"This is not an easy auspice to follow."

[hazlogs]

It is currently Wed Jun 11 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (79% full).

Burial Mounds

This wide clearing in the midst of short, dark pines is rough with wild grass and bare stone. The air is a bit cooler up here in the foothills than below, and the majestic peaks of the nearby mountains rear up over the eastern treetops. There is a vine-covered boulder standing under the edge of the somber evergreens to the east. The air here is prenaturally still and the grass waves not at all for there is no breeze that blows through the pines. It is silent, no call of bird thrown from the treetops to dance gaily in the open spaces. Occasionally chill fingers run up your spine.

A faint path leading downhill to the west is the only exit from the clearing.

The Glass Walker Elder reclines near one of the newer markers, the one for John 'Ice-Walker' Smith. He still looks rather battered from his brawl with Renee last night -- the left forepaw in particular -- but is far from crippled. He appears to be asleep.

Time and again, the cub keeps forgetting that she is supposed to be sticking to the caern. Here, however, she had found a scent trail of a lupine. One which she had followed until she reached the Burial Mounds. She hadn't really noticed them here before and she is curious.

Salem shifts his weight, eyes opening, one gold, one white. Both fix on the arriving cub, and both ears swivel forward to focus on her as his head lifts from his forelegs.

Firestarter flickers her ears daintly. The sinister gray pelted wolf stops hestiantly and stands at a still. She just looks back at the Glass Walker without mentioning a word.

Salem's hackles rise as the younger wolf returns his stare, an ill temper stirring restlessly. He huffs a greeting, then curtly asks who she is.

The dark, near sable, wolf looks to the side and down of Salem, a little more respectful now than she had been in the past. I am the one that Fights-For-Hope had once called Hunter-Killer, but I go by another now. Firetstarter.

Salem looks at her a little more intently for a moment, then huffs understanding. You're the cub I helped capture. I remember.

He pushes to his feet, favoring the mangled paw, shakes himself briefly, and then sits down.

Fights-For-Hope is placing me on my Rite of Passage soon, the cub comments. Firestarter's icy blue eyes turn to look to Salem for a moment, then to the burial sites here. Her ears flicker downward, showing a tad response to the scenery.

Salem makes a little 'hrf' sound. That's good. The Sept needs more cliaths, less cubs. More fighters, less pups.

I am a Get of Fenris, we are all fighters. The cub holds her head up regally as she comments about her tribe. You are a Forseti yourself, are you?

Salem remarks, somewhat dryly and sardonically, that he is not up-to-date on all the special names you Get have for yourselves. Translate?

Firestarter grunts softly, Philodox.

Salem flicks an ear and affirms that, yes, he is a half-moon.

Get of Fenris in this area do not have another hald-moon besides myself, retorts the young cub. What can you give to me as advice? The wolf looks curiously towards the Glass Walker.

Salem gets to his feet again and shifts to Glabro form. He settles back down, crosslegged, a hulking Neanderthal in black sweats and t-shirt. ~The most important thing is to remember your honor. A Philodox lives and dies by it. A Philodox with no honor is like an Ahroun who cowers from battle.~

Salem

Well over seven feet tall and brutishly massive, this man seems barely human. A wild mane of black hair, well past shoulder-length, frames a rather Neanderthalish face, the left side of which is twisted by scars. It's not a pretty face, and it doesn't seem possible that it could ever have been one, with its heavy shelf of brow and jutting jaw. It's the face of a caveman, a thug, a bruiser; the neatly-trimmed, short black beard fails to add a touch of civilization.

Other details give him a rather feral appearance; his ears are slightly pointed, his fingernails almost clawlike, and while his left eye is dead white, the other gleams a wolfish gold.

He's dressed more casually than usual, in black sweatpants and a plain t-shirt the color of charcoal. His sneakers are black, and his dark hair's been tied back into a ponytail, away from his face. Something hangs from a cord around his neck but is tucked under his shirt, out of view.

Firestarter drops her head in an understanding manner.

Salem scratches his bearded chin with one thick, pointed fingernail, thoughtfully. ~Second most important thing is the Litany. You should know it like the back of your hand.~

I do, replies the Ferrir cub. I have went through the Litany with Little Bear and then the rest with Speaks-Circles just this evening.

Salem arches one furry eyebrow. ~Recite it, then. Each line. And explain, in your own words, what each one means and why it was included.~

Firestarter shifts up into her birth-form and takes a seat, cross legged on the ground. Imediately, the cub goes into explaining the Litany as it is still fresh in her mind. "Garou Shall Not Mate with Garou. It is the first and most important law of the litany. Garou mating with other Garou is violation of what Gaia has give us, that is to be both flesh and spirit. Mules or metis are sometimes a result and they are sometimes good fighters, but they are heavily looked down upon in our community. It was included for the reason that we do not violate Gaia, that we have relationships with our human and wolf kin, and that we do not produce sterile mules that will not pass along our bloodlines from generation to the next." The cub pauses before she goes onto the next, "Combat the Wyrm Wherever it Dwells and Wherever it Breeds. It means to take away the Wyrm wherever it dwells, even if it means inside ourselves. We must be rid of it, for it will not only harm us but those around us. " There is another pause as she goes onto the third without looking over to Salem for a moment. "Respect the Territory of Another. It is customary to not overstep the bounds of authority and to have care when in another's territory."

Salem holds up a finger, pausing her recitation. ~Customary. Why customary? I'm stronger than you. Why should I care about your territory? Why shouldn't I simply go where I want and do what I want?~

"Why?" The young Get of Fenris asks. "The same reasons why you respect someone of lower station -- all are Gaia. Common sense and courtesy will save you from quarrel with your brothers and sisters. Only in extreme cases would it be necessary to take control of an area."

~So,~ Salem says, ~you're saying that the rule about respecting another's territory is put there to keep us from quarrelling? How do you define an extreme case?~

Kansas nods to the first and then answers the latter, "When the leader and its members are ill and unfit for battling of the Wyrm."

"In their own territory," the girl adds.

Salem's eyes narrow. ~Who determines that?~

"I imagion it depends on the sept leaders." Kansas replies, "Is that not what a challenge could be about? Or one of the reasons why we have them?"

Salem nods. ~Fine. Now, consider this. One group of Garou hold a caern and have for years. Another, stronger group of Garou travel to the area and decide that the first group isn't fit to protect that caern, or at least not as fit as _they_ are. So they move in and take over, forcibly. What do you say to that?~

Kansas slowly shakes her head. "It's wrong because the ones which are holding the caern are not doing anything to destroy or threaten Gaia." She is contradicting some of the things which she says, but she is also backing up her answers as throughly at the best of her knowledge.

Salem grunts. ~So? They were unfit to hold their territory or to protect their caern. If they had been, the second group would not have been able to take over. The Litany states that we shall take no action that causes a caern to be violated. Surely, leaving the caern in the hands of the weak is dangerous.~

"The law is flawed," The Get of Fenris shurgs her shoulders. "At least in that terminology. It could just be a sort of communitation that should be reconized in this law. That it is respectful to let others know that you are stepping on their grounds."

~Explain,~ says the older Philodox. ~Which law do you refer to, and why is it flawed?~

"Because you are asked to respect the territory of another but at the same time there is a question to as if the leaders are capible of keeping it free of its weaknesses, which we have discussed." says the Get of Fenris cub.

Salem nods. ~Complex, isn't it?~ He steeples his fingers. ~The Litany sounds quite simple. Thirteen laws, easily memorized. In reality, things can get quite complicated... and, as a Judge, you'll have to deal with the complications. Continue.~

"Accept Honorable Surrender. We are all children of Gaia and this law must be respected because we all cannot be sore loosers. We have to let if go and to move on, concentrate on weaknesses and flaws -- then attempt, asking for a new challenge to gain superiority again once one has improved themselves." continues the Get of Fenris cub. "Submission to Those of Higher Station. Without this law, we would be without a balance of order in our septs and packs. Elders habe more experience than I and should be respected. If not, then there are punishments that come from them." Kansas knows of those punishments fairly well by now, of course.

Salem grunts. ~Your explanation of the surrender law is from the point of view of the one who surrendered. The loser. That law is for the winner. Try it again.~

Kansas sighs lightly, looking thoughtful. "Because one is the winner, it does not give them the right to do whatever it is that they please and it also does not set them imediately above the litany. They still must follow the laws and still have to listen to those which are equal to or under them."

Salem's mouth thins, his brows lowering. He flexes the mangled, healing fingers of his left hand slowly. ~_Why_ is that law there?~ he asks, insistantly. ~You say it's to be obeyed because it's part of the Litany. _Why_ is it part of the Litany?~

"Why not?" Kansas retorts, quirking her eyebrow. "We do need some laws that relate to structure. We can't be doing everything on our own and not obeying elders if we plan to get anything accomplished."

Salem shakes his head. ~Not good enough. For one, I'm asking about the law requiring one to accept an honorable surrender. Secondly... lawmakers and judges of the Garou spent _ages_ discussing and deciding upon the final form of the Litany. Many laws were discarded... for whatever reason, until the core of the Litany was winnowed down to the thirteen we all know. So. _Why that law_?~

Kansas cringes up her nose a little. "Duels are common, for one. As a result to this there may be a good number of Garou that die because they cannot stop from killing each other. Therefore, we end the duel by the loser exposing their throat and the winner will then accept this as a way of acceptance. That is why, it stops us from killing each other. The winner honors the opponent who surrenders in good faith." She looks to Salem again, appearing to be slighly irritable.

Salem says, ~What about the Garou who shows throat, and then continues to not submit? Example. Two Garou disagree on an issue... say that it's something about Sept policy. They cannot come to an agreement so, as is common with our people, they fight. One of them wins, and the other shows throat and yields. But afterwards continues to argue with the other.~

"Then their reputation and their renown in honor have been striped away from them now because they had been given a chance to yield and accept the surrender." the young Fenris answers.

Salem shrugs massively broad shoulders. ~So? Perhaps the loser is a Ragabash and doesn't _need_ to be considered honorable. Or even an Ahroun. The Garou Nation expects the full-moons to be valorous, not necessarily honorable. Imagine that the Ahroun continues to argue the issue. He persists until he and the other Garou come to blows again... and this time, when the Ahroun shows throat, the other tears it wide open.~ He looks at the cub expectantly.

Kansas tilts her head a little, "It is either right or wrong to do so." is replied. "Challenges are not merely meant as mere submission: the opponent must be defeated or they will not be defeated at all."

Salem's mismatched eyes narrow. ~That's annoyingly vague. Elaborate.~

"I think about it as this, by the time that one has argued enough to where there is a challenge... then it is honored as a surrender, but the looser does not accept it and does not care about neither their reputation nor their honor." Kansas rambles off to herself for a moment. "Is it right, you say, for this action to take place? I say yes, because..." she takes a breath, "There comes a time when there has been an agruement that had been settled once and there is no way that it can be proven again by the same individuals."

Salem arches an eyebrow, Spocklike. The pointed ears are well suited for this gesture, even if the thuggish hairiness of the Glabro form is not. ~Pretend that you're the halfmoon asked to judge the Garou who tore the Ahroun's throat open. What do you say?~

"There isn't a law thet prohibits you from killing another Garou, the last time I checked." Kansas answers. The Ferrir straightens and looks to Salem, "This law states that the dueling Garou is honor-bound. /Honor/ bound, therefore they must accept even if they fail. If they do not, then it was the opponents right to tear the other's throat out."

Salem cocks his head slightly. ~But the Ahroun _did_ show his throat... in both fights.~ He's playing Devil's Advocate.

"You didn't say that!" Kansas fumes for a moment.

Salem frowns. ~Actually,~ he says, a touch icily, ~I did. The two Garou fought. The Ahroun lost, showed throat, and the winner accepted his surrender, as is proper. But the Ahroun continued to argue the point that they had duelled over. Eventually, they duelled again, and again the Ahroun lost and again he showed throat. But this time, the winner, call him a Galliard for the sake of ease, did _not_ accept the Ahroun's surrender and tore the Ahroun's throat out. You've been asked to judge the Galliard's actions. What is your verdict?~

"It was instint that might have led the Galliard into tearing the Ahroun's throat out." Kansas replies. "The Ahroun is still at fault because he continued to agrue his point which had already been recently duelled over. It was a closed subject and the Galliard had no right to open up the dicussion again following the challenge which they had just made."

~The Ahroun revised the issue, not the Galliard,~ Salem corrects. ~The Ahroun may be at fault, but he's dead. Throat torn wide open. His packmates have come to you demanding justice. The Galliard, the winner and the killer, stands before you.~

"Revised?" asks the Get of Fenris cub. "You mean that the Ahroun had changed the issue to something which he felt need to be brought up again?"

Salem pinches the bridge of his nose. He seems to be mustering up his patience. ~No. It's the same argument.~

Kansas burrows her face into her hands as she thinks this through. Finally the cub throws up her hands, "I am not exactly sure." She looks a bit upset with herself about not drawing suitable conclusions, then again, this has been the first time she has gone into this length of detail.

Salem nods. ~Precisely.~ He leans forward, shifting back into lupus form. Think about it, and think about the other laws as well. Think of exceptions and difficult cases that might come up. This is not an easy auspice to follow.

Kansas stiffly rises to her feet and looks across to Salem. "I will," she agrees.

Salem is satisfied with this and adds that he will speak with Firestarter further on this in future... _if_ Fights-for-Hope allows it. For now, he must go home and get some sleep.

Kansas nods her head, "May Luna guide you." says the young cub. She begins to head down in the direction of the caern, as Salem heads on his way home.


Barnyard

The lane wends its way back and around the farmhouse to here, where it widens into a broad, grassy sward contained only by the woods which encircle it on three sides. Buildings break up the purity of the landscape: an open-sided structure which serves as a garage and the big barn, empty of livestock, to the east. A good-sized vegetable and herb garden furrows the land south of the barn, while a pyramid-like pile of rocks, of similar consistency to the gravel of the lane, rests a few yards south of the garage.

North of the buildings, the fields have long been fallow, hastening a conversion from farmland to natural prairie. A sliding glass door allows admittance to the farmhouse, the interior obscured by Levolor(tm) blinds in a wood-grain pattern. The lane leads out around the house to the southwest. The discerning can just barely pick out the beginnings of a faint path into the woods towards the southeast.

Quentin doesn't even attempt to dodge that, expecting far worse in fact; his head snapping to the side to roll with the blow, reddening his cheek as he looks back towards the Wendigo elder with a rather.. pitying look. "Then I won't say another word to you about it," he says simply, "Leonard-rhya." That said, he turns to head towards the house once more.

Leonard nods. "Wise choice." He glances at Salem with a rather belligerent, 'you wanna piece of me too?' expression on his face.

Sarah pages: About when Salem shows up, he'd see Sarah come out of the house and run down the steps, with a rifle, heading for the yard.
From afar, Sarah has /obviously/ been crying.

Sarah comes around from the lane, a rifle on her shoulder. She passes the corner of the house just in time to see it, and she stops for a breathless moment, watching.

Salem, distracted from getting in his car and driving back to the city by the sounds of confrontation, catches Leonard's stare with one of his own. Catches and _holds_ it, his expression going flat. The Walker Elder is casually dressed, sweats and t-shirt, both black; his left hand is wrapped in a fresh bandage.

Leonard

This teenage boy stands about five-ten and weighs maybe one sixty-five. Soaking wet. He's lean and almost hungry-looking with that gangly look of one who, while he may have finished growing, hasn't yet filled out his new frame. This is not to say he isn't muscled; he's simply the epitome of wiry. No older than late teens at a guess, his coppery skin, black hair and high cheekbones fairly scream 'Indian.' His brown eyes are large, deepset and fringed with lashes any woman would envy, but his demeanor is as sullen as any teen's.

He wears a black t-shirt, over which a blue button-down shirt is buttoned. Both are faded but clean. Equally-faded blue jeans and a pair of scuffed black boots round out his wardrobe. Around his neck is a rawhide bag of which he seems very protective.

Sarah

The one unquestionable truth about the young woman is her Native American ancestry. Copper-brown skin, straight black hair, and black eyes, along with the set of her features, tell any observer that much. She doesn't have the round-faced look of the northwest and far northern tribes, but rather the straight-line nose and slightly elongated features of the mid-continent. She is not particularly tall, at about five feet and four inches; her build is lean and fit, neither muscled nor skinny. Attractive by almost any standards, she has peculiar eyes: almost black in any light, and occasionally touched with a reddish-brown when the sun hits them from a certain angle. Those eyes have an intensity about them, as if she sees into things--and when interest sparks in them, they seem to drag the rest of her features into animation. The rest of the time, her face seems inclined toward a watchful, inscrutable expression, masking her mood and thoughts.

She wears practical blue jeans, well-battered hiking boots, and a brown tank top, with a frayed blue workshirt thrown over it for the cool summer evenings.

Leonard stares right back. Damn moon. "What."

"Unless you're challenging me, Little Bear," says Jack Salem, coldly, "drop your eyes."

Sarah only glares at the Wendigo, for a moment, her dark eyes accusing. Then, catching the barrel of the gun in one hand, she runs after Quentin.

Oh yeah, like Quentin's getting in the middle of this. It's into the kitchen that he goes, ducking out of the line of fire in case it erupts. Neither of those elders are people one wants to see challenging each other during this moon.

Leonard catches the movement of Sarah out of the corner of his eye before he can reply, turning to face her. He notes the gun. "Sarah."

Salem nods, satisfied that the Wendigo looked away, but he's still far from relaxed, and his manner is no warmer. "Something I should know about?" His voice is quiet, even calm.

Sarah doesn't stop--doesn't even look at the Wendigo, tears bright on her cheeks as she runs after Quentin.

Leonard claps a hand on Sarah's shoulder, stopping her tear-streaked run. "Nope."

Salem's head cocks. He glances at the weepy woman with the rifle, than to the boy-turned-Elder. One eyebrow lifts. "Really? You struck my cub for no reason, then?"

Leonard glances at Salem again. "I struck your cub because he mouthed off to me."

Sarah glares at the door, her goal. She is shaking, and the rifle comes down into both hands. When she speaks her voice is low, strained. "Let... me... go."

Salem's mismatched eyes narrow, the blind one narrowing to a mere slit of white. A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth, and again he glances at Sarah and back at Leonard. "Really? Interesting. He's usually quite well-mannered." His body language is quite still. "In any case, don't do it again."

Leonard growls, shifting up. "I told you you do NOT tell me what to do." He stops at a controlled glabro, and put his hand on the stock to remove it from the distraught kin's hand.

"STAND DOWN." Salem's voice whips out in snarling command. "Homid! Now!"

Sarah closes her eyes tightly. She is shaking visibly, her hands tight on the barrel and guard of the shotgun.

Leonard gives Salem a warning look, voice gutteral. "We're fine." He looks at the woman. "Sarah, give me the gun."

"No, you're fucking _not_ fine," the Glass Walker snaps. "You're breaking the fucking Veil. You do _not_ shift around the farmhouse. You do _not_ take any form but homid except in the barn. So shift the fuck back before I beat you unconscious."

Leonard snarls, but shifts back down quickly. Just serves to fuel his rage, and now he's not asking for the gun, he's taking it, like it or not.

Sarah's hands release the shotgun. Her eyes flicker open, dark and baleful, staring at the back door.

Leonard glares at Sarah. "Barn. Now."

Salem's hands open and close; he watches the pair with flared nostrils and narrowed eyes.

Leonard cradles the gun like he's done it before, in his right hand; his left stays on the woman's shoulder, and he heads for the barn.

Alicia makes her way out of the backdoor and towards the barn, brow raising upwards. "Yo, guys.. whats up?"

Sarah doesn't look at the Wendigo. She is still shaking, and she gives one jerking attempt at escape.

Leonard holds on, snarling. "BARN." He does not look to be in the mood for idle conversation, and gives Alicia a warning look. "Private conversation."

Either the grip or his voice convince the Kin to cooperate, though she moves a bit woodenly and her face remains numb. She doesn't look at anyone.

A brow raises upon the Gaian's face, shoulders lifting and rolling backwards. She glances over to Salem. "So, whats up?" She instead, asks her Alpha.

Salem flicks a glance over at his packmate; his mood is about as foul as Leonard's and his left hand's wrapped in a fresh bandage. "Quentin's inside. Better ask him."

"Oh yah?" Glancing back to the farm, then back to Salem, she lets out a breath. Alicia seems rather tame, despite the full moon. "OOoh.. k.. got kin carting shot guns.. both you an Leo pissed.. full moon, an Q-ball needs to tell me something." She furrows her brows, then turns on foot, heading back. "I guess everything is normal."

Leonard pages: Might've heard a dull thud, like metal hitting wood.

Salem grunts. "I came in on the end of it. Do me a favor and check on him, anyway?" He paces over toward the barn but doesn't enter it.

"Sho' thing boss." Alicia says, glancing over her shoulder to him. She ponders for a moment, then gives him a thumbs up.

Sarah pages: Oh, and no screaming. Just quiet snarly talk from Leonard. And you wouldn't even hear Sarah.

Later...

Sarah comes out with the shotgun in hand, expressionless and numb.

The Glass Walker's sitting on the back step, smoking a handrolled cigarette. He watches the emergence from the bawn with a bland expression.

The Kin appears to be headed for the house.

Leonard comes out shortly afterwards, not looking much happier. But hey, that's not much different from how he usually looks. Damn sullen injuns. He's headed for the hills. Literally.

Salem's gaze follows Leonard off, then turns to the kinswoman as she nears him. In a low voice, he asks, "You all right?"

Sarah's eyes remain downcast--so she doesn't really notice the Walker until he speaks. Then she lifts her eyes to the scarred man and gives a tiny nod. The stoic set of her face is at odds with the shimmer in those hollow eyes.

Sarah blinks, suddenly focusing on him, a look of brief startlement crossing the mask. A swallow tightens her throat.

Salem studies her, his expression guarded. He holds the cigarette awkwardly in his injured left hand and fishes out a business card with his right. He offers it to her. "I'm Quentin's Elder. And a half-moon. If you need help, I'm available."

You paged Sarah with 'His cellphone number. No name. Just the number.'.

Sarah swallows, and one hand leaves the rifle to take it carefully. "You're Salem-rhya," she guesses. The dark eyes drop, for a moment, searching the ground. "I-- will need to find a place again, in the city," she says quietly.

Salem takes a drag off the cigarette, looking thoughtful. "Not staying at Red Mill anymore?" Compared to Leonard's bluster, the Walker's quiet voice is like cool water... this despite the underlying tension of fat-moon Rage.

Sarah gives a tiny shake of her head. "Someone broke into my place," she says quietly. "It's why I came here. I can go back there, I guess, but--I need to find somewhere else. Maybe--outside the city, up north or somewhere. I have to leave the sept, and I don't know if the city is far enough." The words seem to spill out indiscriminately, no feeling attached to them at all.

Salem's eyes narrow. "Is that what he said? That you're to leave the Sept?" His mouth thins. "Well. Technically, the city is part of the sept's protectorate... but _I_ am the final say on what happens there." He takes another drag. "I'd suggest some place close to the college. Rent caters to the students, so it's not an expensive part of town, and it's about as far from the bawn as you can get without leaving the area altogether."

The back door's cracked open slightly again, a blue-haired head leaning out to check if there's blood all over the yard or something.

Sarah looks back to the Walker, numb. "It's just what I have to do. To get away. I can't--" The slide of the door cuts her off, and she looks up to Quentin. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. Save for the traces of her tears, that impassive Native American mask set firmly in place--but there is something tired and hollow about it, now.

Salem glances up and nods to Quentin, then turns back to Sarah. "Don't do anything rash," he suggests, getting up. "The Sept isn't as it was, and I, personally, value any ally we can get, whether they shift forms or no. Please consider it."

"Sorry? Pfft." A dismissive sound, as Quentin pushes the door open and steps back out, reaching down to gently ruffle the dark strands of the kin's hair if she lets him and offering her a faint smile, "You don't have anything to be sorry about, babe." A more serious look to Salem, and he asks, "Talk later, boss?" It's more of a statement than a question, of course.

Salem nods once to the cub. "Absolutely."

Lowering her eyes, Sarah studies the ground for a moment. "I'm not going to leave school," she says quietly. "Not unless I have to. I already have a scholarship, here. Four years. He can't take that."

"Good." Salem's voice holds approval. He nods to the business card in her hand. "If you need anything, please call. Quentin? I'll speak with you soon." He inclines his head to the women, then starts heading back around the house toward his car.

"I'll be here," Quentin replies with a tip of his head to his elder, stepping over to ease himself down beside Sarah on the steps.. arms resting on his knees as he allows quietly, "He can't, no."