Fertility

[hazlogs]

It is currently 13:20 Pacific Time on Thu Dec 5 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 46
degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.27 and
falling, and the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 44
degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (6% full).

Setting: The Bawn

The peak of the afternoon has brought Laura to the edge of the Bawn. The
chill weather doesn't seem to bother her-no extra clothing has been added
to her usual outfit. The Fury walks slowly, pausing here and there to
brush her hand over pieces of bark, stones on the ground, or other random
pieces of the landscape.

Salem makes his presence known with a quiet 'huff'; the Glass Walker is,
as seems to be his habit, patrolling in wolf form, taking advantage of a
thick black winter coat.

Laura pauses mid-step, taking in the wolf's coat and features before
nodding a greeting to him. "Afternoon, Salem," she says quietly, looking
out towards 'civilization' briefly. "Anything to report?"

Salem gives himself a bit of a shake, then indicates a negative.
Everything quiet. He tilts his head, studying the Fury thoughtfully. There
is something I would ask of you.

Laura hunkers down so she's no longer so high over the wolf. One hand
rests on the ground, the better to distribute her weight. "Hm?" Her
eyebrows rise in question as she waits for him to continue.

Salem settles back on his haunches. His body language is carefully
controlled, creating a stillness that is more feline than lupine. Even so,
he seems vaguely troubled. Pensive. I am thinking of something that I
heard you speak of, back at the farmhouse. The ~Fertility Rite.~

Laura's hand rubs at the dirt, and her eyes remain on the wolf. "Hm. You
or one of yours has need of such healing?" she asks. Her free elbow comes
to rest on her knee, the heel of her hand pressing against her chin.
"Sepdet-rhya had mentioned something of the sort," she continues, after a
moment's thought.

The sound of Laura's voice and the occassional few words in the Mother's
Tongue have attracted a white wolf from his patrol. Tobin trots to within
sight of the other two Garou and whuffs a greeting and strides towards
them, shifting up to homid by the time he reaches them.

Salem's eyes narrow slightly, his ears tilting slightly backwards. But he
admits, yes. One of his kinfolk was... injured, in the past, and cannot
bear children because of it. He pauses, then makes a frustrated noise and
abruptly shifts back to human form and settles himself back on the ground,
sitting cross-legged. "It... weighs on her, I know. But I'm not sure
whether it wouldn't hurt her more to be offered the rite." He glances up
as the Fang arrives and nods in curt greeting.

Laura, hunkered down, nods to Tobin. "It is not an easy subject to broach,
even to those desperate for such help. The ability to bear children is so
intrinsic to womanhood in the minds of most that being denied that right
brings great frustration." She thinks a moment longer. "I am willing to
perform the Rite, if she is willing to undergo it."

Salem nods, somewhat ruefully. "I was hoping that would be your response.
Thank you." He looks over at Tobin again. "Find anything interesting?"

Tobin nods to Salem and Laura but otherwise remains silent, as they
converse, respectful of the subject they are discussing. He shakes his
head at Salem's question. "All's quiet on the western front, Rhya," he
reports somberly.

Laura nods as well. "You're welcome," she replies, pivoting a bit to hear
Tobin's report.

Salem cocks an eyebrow slightly at Tobin's use of the honorific, then
grunts. "Same here. Good. And your pack?"

"The pack is doing well, though our activities are limited by me being on
the bawn," he says, sitting himself down on the cold ground. "We're
thinking about a territory, but I've yet to tell everyone my ideas."

Laura turns a bit more, the better to watch outwards. "What were you
considering?" she asks, gaze flickering to Tobin for a moment before
returning to the trees beyond.

Salem shifts his weight forward slightly and transforms smoothly back to
wolf form. The Walker settles back on his haunches, looking mildly
interested in Tobin's answer; his ears and nose remains attentive to the
woods around them.

Tobin, also, is keeping half his attention on the woods around them. "The
forests north of the bawn were what I was thinking of. The Fianna have
their gathering place there, and with two Fianna in a pack following a
Fianna totem, I somehow doubt they'd mind having us around."

Laura nods again, narrowing her eyes briefly at what might be a figure in
the distance. "Good place," she says, posture relaxing as she realizes
that the distant motion is only a wind-tossed tree.

Salem abruptly pushes to his feet. Excusing himself curtly, he slips off
into the woods, heading north.