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It is currently 18:48 Pacific Time on Wed Mar 22 2017.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is partly sunny. The temperature is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 12 mph, with gusts up to 22 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.97 and rising, and the relative humidity is 80 percent. The dewpoint is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (33% full).

Bawn: The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)

Sweeping branches of evergreen pines form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A separate stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce, protected from the damp by a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. Nestled in among the pines are a few hardy perennials--red alder, quaking aspen, and a big leaf maple or two--that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing.

(+view works here)

It's midday; still around 50 degrees, tolerable humidity, and there's a fire going in the cookpit. Reagan is standing not far from where Sandra is seated, the latter of the two dressed for the weather, though - were it not for the fire - it's a fair bet that she arrived here with a natural fur coat rather than the t-shirt, jeans, and charcoal overcoat she wears now. There's still a smell of lingering meat in the air from having actually used the fire to cook, and the scent of the now taint-free dog, indicating the animal was here for a walk not that long ago.

At present, there's a-- not a tense conversation going on, exactly, but it's calm, non-confrontational. Reagan appears baffled by something, having just slowed down her pacing; Sandra, by contrast, is pursing her lips to avoid a smile. "When would I have had the chance?" she says. "When you were just shy of terrified, or when you were insincerely deferring to rank?" She doesn't sound angered by this; if anything there's a trace of amusement to it. "Ethologists refer to that as 'obnoxious submission' when it's performed among wolves. As the term implies, the behaviour isn't all that indicative of an open mind, and rarely, if ever, is it subtle.

"As for the rest-- you may have to elaborate on what it is you're expecting me to agree to. Certainly, there are those among us who move slower than others, but 'modern ideas' take a variety of forms. And I don't know that treating a culture you have a poor understanding of with disdain falls under that umbrella. In fact-- I'd say leaping to conclusions and acting on prejudice would be a rather firm step backwards, even if it is rather en vogue these days."

Two steps forward, two steps back.

Reagan, in five layers of white clothing fit for the weather, stands before Sandra with that perplexed expression. She listens to Sandra's rebuttal with a deflating eagerness. The first half is met with grace, as she's willing to take some blame for her first missteps with the Shadow Lord now that her mistake has become obvious. The latter half is quickly souring what was once a promising interest in making amends. After all, just because someone is well-versed in modern culture doesn't make them a Saint. Often far from it. There's also the fact that Sandra worked with the Military which, as one of Eisenhower's Trio, doesn't endear the Political Activist all that much. She has another snide rejoinder on the tip of her tongue but she bites it back, instead admitting, "Well. I suppose I should get back to reaching new conclusions and better understanding then."

A proper and well dressed woman seemingly in her late thirties. Her long blonde hair is pulled into a functional bun with long side-bangs escaping the style, framing her tense face. Glasses adorn the bridge of her nose with only a touch of makeup beneath.

She wears an orange turtleneck sweater with a white overcoat, perfect for colder climate. A short black skirt crowns dark blue jeans. Thick hiking boots with fur trim complete the ensemble along with a messenger bag typically at her side.

The severe looking woman seems prepared for the outdoors or the office at a moment's notice.

Ruin arrives at the compound with no great fanfare and pauses near the treeline to regard the clearing's current occupants, unsmiling, hands tucked in coat pockets, face half-masked behind dark glasses and thick black hair.

"That's what you're doing now, isn't it?" Sandra replies, gaze catching sight of Ruin as the other Shadow Lord approaches. She offers a nod, and her attention shifts back to Reagan to say, "Best to leave the rest for another time, though, yes. That said, I'd like to discuss this further with you, at some point." Presumably, once the meat of the message has sunk in to an adequate degree. "Fire's warmer over here if you're looking for a spot to rest," she says to the newcomer, unfamiliar with the homid form she's seeing. "You wouldn't be interrupting anything."

The sound of footfalls on wet pine needles is warning enough. Reagan follows Sandra's gaze as she looks in the direction of the incoming. The blonde offers a nod to the arrival, adjusting her glasses as she then returns her attention to Sandra. While the Shadow Lord seems cordial, the Gaian looks tense but responding anyway, "Right."

She steps away from the fire then, again regarding Ruin with a nod as she mentions, "I should get back to my exercise. Have a good day."

The woman crouches down. Her form continuing the motion as she pours into the shape of a Eurasian Wolf which then calmly begins walking back into the direction of the forests.

The metis watches Reagan's transformation and departure with little to no affect, then steps toward the fire. "Trouble?" she asks Sandra.

"In a manner of speaking," Sandra replies, her own eyes tracking the Gaian's movements. "'Exercise in cognitive dissonance' may be a bit more appropriate, though." When the wolf is out of sight, she shifts her attention back to Ruin again, saying, "You'll have to forgive me. If we've met before, this isn't a face I'm familiar with."

"The possessed dogs," says Ruin, taking a seat on one of the 'bench' logs. "Brings-Ruin-to-the-Wyrm of the Shadow Lords. Ahroun, Cliath, Metis."

"Ah, yes," Sandra replies, withdrawing her legs from the log she's been using as a footrest, the open book in her lap closed finally. "I hadn't seen you since your arrival, so I'd just assumed this was a pit stop on the way to another sept."

"No," Ruin says. She sits hunched, elbows on her knees and face directed toward the fire. "Not unless this Sept doesn't want me." Her tone is matter-of-fact. "Thane-rhya has not objected to my presence yet."

The response earns an arch of Sandra's brow. "Leaving aside that the sept seems like it could use every able-bodied recruit it can gets its hands on: is there a reason he would?"

It's mid-day, thereabouts. In the low fifties, mild humidity. She and Ruin both are sitting by the lit cookfire, and there's a fair chance that a departing Reagan was seen trotting (or scampering) away in wolf form.

Ruin looks at Sandra, brow furrowing over her dark glasses. "I'm metis," she says, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Does the deformity you were born with make you anything less than 'able-bodied?'" Sandra asks simply.

One leaves, one arrives. That's the way it frequently goes at the Sept compound, at least. This time the arrival is Yael, shifting up and out of her lupus form as she enters the clearing. There's a nod of greeting to Sandra, and a curious look offered towards Ruin. "Afternoon," she offers to both of them.

"No," Ruin says, answering Sandra. "I had horns when I was a pup, but Vjera-rhya made sure that they were gone before I Firsted, to protect the Veil." Yael gets a look, then, and a nod.

Sandra offers a nod to Yael, though she looks to Ruin with a slight furrow in her brow this time. "'Gone?'" she repeats. "Even knowing--" There's a pause. "Setting that aside for now," she says, "'able-bodied' is all that anyone needs to know, or care about, in this day and age-- and I'd be surprised if Thane disagrees with that assessment. The woman you just saw leaving?" She inclines her head in that general direction. "She has far more to worry about than you do."

Yael snorts, almost bitterly, and looks off towards the edge of the bawn. "Reagan still pulling the same shit?" she asks, moving over to take an empty seat without being too close to either of the others. "I haven't gotten to speak to her about her Weaver-devices yet, either." A shrug.

"Glass Walker?" asks Ruin.

"Child of Gaia," Sandra replies dryly. "I'd say 'difficult to tell by looking,' but I'd arguably be the last one to make comment on that." To Yael, she says, "And the answer to that is 'yes and no.' Surprisingly enough, she approached me of her own accord." A pause. She cants her head. "That wasn't your doing, was it?" she asks, seeming more amused than ruffled by the possibility.

Yael shakes her head. "Not that I know of, unless you mean in the most roundabout way in that I suggested that the only way she will ever be able to interact with Garou is to /do so/," she says. "But I haven't seen her more than in passing since you brought up the carrot and stick approach, so." She shrugs again, and looks to Ruin. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your introduction the last time when we met," she says. "I am Shai-Nefer, Gathers-Strength-to-the-Gathering, adren and half-moon of the Silent Striders, of Qal'at al-Subeiba and the Wheel of P'tah, member of the Ahadi." After that, she adds, not quite an afterthought but in the manner of split-second decisions, "But call me Yael, though."

"Brings-Ruin-to-the-Wyrm of the Shadow Lords. Ahroun, Cliath, and Metis." Ruin delivers her own introduction in a matter-of-fact kind of way. She looks a mite thoughtful, then adds, "Vjera-rhya usually shortened that to 'Ruin'."

"Apparently," Sandra says, "she-- I'm assuming we're talking about a 'she,' at least-- also thought to apply the word to your reputation, as well. She had to have been aware that removing signs of a deformity would be looked upon poorly by more traditional septs." It's as much a question as a statement, in this case.

Yael looks momentarily pensive, from the two Shadow Lords to the cookfire, and then back towards Sandra, "Which this place is most certainly not one of, though," she notes, and then, to Ruin, "Alright. In any case, it is my pleasure to meet you, Brings-Ruin-to-the-Wyrm. How are you finding it here, so far?"

"The Veil is more important than what other Garou may think of my horns being removed," says Ruin. This sounds like something well-rehearsed -- another's words drilled relentlessly into her. "More important than my Honor. Than any Garou's Honor. I have scars. Scars don't tear the Veil." That little speech delivered, she looks again at Yael. "I don't have any complaints."

The spark of anger that comes in response to that could, initially, be read as being directed towards Ruin, but Sandra is careful to avert her gaze elsewhere the moment the flashpoint hits. After a moment, she says, "Probably a topic best left for some other time," tone making it clear that it's taking a fair bit of restraint to keep from launching into her own thoughts on the matter. "My fault for mentioning." A pause-- a slow breath, and, to Ruin, she says, "It's good you're settling in, though."

Yael keeps a half glance on Sandra, watchful behind the careful mask of her emotions. "It is." She pauses, and then says, "It seems like it has been a time for arrivals, recently. Which is good in and of itself."

Ruin nods distractedly at Yael's remark, most of her attention being on Sandra. "...Yes. Excuse me." She gets up and heads for the treeline.

Though Sandra opens her mouth to try and call the metis back, she refrains for the time being, "Some other time, then," said in its place, though it's one of those 'to no one in particular' comments, a note of frustration rising in her expression.
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