"What kind of request?"

[hazlogs]

Location: The Caern

It is currently 17:07 Pacific Time on Mon Mar 4 2019.
Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 10 mph, with gusts up to 18 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.21 and steady, and the relative humidity is 25 percent. The dewpoint is 11 degrees Fahrenheit (-11 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501
Currently the moon is in the waning New (Ragabash) Moon phase (11% full).

Jamethon comes in from the valley, stabby walking stick in hand. His mood is neither pleased nor entirely dour, but a rich neutral that contains many layered thoughts. He arrives into the Caern proper and once he steps out of the valley, just remains in place. Silent, perhaps stoic, but certainly... thoughtful.

Salem sits crosslegged by the fire, which is burning pretty high and hot this chilly evening. At sixteen (ish), the Philodox is still far from looking like 'himself', but the hints are there, especially in the broody, pensive look on his face.

Jamethon gives a slight shiver from a random chill, and shrugs his jacket to gather it a bit better around himself. He seems to notice the fire at this point and heads that direction. This is all pretty much instinct-driven, as the Godi remains lost in thoughts.
This man, probably in his late thirties, is somewhere around six foot six. Not only tall, he has about three hundred or so pounds of mostly muscle on him. His beard is about three weeks grown in, worn on a face which is a haunted mask of concentration. His eyes, dark enough to seem black, are full of shadows and have a habit of quickly dancing in random directions. Hair grows down to his neck and is a wind-blown tangle of black and grey giving a wild aire to the Fenrir.
Jamethon currently wears a heavy black wool shirt under a pristine brown leather jacket and a pair of classic, heavy blue jeans. Around his neck hangs a copper disc set in with a shield cut piece of brilliant forest-green jade at its center (look jamethon's pendant). Completing the outfit are a pair of shit-kicker, steel-toed, heavy leather boots.
Scars on his forehead, just below his bangs, are the tips of a set of three jagged scars that travel up and back, the rest covered by the Fenrir's hair. A large myriad collection of scars adorn his visage at other various points as well (+detail Jamethon's scars).

Salem looks up as the big man approaches, greets with a polite (but not overly friendly), "Jamethon, evening."

Jamethon pauses as he is addressed and looks over at the younger Salem. It seems to take a moment for him to recognize the Glass Walker, but when he does his eyebrows perk up, as if one of his questions were suddenly answered. "Salem. I am happy to see you. I have a request, if it is feasible."

Salem raises an eyebrow. "What kind of request?"

Jamethon kneels to set the spear gently on the ground and moves closer to the fire, looking sideways over at the Walker as he holds his hands up to capture some warmth. "The WalkerNet," he says first in a more subjective tone, then softening he adds, "I've recently really become aware it was a real thing and not some form of humor. WalkerNet, Barking Chain..." He muses for a moment then continues, "We need more allies. I have plans coming and we'll need new blood here and for that as well. I would ask that an official call for Garou who would find a new home here, be put out over your WalkerNet."

Salem's eyebrow remains raised; Mr. Spock himself could not do better. "Plans, huh?" He scratches the side of his jaw. "I mean, yes, I'll put the word out, but perhaps an idea of what said plans are in order to... entice people?"

Jamethon considers the question a moment then shrugs, "A potential journey. For many. Think of it like... a Great Hunt. For which I am unsure of the time that will be required. I will be remaining behind and we will also need defenders here. The thirteenth tenet must hold."

"...Naturally." Salem draws out the word a little; he squints up at the Get, looking intrigued, looking skeptical.

Jamethon gives a quirk of a grin at the skepticism, he looks back to the fire fully and offers, "I do not want to get hopes up. Or fears." He sighs, shakes his head, and adds, "As soon as plans are solid and viable, they will be shared." Here he does look back fully to Salem, "For now, regardless of whatever else, we simply need to bolster our numbers here. So we will all be reaching out to our allies as best we can without trying to draw attention to the lack of numbers currently here."

Salem shrugs, accepting this, at least. "All right." He stretches and gets to his feet in a smooth motion. "I'll do what I can."

Jamethon nods his head in response to the acceptance, "Thank you, Salem." He returns his attentions to the fire and gives a rumbling sound as he contemplates the warmth. "We've come a long way," he muses.

Salem wrinkles his nose, grimacing for a moment. Then his expression smooths, and he shrugs again. "And miles to go before we sleep," he says, blandly, and then turns to go, heading roughly toward the city.

Jamethon looks over his shoulder as Salem heads out and there's a small huff of humor from the Fenrir. "Indeed."