Fianna at the Farmhouse

[hazlogs]

[1/13/98]
[Farmhouse]

In the front rooms, Brian is lounging on the couch, reading a book. A paper 
  plate containing a half-eaten sandwich sits on the end table nearest his 
  head.

Erik catches the back door before it slams shut, though his entrance isn't 
  particularly stealthy. Still shivering, he makes his way toward the front 
  rooms, unwinding the scarf from his face and apparently oblivious to any 
  other presence.
You pass through the open doorway to reach the front part of the house.

[Brian]
Eyes of sparkling emerald green stand out from fine-wrought features set in a 
  friendly, boyish cast. The fair skin of his face, marred only by a line of 
  scarring which runs from the bridge of his nose down to the bone of his left 
  cheek, is clean-shaven, his youthful countenance contrasting against the 
  worldly, expressive depth of those eyes to produce a gentle, appealing 
  charm. Gentle waves of raven-black hair are swept back from his forehead, 
  save a few errant strands, and worn long to fall about his shoulders. His 
  left ear is pierced twice, once to hold a thin gold hoop and again to hold a 
  tiny gold Celtic cross. Not past his early twenties, he is solidly built 
  over a fine-boned frame, a shadow over six feet tall with movements marked 
  by an elegant, tireless grace. 
A royal blue t-shirt, softened by wear, smooths the firm lines of muscle of 
  his upper body. He wears a pair of loose-fit blue jeans, belted at the waist 
  with a loop of braided leather and wrinkling around the tops of black 
  leather hiking boots.
Over this ensemble is a battered olive-colored trench coat, its length 
  rustling about his knees. The garment bears the signs of heavy wear, its 
  elbows slightly threadbare and its sleeves a bit ragged.

Brian glances up over the top of his book towards the source of the noise. 
  "Hullo?"

Erik, on his way to the closet, stops short in the act of removing his jacket. 
  Sunken green eyes flick toward the figure on the couch and then away. "Er. 
  It's just me, Righ."

"Oh," Brian says, his eyes flicking back down to the text on the pages he's 
  reading. "Hello, Erik. How are you?" The question is rather dispassionate.

Erik finishes removing the thick winter jacket and hands it, plus the scarf 
  and hat, up in the closet; he's gotten better at manuevering with just one 
  hand. "Fine, sir." He pauses. "Er, has there been any word about Brightspot 
  and... and the other cub?"

Brian shakes his head slightly. "None yet," he answers, from behind the leaves 
  of the book; it seems to be some kind of 'how to' manual on running one's 
  own business. "I expect they'll be returning any day now, really."

Erik exhales in what sounds to be a sigh of relief and moves toward a chair 
  that isn't visible from the window, passing by the table near the other 
  Fianna's head to pick up a book lying there, a rather worn paperback of 
  _Dubliners_, with a bookmark near the middle.

After a few moments of silence, Brian adds, musingly, "I arranged for Kasie to 
  spend some time with some of Stag's brood. I hope it'll put her on a 
  straighter track." He doesn't lift his eyes from the pages of his book.

"Good." The mule's voice is subdued, but the relief in it - and gratitude - is 
  sincere. "I was... worried."

Brian turns a page. "Why's that?" he asks absently.

Erik is silent for a moment before answering. _Dubliners_ is propped open in 
  his lap, but he doesn't look at it. "I want her to do well."

Brian sits up, and sets aside his book. He watches Erik for a moment; despite 
  the control that he seems to be asserting over his emotions, at least a 
  touch of the fury that the full moon brings is still more than evident in 
  his demeanor. "Why?" he presses.

Erik gazes back at Brian, though not in challenge. It's more of a 
  deer-caught-in-headlights look. "Because..." He falters a moment. "Because 
  could do so much, _can_ do so much." The words, enmired with evident 
  feeling, come heedlessly from the thin lips. "She has the potential to 
  become so much more than I--." He swallows, drops his gaze. "I didn't want 
  to she her fall just because of me."

One of Brian's brows rises slowly. "Please tell me that you're not in love 
  with her, Erik," he says quietly.

Erik stares at the Righ, his eyes widening with horror. "Not like that. Righ, 
  I swear. Not like that."

Brian leans back down on the couch and retrieves his book. "Good," he says 
  simply. "We've got enough problems with overexcited hormones in the tribe 
  already. I trust you've heard about Kathryn?"

Erik shudders, sinking back into his chair, shoulders hunched. "Yes. Yes, I 
  did."

"Your opinion?" Brian turns a page.

In the back of the house, Steven steps through the back door from the barnyard.

Erik's thin fingers fiddle absently with the bookmark. "I don't... I don't see 
  how she could have... even _thought_ about doing... that." The level of 
  disbelieving disgust and horror is roughly on the same level given to the 
  subjects of necrophilia and bestiality.

In the back of the house, Steven slips into the back of the house, clapping 
  his hands together and rubbing them against the cold. A second or two later, 
  he unzips his coat and opens the fridge, pouring himself a glass of water. 
  There's a dull clang as he sets the empty glass back in the sink a few 
  moments after swallowing the water. His fingers clenching and uncleanching, 
  he throws his coat into his arms and proceeds through the doorway, trying to 
  look semi-relaxed. There is, however, an air about him, like most Garou, at 
  full moon.
In the back of the house, Steven passes through the open doorway for the front 
  part of the house.
Steven has arrived.

Erik is sitting in a chair out of view of the windows, with a worn paperback 
  propped open in his lip. He's not reading it, however. Steven's approach 
  brings his eyes up in a darting, sidelong glance.

Brian sits up at the sound of another person entering the house, and breaks 
  into a broad grin when he identifies the newcomer as Steven. "Hey," he says 
  to his packmate. Quickly, he asks of Erik, "Have you met Kathryn? Has she 
  seen your face? It might be a good object lesson for her. It might be a good 
  story to tell her."

Erik turns his attention back to the Righ. "I haven't, er, met her, no."

Steven eyes Erik with noticable disdain and gives a nod back to Brian, 
  scratching at his neck. "Maybe she'd listen to you, Erik." He snorts. 
  "Something you're useful for, I guess." He seems cynically amused at the 
  idea. "Never thought I'd say that," he mutters, quietly.

Brian sets his book aside, and points a finger at Erik's chest. "Assuming 
  they're still alive after moot, assuming they don't get killed for what 
  they've done, I want you to make it your business to make Kathryn understand 
  why the Litany in general and that first law in particular are important. 
  Can you do that?"

Erik nods slowly. "Yes, sir."

Steven tosses his coat into an unoccupied seat and follows its trajectory, 
  albeit on the ground, and not flung through the air. His lips twitch into a 
  half amused smile. "Big if, don't you think, Righ?"

"Pretty big," Brian admits. "Though, we'll see. Esther's judging the affair. I 
  plan to stand up at moot and apologize to the sept on behalf of the tribe 
  for what Kathryn's done, and I expect that no Fianna will make her life easy 
  after this."

Steven clears his throat, uneasily. "I think she should die," he offers, 
  softly.

Shea steps in from the porch, closing the front door behind her.
Shea has arrived.
Shea raps twice on the door, before pushing it open, and slipping through. She 
  makes sure not to let the door slam behind her, as well.

Erik looks down at the copy of _Dubliners_ in his lap but doesn't read, 
  lapsing into silence for the moment as the elder Fianna converse.

Brian's eyes go to the front door at the noise, and his expression twitches 
  into a momentary grin when he spies Shea. To the other two Fianna in the 
  living room, though, he notes, "We'll abide by Esther's decision, for good 
  or for bad. If Esther says she lives, she lives."

Steven gives Shea a lukewarm smile. "Fine," he says, turning back to Brian, 
  his nose wrinkling. "But she needs a good ass whipping, at least."

"Agreed," Brian says, folding his hands in front of him. "Evening, Shea. We're 
  talking about kicking Kathryn's ass. Have any suggestions?"

Erik blinks suddenly as though a thought had just occurred to him, his 
  expression turning faintly bemused for a moment.

Steven glances at Erik again, as his gaze flickers over toward Shea. "Not like 
  she has to stay in St. Claire either, Righ. She can go... do her business 
  elsewhere."

Shea arches an eyebrow. "Who is it we're lashing to the post, this time? Ah. 
  Evening, evening. Erik," she adds, by way of greeting, and tucks her arms 
  across her chest. "I haven't even had the fortune, or misfortune, to meet 
  her. Still, if the story I've heard is true, she chose to do what she did. 
  Therefore, she ought to pay. Whether that's a beating or death ... that's 
  not mine to make."

Brian considers Steven's words. "She could," he agrees. "Or she could stick 
  around here where we can keep an eye on her, and make her life hell." His 
  lips quirk in a mirthless grin as he concludes, "Being the vindictive sort 
  where shit like this is concerned, I vote for the latter. Anybody else?"

Erik looks up at his tribemates, his skeletal face still clothed in an 
  expression of bemusement as the Fianna speak of making someone's life hell 
  that isn't him.

Steven thumbs his nose carefully, and lifts his chin slightly. "Not sure I'm 
  going to be able to trust my will when she's around, Righ. I'd hate to... 
  lose my temper with her."

Shea says "Do we know if she's pregnant, or not?"

Steven lets a little shudder go through him. "I haven't heard that," he says, 
  sounding grateful. "If she is though..." He pauses, glancing from Brian to 
  Shea. "Gaia help her," he says quietly, with a sigh. "Can't we at least kill 
  that fucking eedjit Wendigo?"

Brian waves a dismissive hand at Steven. "That's why you keep us around, 
  remember?" He looks over to Shea, and shakes his head. "Rumor says she's 
  not, that she was in the middle of her phase during all this. If rumor's 
  wrong, I guarantee you I'm going to substitute my klaive for a coat hanger."

Steven gives a grim chuckle, and sits back in his seat some.

Shea finds a place to sit, suggesting, "If rumor's true, then there's no 
  reason to go easy on her, Righ. In my opinion. She knows the laws, or if she 
  doesn't, she should."

"She should fucking know them," Steven retorts. "Otherwise why did she ever 
  get fucking Rited?" He shakes his head.

Brian nods agreement with Shea. "Sure, absolutely. And like I said, since I'll 
  be standing up at moot on behalf of the tribe to apologize for her, I don't 
  see any reason why we should make her little life easy. When someone brings 
  this kind of shame on us, let's repay it double."

Shea says "Have you spoken to Joseph at all?"

Brian shakes his head. "No, I haven't," he admits. "Think I ought to?"

Shea mmms. "You might. I was just thinking, it'd look bad, for him, I think, 
  if we were to dole out something hard, and he were to let the boy go with 
  just a cuff. 'course, what he does with his own tribe is hardly our affair, 
  hey?"

Steven snorts softly, but holds his comments. He crosses his arms and sits 
  back again.

Brian mulls this over for a few moments. "I think that's a good idea," he says 
  quietly. "Make more of an impression if both us and the Wendigo go hard on 
  these two fuckheads."

Erik listens quietly, like an obedient child who's been allowed to eavesdrop 
  on grown-ups.

Brian's gaze lifts from the floor, and wanders over to settle on Shea and 
  Steven. "Either of you two seen much of Eamon lately? I think he's avoiding 
  me."

Steven shakes his head. "I haven't seen him much at all. Seems like it's been 
  weeks." He glances at Shea, his hand cupping his chin thoughtfully.

Shea frowns lightly. "No. It's not just you he's avoiding. It's all of us."

Brian exhales a tense breath. "We need to drag that boy back into the fold, by 
  those teeth of his if need be," he asserts. "Let's think about having a 
  party after moot. Lord knows we've got enough to celebrate, him and Dusty 
  and Erik being back in the real world and mostly okay."

In the back of the house, Eamon steps through the back door from the barnyard.
In the back of the house, Eamon passes through the open doorway for the front 
  part of the house.
Eamon has arrived.

Steven nods, slowly. "I think we could do that," he agrees. "You really going 
  to go up and apologize for Kathryn?" This sentence draws a somewhat more 
  dubious expression from the Galliard.

Eamon enters the farmhouse and looks around. "Hello, anybody home? Ah, there 
  you are. Hi, guys."

Erik glances up at the new arrival and mutters, "Speak of the devil..."

Shea brightens, instantly. "Eamon!"

Eamon grins. "An' he appears. What's up?"

Steven chuckles, glancing up to the no moon. "We thought you'd been avoiding 
  us, for some reason."

"You bet your ass," Brian tells Steven, just a moment after Eamon enters the 
  room. "Hey, Eamon!" he calls over to the no-moon. "Jeez. We've missed you."

Eamon smiles. "Aw, shucks."

Derrick steps in from the porch, closing the front door behind him.
Derrick has arrived.

Brian shakes his head. "Aw shucks nothing. Where've you been hiding?" He rises 
  and heads into the kitchen, only to return a few moments later with a couple 
  of six-packs of craft ale; as he passes Derrick, he gives the Gaian a grin 
  and a nod.

Eamon shrugs. "Just been out in my shop for a while, tryin' to get things back 
  in order. Actually, I'm thinkin' of movin' out. I don't feel comfortable in 
  the city anymore."

[Eamon]
It seems that Eamon doesn't grin as much as he used to, as if he's been 
  through something traumatic recently. His bright red hair has grown back 
  fully now and the green eyes still sparkle, but some of the humor has left 
  them. He wears a weathered black leather jacket and a black Harley-Davidson 
  t-shirt. With the black jeans and motorcycle boots, he almost looks like a 
  biker. Indeed, he can be seen tooling around town on a Harley, but not quite 
  as often as usual. His left ear is pierced twice, a gold hoop through each 
  pierce. A scruffy red goatee adorns his chin and below his lower lip. His 
  left hand is stuffed into his left jacket pocket, but it seems odd, too 
  scrunched. 

Erik quietly closes his book and lets it sit in his lap. His eyes go to 
  Derrick, then to Eamon.

Eamon takes a can of ale and opens it, then takes a swig.

"Why not?" Brian asks, reseating himself on the couch and opening himself a 
  drink.

Derrick slips in the front door quietly, grinning at Brian as he passes, going 
  to fetch himself a Coke.

Shea smiles. "Maybe he's decided he misses us too much, to stay in the city, 
  Righ."

Derrick comes back in from the kitchen, sandwich in one hand, Coke in the 
  other. "'f he's like Dusty, technology gives 'im the heebie jeebies."

Steven chuckles and grins, as he stands. He retrieves his coat, first, and 
  then helps himself to a beer. "Could be," he says. Stuffing one arm through 
  the sleeve, beer and all, he shrugs the other sleeve on and then zips the 
  coat, before cracking the beer. "I'm going to run down to the Caern. See if 
  there's any news."

Derrick mutters, "Other'n people obsessing over Romeo and frggin' Juliet, none 
  that I've heard, lately."

Eamon nods, "Yeah, pretty much." He sips his beer. "Anything interesting 
  happen lately?"

"Let us know if you hear anything, Steven," Brian calls after the Galliard, 
  then returns his attention to the others. "Well, let's see, Eamon. I finally 
  closed on the Stag; that's one thing. Kasie's off on her Rite; that's 
  another. And this new Galliard, Kathryn? She and this new Wendigo called 
  Quaid made the beast with two backs."

Steven arches an eyebrow at Eamon, the one over his eyepatch, finishes half 
  his beer in one considered gulp, and then exhales without saying anything. 
  "I was going to explain, but there's too much. Maybe someone can give you a 
  summary longer than this..." He nods at what Brian says, finishes the rest 
  of his beer, hands the bottle to Derrick, and slips out the door. "See you."

Derrick eyes the bottle in his hand unhappily. "If you're gonna hand me your 
  throwaway, at least live a little f'r me..."

"Bad luck, lad. Not to mention rude to your host." Steven grins, and the door 
  clicks shut.

Eamon nods, then looks up at Brian. "Shit, really? Ah, fer chrissakes. Fuck, I 
  don't even know who they are."

Steven leaves through the front door. You can hear the screen door swing shut 
  again with a clatter.
Steven has left.

Brian shrugs his shoulders at Eamon. "You'll see 'em both at moot, I expect."

Shea looks to Brian. "Maybe he's the one who ought to make the decision then, 
  Brian. He doesn't know either of them, and he's got no biases, so to speak. 
  He gets on with Erik, doesn't he?" She looks over to Eamon. "If it were you, 
  deciding, Unc, what'd you do with them?"

Eamon says "Who, me?"

Derrick takes the bottle and puts it in the sink, calmly, turning to watch 
  Shea once he's done.

Shea grins. "Who else?"

Erik tilts his head slightly, his gaze resting curiously on Eamon. Though not 
  entirely at ease, the Metis has, for the moment, lost a smidge of the 
  rabbitlike twitchiness.

Eamon says "So you closed the Stag, eh? Closed it completely?"

Brian shrugs his shoulders at Eamon. "For the time being," he says. "Until we 
  get it fixed up and redone." Then, with a needling grin, he repeats Shea's 
  question. "So we've got these two kids who screwed each other. What would 
  you do with 'em?"

Eamon says "Well, uh, I dunno, I ain't no philodox. Ban 'em from the caern, I 
  guess."

Shea's eyebrows lift. "Is that all?"

Brian chuckles. "A generous man, you are," he remarks. "Well, assuming they 
  don't get put to death for it, I've asked Erik to explain to Kathryn why the 
  Litany, and more specifically the first sentence of it, is important."

Eamon shrugs his shoulders. "I guess. Like I said, I'm no philodox."
Eamon says "Did either know the other was garou?"

Brian nods. "That's the rumor, yeah. Apparently it was 'true love', or 
  something like that." He rolls his eyes heavenwards, underscoring exactly 
  what he thinks of the alleged nature of the relationship.

Derrick snorts. "Twits," he mutters into his Coke.

Eamon frowns. "They did? Well, that was stupid. It'd have to be harsher, then."

Erik speaks up, quietly. "My mother was sent into a Blight to die battling the 
  Wyrm."

Eamon looks uneasily at Erik. "Well, not *that* harsh," he mutters.

Erik's shoulders move in a faint shrug as he looks down again.

Derrick finishes his sandwich. "See y'all later.
Derrick leaves through the front door. You can hear the screen door swing shut 
  again with a clatter.
Derrick has left.

Brian runs a hand back through his hair, and relaxes back into the curve of 
  the couch. "Listen, you two," he says, the words hushed and somewhat urgent, 
  and meant for Erik and Eamon -- though they're not so conspiratorial as to 
  exclude Shea from the conversation. "I've been doing some soul-searching 
  lately, and I can't bring myself to decide that either of you losing your 
  arms like you did is really and truly a battle scar like the Garou would 
  have it. There's just nothing really glorious about it. So I want to do some 
  searching into ways to try and get you both fixed up. No promises -- this 
  might be a pipe dream. But I wanted to ask you if you thought it was worth 
  pursuing?"

Derrick steps in from the porch, closing the front door behind him.
Derrick has arrived.

Erik looks up again, clearly startled by this change of subject. He answers 
  with a rather urgent, but very definite, "Yes." A pause. "Sir."

Derrick pops back in, evidently looking for something, and is arrested by 
  Erik's urgency.

Long distance to Shea, Brian, Derrick, and Eamon: Erik's urgency slaps the 
  cuffs on Derrick and reads him his rights.

Eamon pulls his sleeve out of his left pocket and looks where his hand used to 
  be. "Yeah, I guess. That's the way I feel too, anyway. No honor in it, it 
  ain't really a battle scar. Rusty an' I were talkin' about it a while ago, 
  he said he thought he might be able to do somethin'. He had a boon or 
  somethin' from his rite. Dunno if I'd want a gift from faeries, though, they 
  have a way o' turnin' on you when you least expect it."

Derrick shakes himself out of his daze, and fetches his pack from the kitchen.

"I'm talking about the real McCoy," Brian explains. "The real thing, healed 
  back, good as new. Or maybe nearly that good, I dunno. So if we're going to 
  do this, can I count on your help?"

Eamon drains the last of his beer. "I still feel kinda weird about doin' that, 
  though. I mean, Erik lost more'n me and look at Steve, lost a hand *and* an 
  eye, he's gettin' by. But yeah, I'll do it."

Eamon says "You got somethin' in mind?"

Erik nods mutely to Brian.

Derrick, having gotten his pack, waves again and wanders out.
Derrick leaves through the front door. You can hear the screen door swing shut 
  again with a clatter.
Derrick has left.

Brian purses his lips. "Steven's still got fingers on that hand," he reminds 
  Eamon. "You don't have a hand to have fingers on. But yeah, I have something 
  in mind. You both know Stormcloud, right?"

Shea worries at her bottom lip.

Erik hesitates. "Er. A bit."

Eamon nods.

Brian folds his hands in his lap. "For a long time he had a bad leg. Battle 
  scar that he picked up crippled him good. Not too long ago he disappeared 
  for a while, and then came back with his leg as good as new. A good start 
  for the two of you would be to find out where he went and how he got his leg 
  fixed up while he was there."

Megan steps in from the porch, closing the front door behind her.
Megan has arrived.

Erik sits with his head slightly lowered, though his attention remains riveted 
  on the Fianna Righ.

Megan slips in through the front door with a sharp *bang* as the stormdoor 
  closes behind her, a softer one as the heavier main door closes. She stomps 
  her feet free of snow on the front mat.

Shea climbs to her feet. "Here, Meg. Take my seat?"

Eamon waves to Megan with his good hand.

"As for my part," Brian continues, his attention wandering towards the front 
  door as Megan enters, "I'll be speaking with Quiet, to try and see if she 
  knows anything. The Gaians are some of the best healers the Garou have, so 
  maybe she can help, or at least put us on the right track." He looks back 
  and forth between Megan and Shea, and asks the latter, "Taking off?"

Megan, in the process of taking off and hanging up her coat, gives Shea a 
  smile. "But never your place," she says softly; Brian steals her question.

Shea nods. "If that's all right. I was going to ... you know, hike in." Her 
  cheeks redden.

Brian dips a hand into a pocket, and produces a key which he tosses to Shea. 
  "Back door to the Stag. There's a couple of rooms on the second floor 
  that're furnished and heated. Mind the crap all over the barroom floor; the 
  contractors are leaving the fucking place a bloody mess."

Megan smirks. "No shit. They hit your beer stash, by the way," she says as she 
  gives Shea a quick hug in passing, then drops into the seat the theurge 
  vacated unceremoniously. She gives Eamon a quick grin, then Erik a raking 
  up-then-down glance then looks away, accepting his presence that simply.

Brian's eyes narrow. "Fuckers," he mutters.

Erik rises from his chair, excusing himself with a quiet murmur, and heads 
  upstairs.