"Anyone who claims their story is boring is usually lying."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:32 Pacific Time on Thu Mar 13 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 51 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.39 and rising, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (72% full).

Salem

Black fur covers this adult male wolf from muzzle to tail, the dark pelt unbroken but for a vague, irregularly-shaped medium gray patch on his chest. Like all his species, he is long-limbed and athletically built, powerful and relentless in his motions, a true predator. Rarely is the animal truly relaxed, and often a murderous anger seems to rage just under the surface of his ebony pelt, the promise of violence held in check only by a near-iron control. To Garou eyes, he has the look of nobility, and it's clear that Shadow Lord blood runs strongly through his veins.

One feral golden eye glints with a more than animal intelligence, but the other is a blind white that's all but lost within the twisted jungle of scar tissue that covers the left side of his face. There's a secondary scarred area on his right shoulder that looks like it might once have been some kind of glyph, but it's been long since obscured. With claws. A nightingale charm hangs from a cord around his neck, nestled close to the fur.

Salem slips into the caern in the guise of a wolf, his black fur damp with the March rain.

At the center, Tobin stands, or rather moves around, the center of the caern. He's shirtless, despite rain and cold and dark, and even appears to be exercising. His boots squelch through the mud as he fences with himself, rapier in one hand and main gauche in the other. Short, sharp breaths are heard along with each step, each thrust, each imaginary parry. If he's noticed the dark wolf approach, he gives no sign that he has.

By the steam vents, Stonehenge comes into the caern from the southwest.

By the steam vents, Stonehenge heads into the center.

Salem pricks his ears. After watching the solo-fencing Fang in the center, he pads forward, chuffing a greeting as he does so.

You head into the center and heart of the caern.

Center of the Caern

This area of the clearing is about 30 meters wide and is a mixture of dark soil and clay throughout. The ground is mostly mud, but patches of grass, halted by winter's cold, are beginning to peek through the ground and take root. Near the center of the clearing, a small cairn has been built with white stone and quartz--what was left of the beautiful boulder that was once there. None of the stones is bigger than a softball.

Around you, twenty yards in every direction, stretches the caern. To the southeast, a waterfall plummets over the edge of the chasm into a small pool in the caern; nearby, to the southwest, steam comes from cracks in the ground, perhaps some of the same water. Northwest, a rocky spar juts out of the ground at a low angle, showing a sloping but smooth top. The chasm walls narrow a bit to the northeast, causing some of the mist to swirl in that area.

Stonehenge pads up and woofs respectfully at his elders, but keeps his distance until invited closer.

Tobin steps through a few more moves of his fencing practice, ending with a viscious double cross cut with both rapier and main gauche. He turns to face the dark wolf, eyeing him in a measuring fashion for a moment before saluting with the rapier. To Stonehenge he gives a short, if polite nod and then sheathes his weapons.

Salem shifts upwards into the dire wolf, though no further, and settles back on his haunches. ~Are there any Silver Fangs who are _not_ taught skill with the thin blades?~ There's a touch of dry, dark humor in the rumbling voice. One golden eye flicks toward the Get cub, and he rumbles in greeting.

Stonehenge sits down and cocks his head. It appears he's just listening quietly.

Tobin smirks and then sets about gathering his clothing. "We are /born/ with such skills, dark one," he says in a clear Russian accent, and with more than a hint of arrogance in his tone. "Along with a small number of other useful skills," he adds, affecting humility now.

Salem's hackles rise. The Glass Walker lifts a bone-cracking muzzle and gives the young Fang a direct stare. ~And less useful ones. Flaws.~ He shows a flash of fang. ~And do not call me that.~

Stonehenge paws a few paces back, just to be safe.

"As you wish," he says as he shrugs into his jacket and flips his long wet hair out behind him from where it was caught under the coat. Every movement is careless, as if there isn't a great black wolf-monster showing him its fangs just a few feet away.

Long distance to Tobin: Salem assumes no attempt to meet eyes staredown-style, then?

Tobin pages: Right, he's deliberately not looking at you.

Salem snorts derisively and turns toward Stonehenge. ~Nobody's going to bite you, cub. You can come closer.~

Stonehenge nods a bit and moves closer, ~I'm not afraid of being bit, Salem-rhya, I'm afraid of having the Fang's blood splatter all over me.~ He wolfy chuckles.

Stonehenge

Stonehenge is a young grey wolf. His coat shines with good grooming. Muscles can be seen developing beneath his coat. His golden eyes have small flecks of blue about the edges. He watches you and takes mental notes of all you do.

Tobin snorts this time. "No one's blood will be spilled, cub," he says reassuringly, though it's somehow less reassuring with that accent. "Least of all mine," he sighs with a sigh. "As entertaining as poking fun at ahrouns is, it's not my blood anymore and thus not mine to spill."

At this, Salem turns a sharp eye to the Fang. ~Not yours to spill?~ The question contains more suspicion than curiosity.

Stonehenge blinks, and cocks his head, ~What do you mean not your blood anymore?~ He looks at Salem as they both ask the question.

Tobin blinks, turning a surprised look at Salem. "Well of course not, young one. This is not truly my life any longer, it is Tobin's. I am only a memory now, a ghost, whom Tobin lets out every now and then to stretch and remember what it was like to draw breath and wield blades."

Salem's ears twitch forward. Then the dire wolf makes a little 'hrrf' noise of understanding and the hair-trigger temper eases back a few notches. ~You're an ancestor. Interesting. How far back?~

Stonehenge blinks and leans in, ~Now, this is interesting.~ His tail wags betraying his curiosity.

"Not far, not far," Tobin, or Tobin's ghost, answers blithely. "A mere hundred years or so. The Motherland was just turning towards anarchy when I gave my life in service to Gaia after serving her for more than forty years." He blinks again and chuckles, looking sheepish. "Ah me, but I have forgotten my manners in my old age. My name is Alexander, but most called me Sasha. Deed-named Smiles-In-Murder, but most often called Grinning-Killer. Fostern of the First Tribe, born and run under the dark of the moon."

Salem considers this, head cocked slightly, then rears up onto his hind legs, body blurring swiftly through the remaining forms until he's reverted to Homid. "Jack Salem," he says in return, slipping his hands into the pockets of the black leather duster. "Philodox and Elder of the Glass Walkers, Alpha of Synthesis, Son of Cockroach."

Stonehenge bows his head a bit, ~Stonehenge, cub of the Get of Fenris~ He remains quiet afterwards, watching with eyes ablaze with curiosity.

Tobin bows a little towards Stonehenge, acknowledging the cub's introduction. "A fine name for a Get," he says, though his attention is mostly focussed on Salem. He looks at the Walker with that measuring gaze again. "Yes, the City Walkers. I remember." He pauses and looks again. "Son of Cockroach, you say?" Another pause, then he smirks. "It does not take a Seer to see that things were not always thus. So tell me, why are you no longer one of Raven's Brood?"

Salem's gaze doesn't waver; neither does he display the slightest hint of discomfort at the regard. "A long story. And dull." His eyes narrow. "Russian, mm? Things have been quite interesting in your homeland this past century."

Stonehenge looks to Salem and watches him, ~The spirit would like the tale, Salem-rhya, and I must admit so would I. Will you deny a spirit and a cub a tale about yourself that they may learn better of you?~ He watches Salem respectfully.

Tobin's smirk widens. "Anyone who claims their story is boring is usually lying," he says with good humor. "I sense an interesting tale here, but one no Galliard would ever tell, eh?" His eyes glint with amusement.

Salem flatly ignores Stonehenge; his gaze does not even flicker down toward the Get cub. "Lying or no, it's not one you'll hear. And I'm poor at telling stories anyway. Even my own." He smiles at Tobin, thin-lipped and humorless.

Stonehenge chuffs. He sits back down, tail flicking around annoyed.

"I thought not," says the ghost, though he loses none of the amusement from his eyes. He looks over at Adrian and shrugs broadly. "What can one do when dour full-moons refuse to tell tales?" he asks with a wide grin, then pauses and looks back at Salem. "My apologies, /half/-moons," he says, smile fading to sober gravity as he apologizes.

Salem accepts the apology with a slight nod, though his expression loses none of that hard, granite quality. He glances briefly at Stonehenge, then tells the Fang. "The boy's a Galliard. I believe he forgot to mention that."

Stonehenge cocks his head, ~Did I? Crap~ He look between the two. ~I'm on my Rite of Passage, collecting tales of the Past. I must find one that shows select tribes working together.~

Tobin's eyebrows go up at this revelation from Salem and he looks back to Stonehenge. "Is that so, boy?" he asks of the cub. "And on your Rite of Passage. Wonderful! Tell me, what tales are you to collect?" he asks eagerly.

Salem lifts an eyebrow as well; this bit of information about Adrian is news to him, too.

Stonehenge woofs, ~Tales showing at least 5 tribes working together.~ His tail wags a bit.

Tobin nods thoughtfully. "And must this tale be from the past of this Sept, or from any time throughout the history of the Garou?"

Stonehenge thwaps his tail, ~Throughout the history of the Nation~

Tobin nods once again. "I /may/ have something for you. I see, feel, glimpses of memories of such things. Stories I have heard and things I have...done myself." His brow furrows in confusion, then he shakes his head vigorously. "Bah! Only the boy is good at sorting through all the memories of everyone we have been. I shall have to fetch him. I think he is speaking to Volst about something or other." With a scowl of annoyance on his face he lapses into silence and his gaze turns inwards.

Salem regards the Fang for a moment, then shakes his head and turns to Adrian. "Congratulations on being given your Rite." He arches an eyebrow. "Though, I'm surprised that it isn't more... physical. Who gave you the task?"

Stonehenge barks, agreeing, ~Jamethon~ He looks around. ~Time for bed, good night tp the both of you.~

Salem arches an eyebrow, then nods. "Sleep well."

Stonehenge pads off.

Tobin blinks several times and immediately starts wiping the rain out of his eyes. He takes a moment to glare up at the sky before stretching his arms and back before looking around. He turns a full circle to look around the entire caern when he sees only Salem. "Sasha said that Stonehenge was here, too. Where'd he go?" he asks, a blank look on his face when he looks back at Salem.

Salem flicks a wet strand of hair out of his eyes. "To bed," he answers. He studies Tobin's face carefully. "You're back, then?"

Tobin apparently recognizes the look on Salem's face from others who have worn it before. He grimaces, as though he'd just eaten something distasteful. "I am," he confirms. "And I immediately and unconditionally apologize for anything and everything that Sasha did or said. I let him out because I didn't think anyone would be around the caern at this hour in the rain."

Salem makes a dismissive gesture. "He was arrogant and condescending, but not offensive."

Tobin relaxes a little, letting out a held breath in relief. "Good, good," he says with a nod. "He mostly stays out of trouble these days, but you never know when something will tempt him to mischief." He looks around the empty caern again. "Well, I suppose I can take a bit more time to find a good story for Stonehenge, then."

"I'm surprised that Jamethon hasn't asked him to beat something up as well," Salem remarks, dryly. "Get Rites of Passage are typically bloody."

Tobin nods, grinning wryly. "Perhaps Jamethon is having mercy on him since /he's/ been asked to go beat something up, himself."

Salem snorts. "Beating things up is what Get _do_. It's an area in which they proudly excel. Ask Owen."

"I'd rather not, if I can avoid it, thanks," Tobin says, smirk still in place. "I don't deal much with the Get, and I like it that way."

"Talons, Get, Wendigo," Salem says, glances upward at the clouded sky. "Thankfully, we have few of any of them at this Sept."

Tobin frowns a bit. "Seems like we've got few of anyone at the sept, these days," he says, looking distant. "I travel from the caern to the city and back to my territory and hear little news of anything going on."

Salem blinks rain out of his eyes and glances back at the Fang. Broad shoulders move in a careless shrug. "Quiet before the storm, most likely."

Tobin's frown deepens. "I don't like the sound of that, because it rings so true." He starts pacing around the caern. "And me so unprepared," he mutters.

Salem's smile is grim and humorless. "It's not far until the anniversary of the caern's fall." With this cheerful little observation hanging in the air, the Glass Walker pulls out a pocketwatch and glances at the time.

Tobin nods, still pacing. "I feel as though I want to gather a great flock of bird spirits to me and then send them out to spy on the doings of our enemies. We were caught completely unawares last time."

Salem puts the pocketwatch away. "Then do so," he says simply. "If not a flock, a stormraven or two. They're adept spies."

Tobin stops pacing and nods again, eyes catching Salem in the act of putting away his watch, then flicking up to the Walker's face. "Do you have any news you'd like me to pass on to anyone who stays out here? Andrea-rhya, perhaps?"

Salem shakes his head. "Nothing tonight, that I can think of, anyway."

"Very well then," says the Fang briskly. "If you need to get a message to me or have something you wish carried to the caern, but is not urgent, leave a message for me at Falcon's Rest. I go by there every few days. I've also taken up residence in a cabin north of the bawn."

Salem nods. He glances upwards again, at a sky still spitting rain -- though less vigorously than earlier -- shifts back to wolf form and turns to go. I will do so. Mother with you, Fang.

Tobin nods in farewell at the Walker. "Mother with you, Son of Cockroach." He collects his weapons and makes to head north.

Salem slips out of the caern and into the forest beyond, heading west.