"Two links?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:27 Pacific Time on Sun Jul 30 2017.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 82 degrees Fahrenheit (27 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the variable at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.23 and falling, and the relative humidity is 47 percent. The dewpoint is 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (48% full).

Edgewood House: Meadow(#1390RJh)

A long, hard-packed dirt road winds almost a mile through the forest off Sunrise Road, eventually opening out into a small front yard, and coming to a stop in front of a large house, which may be the very definition of ramshackle. The house is not visible from the road, nor can one hear anything but perhaps a gunshot. Its foundation and general structure are solid, but its once crisp grey-and-white paint needs updating, and some of the trim is having trouble staying attached. A fixer upper, one might say. Off to the left, there's a former garage, long since converted into something of an in-law apartment. A connecting flyover attaches it to the second floor of the house.

There are no fences surrounding either the front or back yards. In the rear of the property, the yard (larger than in the front) eventually comes up against a well built garden, with the very beginnings of sprouts. Shaded and obscured by surrounding trees, there is a small (but deep) natural pond, with a chuckling brook leading out of it, into the woods. There's a rope swing hanging from one of the trees. The yard to the southeast of the property stretches on for a time, and then is eaten by woods, into which there may or may not be a path; it apparently fades away quickly. There's a certain looming feel to these woods.

Thomas is seated by the meadow's pond, poking--in seemingly idle fashion--at the water with a stick. Brings-the-Pack has just entered via the forest. A small grin prickles across his features. "Doin' fine," he replies. "And growing fast, thank you." He pulls the stick from the pond water and taps it a few times, letting drips fly across the water's surface. "How're you, Mr. Brings? I heard there's been a leadership change again."

"That is good to hear," Brings-the-Pack says as he steps free of the treeline, moving over toward the pond to join Turtle. "There has. Thane departed with little notice, so likely a personal emergency. The Glass Walker elder, Mouse, assumed his responsibilities temporarily, inviting others who would be Alpha to step forward. Currently, there are two challengers: Slug, the Bone Gnawers elder, and Jamethon, the current Ritemaster. Both would do well, I think," the cougar says. "I doubt either will expel me from my current access to the caern nor revoke my claim of territory in the Mountain Bowl's glade."

"Well," Thomas says, apparently a little more reserved in his assessments, "We'll see." He sets the stick aside. "Ain't unusual for leadership changes among the Wolves between big fights like the last one, but their leaders don't often just go running off. Mayhap he was putting something off though. So, now you've got territory. It shaping up? Working out? Don't think I've been up that way, personally."

Salem wanders out from the trees, a backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair windblown and messy.

Brings-the-Pack glances over at Salem as he emerges from the trees, offering him a nod, and then returning to the conversation with the elder kitsune. "I've been thankful for the stability and continuity in the sept's leadership, and what you said makes sense. Sometimes we put what we want to do on hold for the things that we must do instead. I'm sure there were good reasons for Thane's departure. And we do not need to share every detail of our lives publicly." The feline sniffs and admits, "It took a little time and work to find the balance between what I wanted from the land and the resonance of the place itself, but I think a comfortable truce has been reached. That, and I think the spirits are quite happy with the thinning of the gauntlet that I've done at the heart of the glade. I'm pleased with it, too. Makes crossing back and forth easier."

Thomas gives a rough chuckle. "Oh, I'm sure they're real fond. Careful about how thin it gets though. Could end up messy." His eyes flick toward Salem, and the Walker gets a nod and a tip of the man's old, battered hat. "Glad it's working out, anyhow. Territory never was much my sort've thing. Not for long enough to matter. But every now'n then the idea sounds attractive."

Salem lifts a hand in a brief wave. "Brings, Thomas, good evening. How goes it?" He joins the odd pair by the pond.

"There are times when having claimed and squated on a piece of land becomes troublesome," the cougar-mage agrees with Thomas. As if to illustrate the point, he offers to Salem, "Relatively good, save for a visitation in my territory by one of those creatures that was slain in that old Walker bunker in that Olympia, Washington suburb. Teleported in. Not entirely sure what it was attempting to accomplish once there, but we didn't attack it and it didn't attack us. And then it teleported out. I suspect to Hanford, although I can't say for certain. But keep an eye out for them on the bawn, just in case. Hopefully things are well with you?"

Thomas's eyebrows lift at this bit of news, though he doesn't interject his own commentary. He rubs roughly at his jaw, then says to Salem, "Goin' alright, particularly now that things are settling as regards the Spiral Revolution. Lots've folk grieving and lots've funerals, but there were victories that got pulled out there that're worth celebrating all the same."

"One problem down, another still ongoing." Salem unshoulders his pack and lets it drop to the ground. He eyeballs the cougar. "Maybe your visitor was... a test?"

Brings-the-Pack counters, "I suspect curiosity. Possibly concern." He explains, "I was trying to weaken the connection between Ghost and Hanford. It might have drawn unwanted attention. Curiously, there were two...." Here the cougar pauses, a thought crossing his mind. A couple heartbeats later, he continues. "... two links. Distinct from one another. One immensely powerful. The other weaker. I suspect the Black Mage was the weaker of the two. And I think he may have created or learned how to control those creatures to be his eyes and ears beyond the confines of Last Days."

Thomas picks up the stick again. He listens, intently, but now he's entirely quiet, and as Brings-the-Pack talks, he results poking idly at the pond water.

Salem's brow furrows. "Two links?" He rubs at his mouth. "How would... /could/ this relate to the... to Ghost's twin in the bunker, do you think?"

Brings-the-Pack rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "The two links were between Ghost and headed towards Hanford. I could check her mirror and...." He pauses again, thinking, then continuing, "... seeing if there is one or more connections to The Something."

"Ain't got any idea what you're talking about now," Thomas says, but his tone is easy, and suggests he's not really asking for an explanation either. It even comes with a faint chuckle as he swirls the stick about in the water.

Salem glances at the Fox, his expression apologetic. "To be honest, some days /I/ hardly know what I'm talking about," he says dryly. He turns back to the mage. "It bothers me, not knowing what the deal is with her."

Brings-the-Pack looks from the farmhouse and then towards the city lights beyond it. "This is important to the sept. We should probably investigate now." He pushes effortlessly to all fours and excuses himself to Thomas. "I would like to speak with you latter about a different matter. A good thing, I think."

Thomas tips his hat again, to both men. The Fox himself remains sitting. "'Course. Should be around at least a few days, I think. Ain't planning to take off anyhow. You come find me, if'n I ain't hanging about."

Salem picks up his bag and reslings it. "Be seeing you," he says to Thomas.

(Scene change.)

Bomb Shelter(#2637RJ)

This 1960s-era bomb shelter is hidden in the overgrown backyard of a foreclosed home in a subdivision that got hit hard by the housing crisis and never recovered. From the outside, it's just a squat concrete shed with a single heavy metal door; opening this reveals a narrow stairway to another heavy door (secured with a very old-looking keypad) leading to the shelter itself, which is long and vaguely cylindrical, like a giant concrete pill set on its side. The layout is shotgun style, rooms laid out in a line -- a small front 'seating' area (mainly a couple of folding chairs and a cheap student desk scrounged from somewhere), a sleeping room with four bunk beds (two to a side) and some metal footlockers and hooks, a storage room with shelving for supplies (mostly nonperishable food and bottled water, some of it quite old, the rest of it modern), and finally a bare-bones combination bathroom and laundry room.

There's electricity and running water, but cell phone and wifi reception down here is practically nonexistent, and it always seems to be a little too cold.

In the Umbra, the house is a bare, skeletal shadow, hardly there at all, while the bomb shelter itself is as solid as it is in the Realm, a small knot of Weaver holding the fort within a growing sea of Gaian spirits strengthened by the subdivision's decline. (Here and there, too, there sometimes drifts a Bane of some kind, usually one of decay or despair, but their movements are quite furtive, especially in this block; something (or someone) has been busy hunting them.)

Salem's expression is grim as he leads the way down in the bomb shelter. "She still disturbs the hell out of me," he admits to Brings as he taps at the keypad. "Even after all this time."

"I can't see how this would not be unnerving to anyone," the cougar behind Salem replies.

Not-Ghost, the Ghost-copy, or however one might be inclined to think of her, is nothing if not predictable. She's inside, lying on her bunk, staring at the concrete ceiling. She blinks on the regular. She breathes normally. There's an occasional fidget. And that's about all she does, when she isn't sleeping, needing to use the bathroom, or being encouraged to eat.

Salem grunts in reply to the mage as they head inside and down to the bunk room. He greets the copy with a polite, "Hello, Ghost." Not a lot of warmth there.

Brings-the-Pack files in after Salem, looking around the bunker that can best be described as 'functional' if one is charitable. He eyes Not-Ghost and pads over to settle down near her. "Hello, Ghost. Do you remember me?"

Not-Ghost continues to stare up at the ceiling, both at the greeting from Salem, and again at the one from Brings-the-Pack, even as the latter draws close to her. She blinks once, but it doesn't seem to be in direct response to either of them. She has to be aware of them, of course, unless she's suddenly gone blind and deaf.

Salem grimaces, shrugs, and hops up into the upper bunk on the opposite side of the room from Not-Ghost.

Brings-the-Pack says, face towards Not-Ghost but words intended for both parties. "Would it be okay to speak with you in your mind? Blink twice for yes and three times for no."

Not-Ghost closes her eyes. It takes a while, but eventually she opens them again, and eventually she does blink twice, fairly close together.

Salem leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. "Hmm."

Brings-the-Pack falls silent and motionless, reaching out with invisible magicks. Although, perhaps for Salem's benefit, he vocalizes his end of the conversation, starting after about half a minute. "Can you hear me?"

Not-Ghost continues to stare upwards, occasionally blinking, expression unchangingly blank. The mental impression that Brings-the-Pack gets is...fuzzy, almost non-committal, barely an affirmative. And, to what is likely Salem's surprise, it gets vocalized, in Ghost's voice, as a fuzzy, almost non-committal, appropriately 'ghostly' "Mmhmm" sort of response. It certainly doesn't come out of her, per say. Her lips don't move. She doesn't make the noise.

Salem's shoulders hunch a little. Unconsciously, he starts gnawing on the edge of a thumbnail.

Brings-the-Pack says "Okay. Good," the cougar-mage replies. "Do you need anything?" His second question, after confirming she can communicate with him, is directed at her welfare."

This time, unfortunately, he gets nothing but silence in response.

Salem shakes his head.

Brings-the-Pack seems to be debating something, taking him a little longer to say, "I'm going to look you over to see if we can help you. You shouldn't feel anything. If it hurts, let me know and we will stop."

Not-Ghost, unsurprisingly, offers no response, physical or otherwise, to this statement, but Brings-the-Pack doesn't sense any discomfort at the idea either.

Salem realizes that he's chewing his nails and abruptly shoves both hands into his pockets.

Brings-the-Pack waits a bit, gathering himself, and then brings his magick to bear in an effort to search for tell-tale signs of similar connections like he'd noticed a few days prior with Ghost v1.0.

Ghost doesn't appear to be aware of whatever Brings-the-Pack is doing. Nothing about her seems to change.

Salem sits quietly, looking from Ghost to Brings and back again.

Brings-the-Pack says "Well, that's strange," Brings-the-Pack vocalizes after apparently nothing transpired. "The weaker connection I sense earlier in the other Ghost? It's not here in this Ghost. And the strong link that was in other Ghost? It's.... fluctuating in this one, like a faulty electrical connection." He looks to Salem, but seems at a loss as to what to make of all this. He does have one take, though. "I don't think the Black Mage is connected with this Ghost. Or his connection no longer exists.""

Ghost's expression changes. It's abrupt, and brief. A quick, ugly flash of teeth, an angry, brief snarl at the ceiling. No sound accompanies it. It goes as quickly as it comes. But it might be the most human (Garou?) expression that Salem, at least, has seen out of her since she was found.

Salem sits forward, his attention sharpening on Ghost. Without looking away from her, he asks Brings, "What does that /mean/, though?"

Brings-the-Pack doesn't overlook a flash of anger from a garou, and he takes a couple steps back just in case. He asks, likely with the aid of some form of magick again, "Ghost? Why did you show anger just now?"

Not-Ghost doesn't respond physically again, but this time it's Brings-the-Pack's voice that gets set in the air between them, as Ghost thinks the words. Remembers the words? "Black Mage".

Brings-the-Pack asks, "You know the Black Mage?"

Ghost returns only anger. It doesn't translate to her body language again, and it doesn't really even make it to words that Brings-the-Pack's magic can create, but he can certainly feel it. Burning, angry, murderous hatred.

Brings-the-Pack takes another step back, giving Salem ample room to intervene if need be. "Can you explain why it is that you hate the Black Mage so much?" It's an open question that he expects likely won't get an answer.

Not-Ghost stares up at the ceiling for a time, several long moments, before she folds her arms up against her chest and rolls onto her side, facing the wall, putting her back to both of them. Unfortunately, his expectation seems to be correct. He doesn't get an answer.

Brings-the-Pack has the good sense to wait about a minute before asking the next of his questions. "Did you escape from him?"

Again Brings-the-Pack can feel the anger, the hatred, the sheer Rage, even though Not-Ghost remains turned to the wall, remains in homid, and to all appearances doesn't seem to be about to shift. And while she doesn't say anything, the magically produced 'thoughts' say, clearly, with added snarl in Ghost's voice, "I /killed him/."

Brings-the-Pack blinks at this claim, as if initially disbelieving it, but... stranger things have happened. "He was consumed by The Nothing?"

"I killed him," the Ghost voice repeats. Maddeningly, it offers no further explanation.

Brings-the-Pack didn't seem to expect further explanation, but that is still frustrating in itself. "Are you a Black Spiral Dancer?" he inquires.

"No." This response doesn't require any delay, it seems. It comes easily, and is easily translated.

And then a seemingly disjointed, incongruous question follows. "He travels through time?"

She seems confused by this. It seems to take her a long time to sort through it, and it's a long time before he gets any kind of response at all. Then: "He stays." Then: "No." Then: "Time?"

"Yes," Brings-the-Pack replies. "Did he have creatures working for him?"

"No," says the voice. Less delay this time.

Brings-the-Pack hesitates a good minute, weighing pros and cons, before finally offering to put the next course of action into her hands. "Can I show you a picture of one of the creatures--monsters--that might be working for the Black Mage?

Not-Ghost remains facing the wall, but eventually he gets a wordless affirmative sense, even less than the 'mmhmm' from before.

Rather than do it suddenly, Brings-the-Pack allows the mental projection of the skull-faced echo to slowly transition from an obvious, blurred thing into a much more well-defined image. He's ready to remove the image as soon as necessary if it causes Ghost to become unnerved or distraught or angered.

Recognition. She recognizes it. And Not-Ghost isn't particularly happy to see it, but Nick doesn't sense any strong flare of emotion. He does, however, get an answer. "No." Then: "Not his." Then a thought that doesn't quite form. It feels as though she pulls that one back, and buries it.

"Do you know whose they are? Or are they their own thing?" the cougar-mage inquires, perhaps wary that he may be taxing Ghost 2.0's ability to communicate.

It's possible. She does seem to be tiring, and this answer takes a while. "Nothing," comes the one word reply, eventually.

Brings-the-Pack seems to realize this might be a good place to call it quits and let Ghost 2.0 rest. "Thank you, Ghost." He looks around the spartan bunker before responding, "I'm going to see about getting you a television so you have something to look at down here other than the ceiling and walls. Can you imagine, for me, what it is you'd like to watch or see on it? Maybe a live feed of the woods?"

Not-Ghost doesn't really imagine him a television feed of any sort. She just imagines him a sense of quiet, comforting semi-darkness, neither cold nor hot. It's perhaps the most detailed thought she's given him, and it's...suspiciously similar to the circumstances of the bunker they're standing in. Perhaps it involves fresher air, but that might be the only change.

Brings-the-Pack offers, "I'll see what can be done long-term about that." He looks over to Salem and suggests, "We should go and let her rest." On the way out, the cougar holds the one door open while Salem holds the other. The wind is caught just so, and within a minute the air in the bunker has been replaced with the fresh, cool night air. And then Ghost is left in peace.