Sepdet. And Quentin.

[hazlogs]

Date: 9/22/02, Night.

Location: The Caern

From the rock outcropping, Sepdet stands on the great rock slab, rearing
out of the now-barren ground like a tooth. There is a strip of cloth bound
across her eyes, and she is slowly moving, feeling her way along the
rock's edge with toes.

Salem picks his way carefully down into the caern, shifting from wolf form
back to homid as he nears the bottom of the trail.

From the rock outcropping, Sepdet abruptly flings herself forward,
grabbing the edge with her fingers and rolling up to a dangerously wobbly
handspring. She hangs for a moment, feet flailing at air, then works her
way around until she's got her back to the main rock, arches her body, and
shoves off to land on her feet again. One leg almost buckles as she
stands.

Salem, in the middle of a stretch as he rises from four feet to two,
catches the movement over by the outcropping and for a second goes still.
Surprised. Then, regaining his composure and putting on a more neutral
face -- and over the lunar tension he's forcing himself to be calm, very
calm -- the Glass Walker starts heading over, hands slipping into the
pockets of his sweatpants. "I wasn't aware that Striders were into
acrobatics."

From the rock outcropping, Sepdet turns towards him, falling into a slight
kneebend and a defensive posture. ~Striders,~ she says softly, ~are light
on their feet. And when I was small, I followed Coyote, and tended the
caern as Groundskeeper by dancing its sacred lines. The Wyrm's teeth broke
my dance, but I keep moving.~

Salem accepts the correction with a dip of his gaze, a brief, formal
gesture of respect. "You keep moving... but you stay." He approaches right
up to the base of the rock slab itself, but doesn't ascend. His eyes are
narrowed, the look in the good one sharp and guarded. "As far as I know,
only two have been here as long or longer than yourself. Andrea and
Chaser-Never-Rests. Am I right?"

Sepdet stoops and touches the rock with her hand, then straightens and
peels the blindfold off with her thumb. ~Patrick,~ she adds. ~Those three
were members of a great pack, Crossing. One was killed. One died in
battle. The Strider returned to the hidden roads. And those three were
here when the Rite of Caern Building first brought a dormant Wendigo caern
back to the light of day.~

Quentin is... lost. While he could probably find his way by shifting into
lupus and using far superior senses, he's currently being stubborn and
wandering aimlessly as he tries to find a familiar landmark. Hearing
voices, he makes his way along towards the chipped stone of the rock
outcropping overlooking the caern, making his way up that way.

Sepdet stands perched on the edge of the stone slab, clinging to it with
her toes. She's just in the act of pushing up a blindfold and peering down
at Salem when the cub arrives.

Salem rubs at his jawline, neatly-trimmed fingernails scratching idly at
the short black beard. "Hmn. Mind if I ask a personal question?"

Sepdet raises an eyebrow, half-hidden by the cloth. ~If I do, I won't let
on,~ she says drily. She glances up at the faint sound of shoes on stone,
notes the vaguely familiar face of Quentin with a nod before returning her
attention to the hefty Glass Walker below her.

Salem glances over, noting Quentin's arrival with a quizzical lift of an
eyebrow. Then he turns back to Sepdet. "What is it that keeps you, a
Strider, bound to this Sept, this caern?" It sounds like an honest enough
inquiry, though it's impossible to read any particular motive in the
question; both his face and voice are carefully schooled.

"..oh." Quentin draws to a halt as he recognizes the pair, one only
vaguely and the other far more certainly, and flashes over a quick and
rueful smile. "Salem-rhya. Ah.. Sepdet-rhya. Sorry for intruding, I was
just kinda.. exploring, I guess. I'll leave you be."

The corner of the Strider's mouth twitches upwards briefly. With a grunt,
she flings herself down to the valley floor, falling well below his eye
level. The cub's stammering greeting draws her attention. ~There is no
need to apologize. Cubs learn through their feet, eyes and ears. And this
is a place you should know and learn to love.~

Voices and smells and a general sense of insomnia have lead a Gnawer cub
deeper into the Caern. Green eyes quickly catch sight of the three
gathered, and she stops outside of the steam vents, head canted curiously.
She'll be quiet until she understands what's going on...there's a little
caution left in Four-Leaves yet.

Sepdet picks up Salem's question. ~Several reasons. One, this is a caern
of all the tribes. There are almost no others in the world. That is
sufficient for Striders to think it worth their attention. Two, several
prophecies brought me here. Three, I know most of those who have died
defending this land, and a Strider and a friend ought to tend them. Four,
I believe it's fitting that a caern once Wendigo should again be led by
Wendigo, so I stay to work towards that goal.~ Again her wryest expression
asserts itself. ~Which is going to take a while.~

Salem glances over toward his tribe's cub, giving the younger Walker a
thin smile that, if not overwhelming in its friendliness and warmth, at
least indicates that he doesn't consider Quentin an interruption. Then he
turns his attention back toward Sepdet's answer. There's a slight
narrowing of his eyes at mention of prophecy, and perhaps a brief downward
twist at the corners of his mouth that's quickly gone. And he lifts a brow
at the last reason. "Considering the current population... though, in
fairness, I hardly know Touch Deer. I don't think I'd heard him speak
before the night we debated totems."

At the reassurance that he's not intruding, Quentin relaxes some.. and,
for the moment, doesn't take off just yet. The cub's hands tucked into the
pockets of his jacket, he draws a bit closer as he listens to the two.
It's not eavesdropping if they know you're there.

As quietly and unobstrusively as she can, the red wolfcub starts picking
her way around the two elders, giving them a very wide berth as she sidles
up to Quentin, bumping her head against his knee. Hello, hello,
Speaks-From-The-Soul, she greets him softly. Her ears prick forward at
Sepdet and Salem, still curious. Why are they talking of totems?

~Touch Deer has been in the silver river. He had a good head on his
shoulders before, and was tempered by his ordeal. He still seldom speaks
except when he has something to say.~ She sighs and leans her back against
the rock. ~Their chances are slim for now. They need numbers, and they
need to send us tribesmates who are willing to accept all those who serve
Gaia. And of course, for any who lead, the position must be earned.~ Her
expression softens. ~But someday. Trees start from small seeds.~ These
last words are half-directed at the cubs.

Salem nods, his glance going back over toward Quentin as Sepdet speaks of
small seeds, and thus notices Lyra's arrival. He regards the pair of cubs
for a moment, lips pursed thoughtfully, a narrowed look around his eyes
that'd be uncomfortable to those with guilty consciences about anything.
In reply to Sepdet, he offers up a thoughtful-sounding, "Indeed..."

At the light bump against his knee, Quentin looks down to the red wolf and
offers a slight smile.. one hand dropping down to ruffle her ears as he
murmurs back quietly, "Hey you. Not sure." As he looks back up, he catches
sight of that look from Salem and blinks a bit.. his brow knitting
slightly as he looks back with a 'what'd I do?' kind of expression.

The halfmoon cub's right ear twitches at Salem's glance, but she doesn't
respond. Surely he didn't hear her use the name she'd given Quentin...oh
dear... Four-Leaves yips softly, tongue lolling in a grin to Sepdet. Of
course trees start from seeds. It'd be silly if they did anything else.

Sepdet follows Salem's baleful gaze, expression also turning thoughtful.
~Dreams,~ she replies distractedly.

Salem meets Quentin's eyes directly, and maybe it's just the moon, but
there's something hard in them. Then it's gone, and he turns back to
Sepdet. "Hmm?"

Sepdet murmurs, ~ It would not be silly if trees came from dreams.~ Then
she comes back to herself with an amused twinkle in her eye. ~Your pardon.
I think I was having a short conversation with Lady Chimera just now.~

A slight blink of emerald-green eyes, and a frown just traces its way
across Quentin's lips for a moment. Slight, a brush of his fingers between
the other cub's ears before he shifts to step past, before allowing, "I
should keep going.. good evening Salem-rhya, Sepdet-rhya. Lyra."

"Come see me soon, Quentin," Salem says, studying his fingernails briefly.
There's a bit of dirt under them, presumably from trek through the Bawn in
wolf-form.

Sepdet's expression turns faintly quizzical, as if she were trying to work
out the lyrics to a song she slightly misheard. ~Keep safe,~ she bids him.

Four-Leaves' eyes watch Sepdet with interest, but she looks up and prances
to the side when Quentin's fingers leave her head. Gone so soon? But only
just arrived. I'll come with you, she offers- that sort of offer where you
don't really have the chance to accept or decline.

Quentin's green eyes flicker in a sidelong glance towards Salem, as though
suspicious of those words, before he starts down along from the
outcropping. "Yes, sir." Quietly spoken, he says nothing else to the other
cub in acceptance or protest of her following as he heads away.

Salem remains silent for a moment as the two city-cubs head off together,
his gaze tracking their path with deadly accuracy.

The reddish wolf peers after Quentin puzzledly, then looks over her
shoulder at Sepdet and Salem with a very bewildered expression. She
catches Salem's gaze, and blinks, surprised by its intentness.
Four-Leaves' ears skew again, perplexed. She dips her head in
acknowledgement of Sepdet and Salem, then starts following Quentin at a
leisurely pace.

Sepdet sucks in her cheeks, watching this whole exchange with a rather
remote expression.

By the steam vents, the haze of steam shrouds Quentin's darksome form as
he makes his way along through the rocky area, glad to be wearing sneakers
to protect him from the barren ground rather than bare feet like the first
time he came through. He doesn't say anything, just walking along back in
the general direction towards the farmhouse.. now that he has his bearings
again.

Salem waits until the pair are out of earshot, then lets out a somewhat
exasperated-sounding breath. "Probably nothing," he murmurs, voice pitched
too low for anyone but the Strider next to him to hear.

By the steam vents, Four-Leaves doesn't bound right up to Quentin's
side...Salem's glances had unsettled her enough. When they are surely out
of sight and hearing of those two, though, she picks up the pace and pads
beside him, mud beginning to settle into the fur of her paws. Oddly, she
doesn't say anything. She just keeps up with the Walker cub.

Sepdet exhales at the other elder's tone and does not reply. ~Pack news?~
she murmurs, changing the subject.

By the steam vents, Quentin steps over one of the steaming cracks as he
goes, nearing the valley before he glances down to ask quietly, "Seen your
aunt yet?"

By the steam vents, The wolfcub weaves around cracks, rather than taking
the energy to leap over them. No. I waited, but she did not come. Perhaps
Sees-True-Nature was mistaken, or lied. There's a lot of heavy heart in
those words, although Four-Leaves' body language is completely neutral.
And I have work to do, so I cannot linger in the city for long. So many
alphas left to see... The silver-faced cub bounds ahead suddenly, pouncing
on some harmless rock in the path.

Salem breathes in, then takes a seat at the edge of the slab, putting the
Quentin-Lyra question out of the forefront of his mind. "Synthesis... Hm."
He rubs at his mouth, expression pensive. "Speaking frankly... I'm not
certain. Leala keeps to herself, and I haven't had a chance to speak to
Francisco at length since the caern's fall and reclaiming. Alicia is doing
well, and is thinking of challenging for rank. Tatt is..." One corner of
his mouth quirks upward with faint but sincere humor. "Tatt's our
trickster, whatever her auspice. And John." The humor vanishes, sinking
back and vanishing under his skin like a stone in a lake at midnight.
"John hunts Dancers."

By the steam vents, Quentin heads out of the caern toward the southwest.
By the steam vents, Four-Leaves heads out of the caern toward the
southwest.

Sepdet's expression turns surprised. ~As he must. You don't approve of
this?~ She puts two and two together belatedly. ~No. He is not leading
your pack, just now, and you cannot hunt with him.~

Salem shakes his head, his face cold. "No. The--" He cuts off the next
word before it's said and starts the sentence over with a slight grimace.
"He needs that rank. He's past due for it. And I have plenty to do without
chasing off after Spirals." He glances sidelong at her and adds, "Which
reminds me. December's a certainty."

Sepdet exhales. ~Excellent. Now I need to find someone or three who can
keep up with you.~ She winks. ~Oh, did I mention my other bright idea,
which most of the elders are certain to despise?~

Salem cocks his head, brow arching. Again, there's that questioning lift
of an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sepdet suggests, ~Assign cubs who have had some combat training to count
coup on Guardians. It gives them experience with the bawn and stealth, and
helps keep patrollers alert. They get a point if they touch a Guardian.
The Guardians get a point if they incapacitate the cub without harming
him.~

Salem almost smiles at that. Almost. There's a definite gleam in his eye,
though, and his answer holds a note of approval. "Excellent. Did you have
a material goal in mind? Special recognition at Moot, or some such thing?"

Sepdet laughs at the question. ~Recognition, yes. But I have a feeling
most elders will not go for this idea, including the present Warder, so it
is merely another of those...~ her eyes twinkle... ~seeds I am planting.~

"John will approve," Salem says, with certainty. He folds his arms across
his chest. "Kaz, if she were here, would as well. Jarred, I imagine, will
say something snide, with poorly-veiled insult. Owen... Owen could go
either way."

Sepdet taps her teeth. ~Well, then maybe it's not such a slim chance as I
thought. Something else to spread about. I need to own a Galliard.~ She
blanches suddenly at her wording, and corrects herself, ~Have one handy.
Still, I think Robert-rhya will find the idea suspect. I want the Circle
in place before I start pushing something else.~

Salem notes, deadpan, "You could always wait until Dena reclaims the
Warder position." His eyes narrow as he considers her. "And, too, speaking
of cubs, I have one that I may want to introduce to you one of these
days."

Sepdet murmurs, ~I /am/ waiting.~ But his second comment catches her. ~Not
those two, I take it?~ she queries.

Salem shakes his head. "No. A Theurge. His name's Cat." It's a simple
enough reply, though the Glass Walker's mask isn't quite enough to hide
the existence of some deeper significance there. That might be a glimpse
of paternal concern there in the shadowed lines of his face, or maybe just
plain worry.

Sepdet frowns. ~Trouble?~ she asks gently. ~Is this one in need of a
teacher, a guide, or a healer?~

"Mainly a teacher." Salem pauses. "In spiritual matters. For now, the Walk
has no Rited Theurge, and I'm..." He puts on an expression of wry
self-deprecation. "I've given him the basics of what I know, but I'm far
from an expert."

Sepdet's expression eases. ~My favorite sort of work,~ she confesses.
~Send him my way. I should be found here now, most of the time.~

Salem smiles faintly. "Good." He pauses a beat, the smile disappearing
almost entirely. "You'll find him to be very polite, very obedient... but
unfortunately very timid." His expression sours, his mouth twisting into a
grimace. "In fact, I've seen more self-confidence in a Fianna-raised
Metis."

Sepdet frowns. ~Well, I'll see what I can do. One does not serve Gaia by
cringing behind a tree, as this metis learned some time ago.~

Salem rakes a hand back through his hair. "He understands this, but only
intellectually. Faced with confrontation, he folds. Weeps. Tries to flee."
His face tightens as he speaks; this is clearly something that's been
weighing heavily on him, as much as he's loathe to show it. "I'm not
expecting overnight change," he adds, folding his arms across his chest
again and looking directly at her. "I know better than that. Some
_indication_ of improvement would... ease my mind somewhat."

Sepdet falls silent for a while, considering. ~I will see what can be
meade of him,~ she says at last. ~This sort usually learns better, but of
course, I know better than to promise.~

"Of course," the Walker replies smoothly. Emotion cools as he regains his
equilibrium. He shifts his position again, leaning back on his hands in an
uncharacteristically relaxed posture that is, characteristically, not
truly relaxed. "Whatever you can do, even if simply teach him spirit lore,
would be appreciated."

Sepdet muses distractedly, ~More important than teaching lore is awakening
the spirit. The knowledge without will's fire is useless.~

Salem grunts something that sounds like agreement. "Hmnh." He shifts the
subject. "And you? How is Salmon's Leap?"

Sepdet gives a tired laugh. ~That news has not had time to spread out in
ripples yet.~ She closes a fist. ~Salmon's floodwaters helped flush the
enemy from the caern, and she set herself to cleansing once she recovered.
She has done well. That time is done now.~

Salem frowns, his eyes narrowing. "The pack has disbanded, then?"

Sepdet inclines her head. ~And my work for Wendigo is harder. Little Bear
and I have had a falling-out, since I did not support Wendigo as sept
totem.~

Salem grimaces, shaking his head with a definite hint of irritation.
"Prickly, isn't he?"

Sepdet laughs tiredly. ~He's Wendigo! It comes with the teeth. But it is
very serious, Salem. The Wendigo spirit that helped save the caern asked
us to promise to make it caern totem. I could not, and said so, vowing
instead to help the tribe itself. But Bear did not hear that and thinks I
broke my word. Also--~ she sighs. ~It may devour him for breaking /his/
word.~

"Ah. And, prickly or not, he _is_ a Garou, and one of us." Salem sits up,
rubs at his chin. "What I know of Wendigo, the spirit that is, is that
he's a hungry, and cold, and not easily dissuaded from any course of
action he's decided to take. But if he were going to consume Leonard,
wouldn't he have done so already?"

Sepdet murmurs, ~I believe Leonard promised it by winter.~ She shakes her
head. ~I will have to summon Wendigo myself and ask, and if it seems to
mean to hold him to it, point out that the certain loss of one Wendigo
will not help it. I can do that much, even without him.~

Salem nods, then offers -- sincerely, if rather sardonically -- "Well. If
the blood of an urrah Wyrmcomer will help, I have plenty of it. My heart,
alas, is not available for devouring."

Sepdet smiles faintly. ~Ironic,~ she observes. She shakes herself and tips
her head back to look at the sky. ~There is one thing you can do, quite
different.~

"Name it," says the Walker, without hesitation.

~Watch over Tatiana,~ the Strider says emphatically. ~She is clean and
clear-headed. When Dena asked her into a pack, I thought, 'Good. She will
be away from the poisons she craves.' In the city, she can better use her
skills, and your pack suits her temper better. But in the city are also
the things she uses to run away when feet cannot carry her far enough.
Give her reasons to remember who she is, and what she's good at. Tell me
if she starts to fall. Now that my pack is gone, she is the closest thing
I have: a friend who understands me.~

Salem nods, quite serious. "It's better, sometimes, to learn to resist the
poison in front of you than to stay away from it only to learn that, when
finally confronted with it, you can't help but succumb." His voice is even
and neutral in tone, warming somewhat only when he adds, "Don't worry.
Synthesis values Tatt clean as much as you do. We have no desire to see
her fall. Very much the opposite."

Sepdet smiles thinly at that. ~Wisdom from two sides. I'm glad she's
finally fallen in with a good pack.~

Salem returns the smile with a faint one of his own. "I admit to a feeling
of satisfaction in luring her in. She does make things... interesting."

Sepdet opens her mouth to say something more, apparently thinks better of
it, and ends up merely shaking her head with fond exasperation. ~So she
does.~

Salem arches an eyebrow and asks, perfectly deadpan, "You're certain she's
not a coyote in disguise?"

Sepdet replies with perfect equanimity and a twinkle in her eye, ~A
Strider is not permitted to reveal the secrets of others.~

Salem nods, the faintest smirk ghosting around his mouth. "Ah. Yes. Of
course. Keepers of secrets. I forgot. My apologies."

Sepdet states baldly, ~I have heard some people complain of a resemblance
between young jackals and young coyotes. I'm sure it's just coincidence.~

With an air of perfect seriousness, Salem says, "Yes. Both have large
ears, slenderer muzzles, dine on carrion and small prey, nip at the heels
of larger meat-eaters..."

Sepdet looks up at the rim of the cliff. ~And dance on the canyon-tops.
You must excuse me, Salem, but I think I'm going to return to the dance,
as well as old scars allow.~

Salem dips his head in acknowledgement and gets to his feet. "Understood.
It's time I was heading back anyway."

Sepdet touches her hand to the side of her head in an odd salute, flips
the blindfold back down, and, improbably, starts heading for the steep and
slippery spider-climb of a trail leading up beside the waterfall.

Salem watches this for a moment with an expression of bemusement and some
admiration. Then he drops down into wolf form and heads out of the caern
himself, moving at a quick trot by the time he heads up the trail.


[...]


Salem emerges from the caern, once again wearing the form of a
black-furred wolf, padding with feral grace through the woods. Despite the
full moon overhead, the Walker's brisk demeanor is light. Almost cheerful.
He's certainly in a better humor than he was earlier.

She won't cry, she won't cry- what a silly thing to cry over, a difference
of opinion! But when the other person's opinion seemed to invalidate your
entire existence... Tired of walking around aimlessly, Lyra takes a seat
between the lower branches of a towering pine, closing her eyes and
resting her head against one of them. She mumbles something in Chinese,
sad and sharp. An insult?

Sharp lupine ears catch the mutter, and the Walker goes to investigate. He
moves quietly enough in wolf form, albeit not as silently as a true
forest-dweller, and his dark fur blends well with the night-time shadows.
So it is that the halfmoon cub has little warning before the Big Bad Wolf
ghosts out of hiding and stands in front of her. Fortunately, it's a very
familiar Big Bad Wolf, with one gold eye and one white eye, with scars all
over one side of his face and a bird hanging around his neck. He chuffs
inquiringly.

From the way Lyra snaps her head back (banging it against the tree) when
she opens her eyes at the chuff, it is needless to say she's startled.
"Diu," she spits out furiously, blinking back tears of pain as one hand
rubs at her head gingerly. Hazel eyes meet the wolf's guiltily, ashamedly,
then catch glimpse of the nightingale charm. "Why do you still wear it?"
she asks him suddenly, sounding almost exasperated. "Why didn't someone
just -tell- me nobody believes in hope anymore? It would have saved me the
trouble."

Salem's ears twist backwards and then, abruptly, he reverts to breed form,
a man sitting crosslegged on the ground in front of her. His good mood, a
frail thing at the best of times and as quick to hide as a certain Theurge
cub during the larger moons, seems to have vanished. He's frowning, brow
furrowed. "What happened?"

Lyra pulls her legs up to her chest and sighs, peering up into the tree's
branches. The sky is barely visible, if at all, so far away up there.
"Nothing, rhya," she mumbles softly. "Kentin's cross because of Luna's
call." A pause, and then she adds bitterly, "And it's John-rhya's fault."

Salem's eyes narrow, his face growing tight the way it always seems to,
these days, when the Walker Ahroun's name is mentioned. "Do tell..." His
voice is quiet, perfectly controlled. He leans forward slightly, elbows
resting on his knees and fingers laced together.

The Philocub's eyes flicker down from the treacherous heights of the tree
to the treacherous planes of Salem's face, uncertain to talk. She takes a
deep breath, hugging her knees more tightly so that she has -something- to
hold on to. Only a little, nothing more, don't say too much.
"Pip's...frustrated. He hasn't found the heart for it yet, the...um...the
will?" Lyra's at a loss for a word to adequately describe this emotion.
"He thinks we're doomed in twenty years, no matter what, that...that
there's no point because John-rhya said that there's no chance to win."
The despair and sadness in her voice is not from believing these
words...it's from Quentin believing them.

Salem's eyes widen slightly in surprise, then narrow as rage kindles
within them. It's not directed at the younger Philodox at all, and as
fierce as it is, it's still under the Walker's ruthless self-control.
"John told Quentin that we were doomed in twenty years? No matter what?"
Angry surprise and bitter lack thereof war with each other in the deathly
controlled inflections of his words.

"Apparently," an equally unhappy Philodox replies. She closes her eyes
tight again to keep the tears away, struggling to remember the
conversation that had just taken place. "Kentin said that...since we're
just killing banes, it won't fix the problem, so that there's no way to
win. He..." A hard, tearful swallow. "He said he doesn't believe in love
or compassion or goodness. He doesn't believe in miracles," Lyra chokes
out.

Salem is utterly, utterly silent for a second or two. Then, his face
twisted into a mask of hate and anger, he shoves himself violently to his
feet, and for the next moment or two he just stalks a few steps to the
nearest tree and back again, jaw clenched against what would probably be,
normally, a vicious stream of biting profanity, either in English or
Serbian. By the time he's reached Lyra's spot again, he's calm enough to
speak without swearing, but his words are thick with bile. "John's an
idiot."

The Gnawer watches the Philodox Cliath stalk about, expression slightly
fearful as she's well aware of the moon, and the last time she came
bearing bad news. But at his words, through the tinge of relief and the
reluctance to say something mean about another person- and an elder, at
that -Lyra nods, once. "Hopefully, after the moon calms, he'll realize
he's being silly," she says half-heartedly.

"I'll talk to him," Salem mutters. He's too agitated to sit down again;
his hands are clenched into tight fists. "And I'm going to talk to Mr.
_Smith_ as well." It's frightening how much venom he can put into that
all-too-common surname. And then he turns to look down at Lyra. "We're not
doomed," he tells her, after a pause. With the Satanic visage and the
seething cauldron of repressed rage, he's a far cry from the appropriate
image of a beacon of hope and optimism, but there it is. "We _may_ be
doomed. In the final battle, we may all die. But we may triumph in death.
Or we may live. Or _some_ of us may live. _Or_... there may not be a final
battle at all. If there is, it may be tomorrow, or it may be a thousand
years from now. Or there will be a battle that isn't final, and in the
end, life will go on. _Gaia_ will go on. Because that's the problem with
prophecies. At best, they're lies and smoke. At worst... they're
self-fulfilling."

Lyra nods slowly, still miserable. She doesn't dare voice her own 'or...',
not with the mood Salem's in. "Like the Warper said. If you believe in
something enough, it comes true." She rubs her hand against the rough bark
of the tree branch she's propped against, wondering what a world without
trees would be like. "I have hope that in the end, Gaia will live. I don't
think I'll see it, and maybe it's blind hope, but you can't live without
hope, you can't." A bit of bark breaks off accidentally, and she watches
it plummet to the ground that's carpeted with pine needles. With a touch
of determination, she mumbles, "Now I -have- to be named Miracle-Worker."

Under a different moon, or with less frothing, snarling, boiling _anger_
pounding at the backs of his eyes and the inside of his skull, Salem might
be able to offer warmer comfort. But all he can manage at the moment is to
be fierce. "Be that, then," he says.

The cub says nothing, just looks up at Salem standing over her for a few
hard seconds. It's hard to tell what Lyra sees, from her facial
expression; certainly the Walker's rage and frown color the image into
something frighteneing. But even so, she smiles faintly, and her
unhappiness ebbs. Yes, she would prove to Quentin there was good in the
world. She would prove to everyone there were miracles. "I wouldn't be
anything else," she tells Salem with a curious, fierce pride of her own.

Salem nods sharply. "Good." He even manages something resembling a smile
-- a tight, thin, vicious kind of smile, but a smile nonetheless. He
glances upwards, then, his eye seeking the moonlight through the trees.
"Hmn. I have to run this off." He glances down at the cub again; the
smile, or hint of it, is gone. "You need a ride back to the city, or are
you staying at the farm tonight?"

Carefully- because pine needles are sharp and you're well aware of them
when you're sitting on them -Lyra pushes to her feet and brushes herself
off. "The farm is more convienient, I'll stay here tonight," decides the
Philocub quickly. "But thank you Salem-rhya, for...for talking, and
things." A pause. "Please don't be too cross with Kentin. John-rhya can be
convincing sometimes." She dips her chin, and then there's a blur of red
and blue, shifting. Once she has fur, the reddish wolfcub is tearing out
underneath the trees, heading off at a brisk clip towards the farmhouse
and barn.

"Oh, no," Salem mutters, too late and too softly for the Gnawer cub to
hear. "I won't be cross with _Quentin_." He inhales a deep breath, then
drops back into lupus and takes off through the woods. It'll be hours
before he's calm enough -- or exhausted enough -- to be safe driving home.