"I assume you now understand the need for the urgent delivery?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:18 Pacific Time on Thu May 15 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (95% full).

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.

Salem steps around a patch of mud as he moves into the center of the caern and toward the Fianna.

Susan is sitting in the center of the caern working on carving a hole in what appear to be the tips of antlers.

Susan is a striking young woman in her early twenties. Her rich coffee and cream complexion and startling green eyes reveal her mixed parentage. Long black braids frame a face that, while not classically beautiful, commands notice. There is a trace of greatness in her features, possibly from the strong set of her jaw, or perhaps in the brilliant smile that she seems to ready to bestow at a moment's notice.

Her clothing is functional; sturdy jeans tucked into a pair of well-worn hiking boots and topped with a plain white tee-shirt. On colder days, she adds a warm flannel shirt and a much abused leather jacket that seems to have a thousand and one pockets. A scent of pine needles and damp earth seems to be soaked into the jacket and jeans, but beneath the stronger smells is the faintest whisp of a metallic tang.

"Tempered-Blade-rhya." Salem's greeting is formal; the Walker stops in front of her and clasps his hands behind his back, looking expectant.

Susan continues her carving, but her greeting is warm. "Good morning, Salem."

Salem cocks his head slightly, one eyebrow lifting quizzically. His hands unclasp and vanish into his coat pockets. "Good morning." He pauses a moment. "I am, naturally, curious as to the terms of the challenge, but if this isn't a good time..."

Susan looks up from her work and shakes out the tangle of braids that frame her face. "Curiosity is never a bad trait to cultivate," she says placidly. "I assume you now understand the need for the urgent delivery?"

Salem nods, his expression turning rueful. "You and your pack will be missed."

Susan holds up the antler tip and inspects it carefully for any flaws or breakages. "We have a few days, or possible a few weeks. We will not go into this blind. I may be here to see the end to your challenge, but if not, the Master of the Challenge knows the terms that I have set for you. Are you ready to hear?"

Salem nods again. "I am," he says solemnly.

Susan wraps the antler in a small piece of undyed silk and rises to her feet. Her tones are formal as she says "Salem, philodox of the Glass Walkers, you have challenged me for the right to stand with this sept as a Fostern of the Garou. Your challenge has been accepted, and here I lay out the terms for you." She looks up at the cliath and her voice rings out over the caern. "You follow the ways of the half-moon, and it is this aspect of yourself that must be tested. There are always judgements that must be made in a sept of this size. Find one and be prepared, at the next moot, to present both the situation and your decision to a panel of four garou. Two will be of the half moon like yourself, one must answer the call of the Galliard, and one will be born to the darkness like myself. They will question your decision, and you will defend your answers. If, in the end, they all agree that the situation was worthy of the challenge and that your decision was the correct one, you pass."

Salem listens gravely, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Who chooses the members of the panel?"

Susan asks, "Are you alpha of your tribe?"

"I am," Salem replies simply.

Susan nods once. "The beta of the Glass Walkers will pick one of the philodox. The Master of the Challenge will select the second. Your galliard is Jarred, and your no-moon will be chosen by luck. Aside from myself and Patrick, you will be judged by the next no-moon that you encounter."

Salem lifts an eyebrow. "How very... appropriate." He dips his head. "The terms are understood and accepted."

Susan's lips curl up into a smile. "I wish you the best of luck."

Salem returns the smile with a thin, crooked one of his own. "Thank you." He dips his head to her and turns to go.

Susan collects her antler tips and nods. "Gaia walk with you, Salem. In all the dark places."

"Likewise," the Glass Walker says over his shoulder. "Gaia walk with you, and cockroach watch your steps."