunks broad and draped with lichen, mosses and creepers. Tendrils of moss hand down from them like green spiderwebs, snaring the unwary with cold, ghostly fingers. The patches of younger growth are dense and pale, needles tinged with silver. Matted undergrowth huddles sullenly in the occasional small clearings, clutching with thorns and burrs at the legs of those who would pass. Deer seldom venture here, but the forest is full of rustlings, and tiny glints from wary, watchful eyes.

The forest spreads out to the east, bounded on the west by Sunrise Road. From farther to the west, one can occasionally hear the distant sounds of the town of Kent's Crossing.

Contents:
Quiet-White-Face
Fat-Ripper

Obvious exits:
Highway 22 Overgrown Path Deer Path Sunrise Road Farmhouse Caern of the Hidden Walk Creek Central Bawn Southern Bawn Northern Bawn

Fat-Ripper stalks along beside the Cub, watching her closely as she bounds off ahead and wagging her tail quickly and pricking her ears in quiet amusement as she tumbles to the ground. She chuffs out a quick equivalent of laughter and then pads up to nose at her there.

Quiet-WhiteFace looks up with big droopy eyes and then wags her tail again a bit. Sturdy as a pine cone, yup. She rights herself and decides to just take it in an easy walk now.

Holds-the-Line follows one of the small paths at a slow lope, the pace that your typical wolf can manage for hours. She must not have noticed the cub's gamboling, for it's not until she's nearly on top of the pair that she stops, ears and tail flattening for a fraction of a second . She lets out a startled chuff before demanding to know who the two are.

Quiet-WhiteFace

A shaggy wolf of average size, with a long narrow tail. The coat is definately a brown, but there are tints of grey and tan in there as well. Large, alert eyes take in her surroundings as her tail bobs back and forth. She does not carry herself proud and tall, rather, her posture is often one seeking play.

Fat-Ripper is a taut, muscular wolf, three and a half feet long. Her fur is grey, with patches and flecks of various other colours, particularly brown, white, and red. A patch of dark brown fur around her eye makes her look almost cute, like a family pet, but her grizzled ears are unattractive and she doesn't seem too friendly.

Fat-Ripper nudges the Cub up, the support more symbolic than anything. Come on, she repeats to her. You can walk for a bit, but you'll have to learn to run, soon. The more complicated phrasing might begin to be lost on the young wolf, but it's a moot point anyway, because before an answer can be given they're set upon by another. Her eyes narrow in confusion and she draws herself between Holds-the-Line and her Cub, though within a half-second she returns to calm. Fat-Ripper, she announces herself with a sharp bark, waiting for the other to do the same.

Holds-the-Line plops her butt down in a sit in lieu of leaping back in shock. I had not expected to see you here. She flicks an ear toward the cub. This must be your lost one? The White-Face? I am Holds-the-Line.

Quiet-WhiteFace lets out a soft chuff, trying to explain who she is, though it's not relayed as crisp and understandable as Olga's announcement is. She sets herself down into a sit as well, a wild tongue licking over her muzzle.

Fat-Ripper steps back, away from White-Face, no longer feeling a need to guard her. She drops herself down n the ground, forelegs stretched out in front of her, and dedicates herself to the task of chewing at her fur. Going to see Firewatcher-rhya, she explains between chews. Quiet-White-Face will choose her Tribe. She pauses a moment, lifting her head towards Holds-the-Line, and adds almost defensively that she used to come to the forest often, then dropping her head to continue to scratch at her legs.

Firewatcher, the Walker repeats, eyeing first cub, then cliath. That is good. Will you tell me, or will you save it for Moot tonight? I will not hurt you, she adds to the cub, flicking an ear as if to shake a fly. Do you need practice with four feet?

White-Face licks her muzzle as she lifts a paw in the air, not sturdy, she seems to say. She glances to Olga then as well, body posture deferring the question to her mentor.

Fat-Ripper's tongue reaches out to lick her lips in thought. She needs help, yes, the Gnawer answers, but not now; she has a lot to learn. I think she will join my Tribe, but, haven't asked in a while, she explains further, words rumbling and low, rolling over the words with great concentration as Fat-Ripper struggles to express herself in this form. She ducks her head once in appreciation of the offer of teaching, but then declares, We will go see Firewatcher-rhya now. Want to come?

Holds-the-Line stands again. I will come, she agrees, tail lolling once. It is good for her - for both of you - to spend time like this. I will serve as tale-teller if you wish.

Fat-Ripper's head nods and her tail flicks in eager acceptance of Holds-the-Line's request, and she turns to the north, beginning to plod along on her way to the ash grove, and hopefully the Sept Alpha. She barks idle things towards the Cub, inviting the Galliard to do the same, trying to get her accustomed to communication in that form. She prods her into as fast a saunter as she can steadily go. Trees spin by and the grass falls away beneath the wolves' paws as they go.

[Travel deleted]

Grotto

The woods part suddenly, here, amidst the quiet roar of falling water. A wide stream spills over the edge of a rocky face that is the western edge of a hill some thirty feet high. The stones are worn smooth with the passing of time, and are slick with moisture and soft mosses, but a climb up the drier rocks would not be impossible, and there is a sense of space behind the falls.

A wide pool has been carved into the earth by the rushing waters, and the tall trees have grown out around it, sheltering the grotto in a pleasantly-cool shade. Rocks, hewn from the cliff face and shouldered along the path of the stream, form a rough ring around the edge of the pool and guide the flow of water further westwards, again deeper into the woods. All manner of animal tracks are visible in the sandier areas of shore; the trees crouch close against the edge of the stream again as it passes further west, muting the dull thunder of the falls.

Faint trails, between the trees, lead off in all directions, while a determined climb eastwards would crest the rock face.

White-Face follows along and runs like a young dog that has paws too large for her own good. She trips up a bit, but quickly rights herself to get where she is going, all the while sticking close to Olga.

As soon as the splatter of falling water against rock can be heard, Fat-Ripper comes to a quick stop, paws padding backwards against the ground. She makes sure Quiet-White-Face is stopped by sending out a quick shallow bark at her, and she gives a quick explanation to the Cub: respect another's territory. She watches Holds-the-Line, antsily waiting for the Galliard to announce them.

Holds-the-Line brings up the rear of the little group, making the total number of urrah three. Not two, nor four. She claps her teeth together at the Gnawer, then lifts her voice in a short howl. Firewatcher! Fat-Ripper brings Quiet-White-Face to see you!

Megan's voice can be heard coming out of the clearing of the Grotto proper, "No need to yell, I'm right here. Come on in, Olga. Who is this 'Quiet-White-Face' person?"

Fat-Ripper moves her legs as she waits, rather impatient, unintentionally moving as if she were wiping the dirt off her shoes. Up, White-Face, she instructs the Cub, lifting herself up onto two legs, fur burying itself under skin, assuming Homid form. She gives a quick upwards hand motion to her, and glances back at Holds-the-Line, before heading into the grotto, naked feet making squeaking noises against the grass. "Joey," she answers Megan's question as she goes, "the Lost Cub."

Holds-the-Line splays her ears and licks her lips submissively at the Alpha's arrival. She doesn't come further into the grotto, just lurks at the edge.

White-Face follows suit after Olga, moving to shift through her forms in reverse, and end up in her homid form. Sans shoes and coat. She clears her throat and shakes her hair out before running hand over her face. She's quite shy it would seem now that she's actually here in front of the big wig herself.

Megan looks vaguely amused, a sentiment that works itself into her tone, although there is tension there from the full moon. "I was hoping to find you sometime soon, kiddo," she says to Joey. "But since you're here, what's on your mind?"

Olga keeps quiet, standing near the Cub at still attention, watching her with a hint of pride, and more than a hint of expectancy. The only movement is her foot tapping against the ground.

Joey licks her lips and looks to Olga, before glancing back to the woman. "I think I've got it picked out Megan-rhya, I'd like to choose the Bone Gnawers as my tribe."

Megan rips a snort, but there's a faint smile on her face. "And here I was planning if you'd made up your damned mind yet." She looks at Olga, then, and says with just a hint of acidic humor, "And, you'll make sure the child is taught all of the Litany, now, right?"

Joey pipes in, "Oh that's not her fault Megan-rhya, I uh, don' learn so well. Olga's doing a real good job, I swear it. An' she don't scare me as much as the others either. Well, she can. I mean, she's given it to me when I needed it, but I work good under her."

Olga's face twists up into a small, almost guilty smile. "Word travels fast, eh?" she notices. She waits for Joey to finish, and then appends to her earlier comment, "Yes, ma'am, I will; though I mostly already have. I didn' want her at the Moot without knowing it, wanted to know it before she saw the Fool in action, being a Ragabash, and all," she's quick to add.

Megan's smile stretches tight across her face, and she glances at Joey just long enough to say, "Cub, I wasn't talking to you," in a tone of voice, that although pleasent, makes it clear that she is annoyed. Looking back to Olga, she says, "Well, word should be traveling to me, so I hope to Christ it travels fast when it does. Well, she's fully your responsibility, now, which means Rite of Passage and the whole shtick. By the way, with Craig dead, who is the new Bone Gnawer elder, or are you guys still trying to figure that out?"

Joey gives a faint nod at the reprimand, and looks down, nervously shuffling her fingers together behind her back. She listens carefully though, trying to take in everything that might be important.

Olga's lips drip into a deep frown a the mention of her previous Elder's death, and her shoulders sag. "Officially," she answers, choosing her words slowly and carefully, head slightly inclined, once giving an almost nervous glance over and down at Holds-the-Line, "we're putting off the decision 'til we can track down the fuckers 'at did the job on Craig; and that won' be too long, I hope. Unofficially, seeing as Julie's been scarce, 'less Lyra or Raul say `boo`, and I doubt they will, 's gonna be me." Her shoulders straighten up from their sag as she says that, but her face is grim.

Megan jerks her head in a nod of acceptance. "Very well. Anything else you have for me?"

Holds-the-Line doesn't, no. She doesn't look directly at the Fianna, instead choosing to keep her eyes somewhere to the left.

Olga opens her mouth, poking at the inside of a cheek with her tongue, and then shakes her head. She takes a step towards Joey, the girl quiet and looking like a grade-schooler before her principal. "No," she answers after a brief second of thought. "Jus' that, just Jo's stuff. Thank y'," she says, with another low inclination of her head. "Although, you should know, we're in a pretty sorry state right now, the Gnawers I mean. Don', uh; we'll do our duty to the Sept as best we're able, but, well..." she says, trailing off, voice stumbling into a low mumble.

Megan's expression turns bland at this. "The entire Sept is hurting," she says in a soft voice at odds with her expression. "There are still more Bone Gnawers than there are Wendigo and Uktena combined, and if," yes, she does stress this word meaningfully, "Joey passes her Rite of Passage, there'll be another one. Do the best you can and more so, and don't hesitate to ask for help if you need it. Okay?"

Holds-the-Line's ears go backwards but still she remains silent. Perhaps she's guarding the path out lest Joey make a break for it.

Olga's eyes move about as Megan speaks, mind at work, but she answers her with a sharp nod. Joey displays no reaction to Megan's stress of the syllable beyond an increased curiosity, though she keeps her head down. Her arms tense, a small shiver passes over her skin. "Yes, Megan-rhya," Olga replies, taking a half-step back. "Got it. Thanks." She raises an arm to Joey's back, indicating that it's time to go, to which the girl responds with a jumping start.

Megan lets out a deep breath in a sigh, and gives Olga a jerk of a nod in return. "Hope to see you at the Moot tonight, Olga. Joey," she says, adding a small nod of farewell to the cub as well.

Holds-the-Line backs up hastily, missing taking out a sapling by inches. Last into the grotto, she seems determined to be the first out as well. Flee the Fianna!

Olga gives a tug at Joey's shirt, hurrying her up, and the Cub does just that, spinning around and hurrying out of the grotto into the trees. Olga takes another quick backwards-step away, giving Megan another quick deferential nod, before departing herself, hiding herself in the woods. Her eyes dart around to find the girl and the wolf, now, as if afraid they might have been swallowed up.

Forest North of I-90

The forest is thinner here than it is south of the highway, though it is still difficult to see for far. Signs of human habitation break the stretch of woods every few miles; roads, paths, farms, and the occasional out-of-the-way home remind you that civilization is encroaching, though in this area, the battle is not yet decided. Hardwoods mix with towering firs and smaller trees, still concealing some of nature's hidden places from the nearby humans.

The forest spreads north from Interstate 90, which delineates the souther edge of this area. Marked by logging areas, farms, and other signs of human presence in places, the woods are still relatively unoccupied by humans.

Obvious exits:

West 23 Hawk's End Southeast Interstate 90 Grotto South

Holds-the-Line stops abruptly once they're well clear of the grotto to nibble at a haunch. I did not realize you were to be Elder of your Tribe. But I suppose that makes sense. Who are the others you mentioned to Firewatcher-rhya?

Olga and Joey drop down into Lupus once they've put the Sept Alpha a bit behind them, the Cub doing so with a distinct clumsiness. They pad quietly along behind Holds-the-Line, looking stirred but not shaken. She stops when the Glass Walker does, sitting, and White-Face does the same, a little ways off. Her name is Blotches, she explains simply to her, lying down and resting against a tree like a human. She isn't around much, you don't know her. If she were around much, I would not object to her being Alpha, she continues.

Which of the three is Blotches? the Walker presses, her ears coming forward. You spoke of two females and a male.

Fat-Ripper huddles in her displeasure like a blanket. They are my Tribe, she says, speaking carefully and with effort so she is not misheard. All that are left, them and the Cubs. She drops her head to again pick idly at a leg. Quiet-Bird, a Philodox, and Fixes-Stuff, a Theurge. There are others, but they are outsiders, lone wolves. She chews a bit longer, and then looks up at Holds-the-Line. Please don't spread this: I tell you what I think, not what I know.

Holds-the-Line's chin lifts at the request. I would not idly tell others of your opinions, she chuffs, more than faintly offended. I ask because I have never heard of any of the three you speak of, much less met them. I have seen more of you than the rest of your tribe, and I suspect that is because you spend so much time out here. Where are the rest of them hiding?

Home, Fat-Ripper replies, a quick duck of her head showing she had meant no offence. They watch the Cub, she explains further. Squeaks. Her attention wanders then, caught by a passing bird, and then she lifts herself from the ground. Gathering soon: I should find my pack, the wolf notes, casting a glance at White-Face.

I hope they will be there. I do not enjoy... The Galliard suddenly finds her left foreleg fantastically itchy; tending it serves where a human would develop a cough. I look forward to meeting them.

Fat-Ripper indicates with a quick shake that they won't likely be there: Squeaks, she says, excusing them. She lifts herself up off the grount and chuffs softly at Quiet-White-Face, telling her to follow, which the young Ragabash obediently does. She gives Holds-the-Line a quick ducking goodbye, and hurries off to the west.

[End of log]