"I haven't a goddamn clue."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 09:35 Pacific Time on Wed Aug 16 2017.

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the variable at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.12 and rising, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 51 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (40% full).

Bawn: The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)

Sweeping branches of evergreen pines form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A separate stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce, protected from the damp by a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. Nestled in among the pines are a few hardy perennials--red alder, quaking aspen, and a big leaf maple or two--that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing.

Wednesday morning finds the Bawn bright and sunny -- well, it's probably sunny up there above the trees, but evergreen roof keeps things shady and cool. The fire's down to low embers. Salem stirs around at them with a fire-blackened stick, his expression distant and pensive.

The sound of snapping twigs and rustling underbrush soon add to the light crackle of the dying cookfire, the sound suggesting a steady, four-legged lope. Not long after it rises, a large, now-familiar wolf appears at the edge of the compound perimeter. There's a pause once she sets her sights on the Glass Walker, her body language not quite as tempered as her homid form allows, the interest clear in pricked ears and a raised head. She seems to remember in that split second that deference is a thing around here, however, and her head lowers subtly, pricked ears relaxing so as not to emphasize her focus, the couple padding steps she takes forward halted for the sake of returning to breed form.
It's back to more roughing-it attire today, it seems, the Shadow Lord approaching to reach a more conversational distance, "Adren," offered in the usual, polite fashion.

Salem looks up sharply and takes in the new arrival for a cool, guarded moment before answering the greeting with a blandly polite, "Good morning."

That restless energy Sandra exhibited upon arrival has gone all of nowhere, visible in the need to circle around to the far side of the cookfire rather than just come to a stopping point where it's most convenient. "I'd start in with the usual pleasantries," she says, "but I wager neither of us are in the mood for them. Now, or ever, really." A beat. "That said: I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?"

Dryly, the youth says, "I seem to be reasonably free at the moment."

Sandra inclines her head. "Be that as it may," she says, then-- carefully puts a halt to wherever that was going. Instead, "It's appreciated," is said in its place. "I was informed none too long ago by Ghost that you were one of the people I should speak to regarding the N--" a short pause, "the Wheel Eater," she corrects, adopting a stance that's vaguely similar to a parade rest. "She said you had considerable experience with it."

"...As much as anyone's experience can be thought of as 'considerable,' in any event," she amends mildly.

Salem grimaces at this. Still seated, he folds his arms across his chest. "I have some of the pieces. Maybe more than some others. What did you want to know?"

"Aside from 'everything?'" Sandra replies dryly, though she sobers soon after. "As much as can be said about the Black Mage, about how this nonsense with it began in the first place. The state of Last Days. Even Ghost's overall involvement beyond being something of a living vaccine for the-- illness? The Eater causes." Her lip quirks slightly. "At this point, I'd even take conspiracy theories," she says, to no one in particular. "My education on the matter when I arrived was-- lacking. To put it mildly. It's been a trial playing catch-up."

"Hm," says the Glass Walker. He thinks for a moment, dark eyes shifting away from her. "...In regards to the mage," he says at last, looking back, "I couldn't say. I know he's involved with this, and I know he wants to die, and I know that there's some elaborate ritual which he wants us to do that he /says/ will end his existence and solve our problem." Thick eyebrows go upward. "Needless to say, I'm skeptical.

"I know he claims to have interfered with Ghost while she was still in the womb, which is why she has the... qualities she has. She can cure those who have been infected by the black stuff, presuming they haven't gone too far. But doing so makes her sick, as well, temporarily. There's also a second version of her that Val and I discovered in the depths of the old hospital parking garage. And don't ask me what the actual nature is of /that/ except that it's completely... /off/, in regards to the Triat." He pauses here and reaches back to dig a metal water bottle out of his backpack.

Sandra's seated herself, fidgeting with something in her pocket by the time the mention of *two* Ghosts is dropped, the Shadow Lord pausing on that note, which makes the echoed, "Second version?" and its corresponding '...really?' tone not the least bit surprising. And though her brow is raised, hers is the look of someone that has clearly grown weary of walking around in a state of perpetual incredulity.

Salem takes a swallow and recaps the water bottle. "An echo, a future version... not really a clone, at least I don't think. Nonverbal, very passive, very... worn down, though not noticably older. Though she does think that the... 'black mage', as you put it, is dead. Where she fits into all of this, exactly?" He shrugs. "I haven't a goddamn clue."

A light scoff comes from Sandra by way of response, "If neon signs were allowed in the caern, I'd say one saying precisely that should be placed right at the center of it," said under her breath. There's some clear anger in the statement no matter that her voice remains calm, conversational, but that's to be expected. "From what I understand," she says, then, "what *little* I understand, I should say," this stated a bit more dryly, "the man has himself at the cusp of some 'event horizon.' Our good friend the cougar seems to think he's in a holding pattern. As good as dead, regardless. This-- future echo may not be entirely wrong."

"She claims to have killed him, actually," Salem says, holding the metal bottle loosely in both hands. "But then, she also seems to have a very uncertain concept of 'time'. You can talk to Brings-the-Pack about this, as he's the one who's examined her."

That earns a furrow in Sandra's brow, the pack of cigarettes she's been fidgeting with in her pocket finally unearthed, with a lighter in tow. "I take it she hasn't stated much about the outcome of that," she says, pulling a cigarette out of the pack.

"She hasn't said much, period," Salem says. "As I mentioned, she's almost entirely nonverbal. Brings had to pull a goddamn mind-meld to get much of anything out of her at all." Pause. "No smoking on the Bawn, by the way." How the hell does a boy whose voice hasn't even changed yet manage to sound like a stern high school teacher?

It's difficult to hide the annoyance that comes with the reminder - and, indeed, the momentary indignity of a late-thirty-something getting wrist-slapped by a pubescent teenager - though Sandra's gracious enough to say a soft, "Right," under her breath, the pack disappearing back into her pocket without argument. "And this Rite the Mage wants us to perform. Do we have any idea what that is? Or is that, also, in the 'no goddamn idea' category?"

"The latter," Salem says. To his credit, he doesn't look the least bit smug or anything at having to correct his elder-not-Elder. "But nothing he's done as made me inclined to trust him more than is absolutely necessary."

"There's no reason," Sandra replies. "The man wants to die. On that basis alone, I sincerely doubt he's given the aftermath of his brilliant plan any significant thought beyond 'perhaps it'd be nice if the universe persisted.'"

"As you say." Salem uncaps the metal bottle and drinks again. "So. You have the Black Mage. You have the Caern of the Last Days, formerly Cypress Rising, in Hanford. Last held by your tribe, by the way, just before it fell." This last statement is delivered... very blandly. He barely lets it hang before continuing. "You have Ghost, and not-Ghost. You have the Wheel Eater and the Wheel Builder... the latter of which had its sleep disturbed by the spirit of one of the original founders of the area, one Jebediah Regan. Disturbed because we was in conflict with another spirit, Claire, for the status of City Father. Which caused our recent batch of earthquakes and could cause a regional cataclysm if it woke up entirely."

There's a slight quirk of Sandra's lip at the mention of the Lords' control over the caern, though perhaps not for the reasons expected, as evidenced by, "And what a fine job we did with it," muttered under her breath. She listens to the rest, nodding loosely, her eyes on the statues again, though it's more as a focal point than an actual point of interest. "Lovely neighbors we have in this place," she notes, brow arching, her attention shifting back to the 'younger' Philodox. "And last I checked, we know even less about the Builder than the Eater?"

Salem takes another sip of water, giving him a moment to think. "Maker and Un-Maker. Builder and Eater. According to Jeb, the two forces are supposed to exist in a kind of.. cyclical harmony. This Sept, our /caern/--" He waves the bottle around in the vague direction of the caern. "It changes, /has/ changed. Fallen and risen again. Gotten a new nature, new totems... hell, the landscape itself has changed twice in just my memory alone. And it's possible -- at least, Jeb thought so -- that when he disturbed it, even though he didn't /quite/ wake it up, that was enough to alert its other half. Which is one potential solution, if true... and if you can figure out how to make fully dormant a spirit which is part of the whole area."

Sandra listens, making it a point to no longer fidget with the pack of cigarettes in her pocket, the furrow in her brow that's reappeared intermittently now threatening to take up permanent residence. "Or," she says, after a time, as much to herself as him, "according to the Mountain, the only way to get them both to settle is to either shut this caern down, or to re-awaken Last Days." She pauses again, rubbing lightly at the back of her neck, a note of frustration appearing in her expression.

Then: "In one of the dreams I had," she says, "the woman that appeared in it had a scar on her face. The kind that appear during a Rite of Caern Building." She pauses. "And then there's this whole business with Magpie..." The thoughts trail off for a time, the Shadow Lord lapsing back into silence to think that one over.

Salem's mouth thins out. Idly, one hand rubs at a spot on his neck, just under the jaw. "This woman in your dream. Was she old?"

Sandra shakes her head. "That's one of the things I spoke to Jamethon about. This one was young. Long, black hair. Modern clothing. Had a pistol at her hip. Eyes gouged out-- except she could see me just fine." A pause. "She was flanked by two--" She considers. "Not-wolves," she says, not particularly liking the description. "Made of a black liquid. Hands instead of paws."

Salem raises an eyebrow. "Maybe one of the former residents of Last Days?" He frowns, thinking. "That whole... situation, was unfortunately before my time, and I can't think of who might remember who's still around. Maybe Isaac?" The youth sounds doubtful, however.

"That name's not ringing any bells," Sandra admits, though she doesn't seem to be thinking of it as an excuse to not at least check. Then, "Would Jacinta have been present for it?"

"No, she came in years after I did," Salem says. "Isaac's a Silver Fang Philodox. Homid, but he's lived out with the wolves for so long he may as well be a lupus these days. Watches over a wolf pack out past the bawn." He sighs. "Even if he was around for this, I don't know how much he'd remember about the group that came here from Hanford to get the Sept's help, back when we were the Wheel Renewed. But if you can find him, it's probably worth asking."

Talk of a Silver Fang does at least seem to bring about a note of recognition; something Sandra files away for later with a faint nod, elbows coming to rest on her knees as she studies the dwindling embers. "Brings-the-Pack seems to think those dreams are being sent by the Black Mage," she notes, backpedaling slightly. "I suppose if he's as lost to time as this second version of Ghost is, seeing who was there back then would just be a matter of course." A pause. "Has there been any-- *direct* communication with the man? Anything outside of dreams, or riddles?"

"Dreams, riddles, phone calls from nowhere, nothing ever really definite." Salem shrugs.

"I think I'd prefer the phone call," Sandra says under her breath. Then, "And Ghost? The 'real' one. Where is she in all of this?"

"As much in the dark as any of us. Moreso. Only with the added knowledge that people might want to use her as a tool, as though she had no will of her own." His voice has hardened. "Anything else, I would ask her. /Talk/ to her."

"I've tried," Sandra replies, raising to her feet. "I suspect my affiliation to our presumed-Late Alpha has her uneasy about it." A pause. "But that's no reason not to try again." Beat. "Thank you," she says, "for the information. I'd like to speak to you some more about it at some point, if I could."

Salem's shoulders rise and fall. "There's still plenty more to talk about, I think, once you've digested what I've given you." His tone's gone bland again.

"There's plenty more *now*," Sandra says, her brows lifting. "But-- one step at a time. I have another circuit to run." She takes a couple steps towards the edge of the compound clearing, pausing only to offer, "Adren," in a more formal goodbye before shifting through to her lupus form, and moving to follow one of the farther-reaching trails used by patrol.

Salem raises a hand in farewell, then lets it drop as he watches her go, unsmiling.