"So you're saying 'fuck it' and bailing."

[hazlogs]

Caern: The Stone Firepit
A subtle undulation of the land forms an curious, natural spiral in the open
ground. One side of the formation rises to create a half-circle or
crescent of earth surrounding and encompassing the spiral. The ground is
littered with rock and flagstones, both large and small. Someone has
carefully gathered up a trove of these and erected a clear fire pit.
Flagstones with smooth surfaces have been laid along the upper lip of
half circle of earth around the fire pit, turning it into a nice seating
area. All debris and flammable material's been removed from within the
spiral, and a fire has been laid. Just beyond the spiral's edge, wood has
been collected and piled for future use. Surrounding this, the rugged
walls of the canyon have been half buried by the Wyld surge, making the
upper slope of the valley more gentle than it was before. Stands of
Douglas fir and white pines mix with hemlock, lodgepole pines, and
western larch trees to fill much of the open space, but the trees here
are not nearly as dense as they are in the surrounding forests of the
bawn. The sparse woods allows a partial view of the sky, and both sun and
moonlight filter down to create enigmatic and beautiful shadow patterns
on the forest floor. That floor is blanketed with a thick, soft rug of
shed pine needles, lichen and leaf debris. The moss-covered relics of
old, dead trees occasionally mark a place where once great sentinels
loomed above.
The caern expands in two directions from here. The escarpment wall and raised
dais form one point of the new triangle, while the center of the caern
and its gigantic, Wyld-influenced tree marks the other. The only obvious
way out of the caern is the valley slope that leads to the central bawn.

It's through a written note that a request is made by the Shadow Lord
Tribal Elder for an audience, out at the caern, on the morning of
December 12th. It's put through a few days ahead of the date in question,
allowing for ample time to refuse, or reschedule, with a note put in to
simply contact Slug with the response. Judging by the tone of the
letter-- it's not dire, but it's obviously important.
And, apparently, it's personal.
It's a humid morning, the forty degree temperatures made to feel that
much colder by the moisture hanging in the air. Sandra, dressed in her
usual dress shirt, slacks, and overcoat, looks more prepped for a
business meeting than what was loosely alluded to in an otherwise obtuse
communique, and her expression is suitably unreadable when the higher
ranking Philodox makes his approach.
"Adren," she offers, in her usual method of greeting. "Thank you for
taking the time to see me this morning."

Salem by contrast looks like he should be loitering on the grounds of some
high school, smoking illicit cigarettes and cutting class, wearing the
usual jeans and tshirt and black denim jacket and hoodie, his hair too
long, his expression just the edge of scowly. (And he actually does kind
of smell like cigarettes, even if he's not smoking one now.) "You're
welcome," he says, curtly. "What's up?"

The scent is complemented by what can only be described as the airs of
someone that's spent well over an hour chainsmoking in their car, so he's
at least in good company, in that regard.
As to the question-- Sandra hesitates for a time, for whatever reason.
Then, after a moment, she says, "Well-- I'd thought on giving this a
preface-- maybe even a disclaimer, of some sort, but it may be better to
just come right out and say it." A pause. "I'm looking for someone
capable of performing the Rite of Renunciation, and-- not to put too fine
a point on it, I thought you might be able to point me in the right
direction."

Salem raises an eyebrow and for a moment just kind of... looks at her, head
slightly tilted. "Hm." A hand comes out of a jacket pocket and scratches
at his jaw. "Interesting." A beat. "As it happens, I know the rite. So,
my next question is... why?"

(Sandra)
Standing at 6', possessing a sturdy frame and a no-nonsense stare, this woman
(visibly in her mid-to-late-30's) has a hardened edge to her that comes
through in everything from her gait to her posture. Though not what one
would call exceptionally attractive, she's easy on the eyes, her angular
facial features defined and distinguished. Her hair, cropped short and
parted to one side, is light blonde, the style sensible and easy to
manage, the shade offering complement to blue eyes.

Her attire can be described in much the same way: sensible. A pair of charcoal
khakis, a buttoned down dress shirt, and a pair of black, conservative
heels. Her overall build is deceptively slender, visible, compact, and
well-defined musculature blending pleasantly (but not altogether
seamlessly) with feminine curvature. Indeed, there are only nods to
femininity here and there, little touches such as makeup, but it's
minimal: a hint of eyeliner, perhaps some lipstick, and not much else.

Sandra opens her mouth-- closes it. Again comes that hesitation, and
again, she takes a moment to set it aside before she starts to formulate
an answer.
"There have been some recent events that make it clear that I'm no
longer suited to the Shadow Lords-- any more than they're suited to me,"
she says. "I-- spoke to Jamethon about it, at the beginning of this
month. About renouncing-- joining my birth tribe." A brief pause. Then,
"He's accepted my bid, and sounds willing to act as a sponsor-- but that
won't matter if I'm unable to find someone willing and able to perform
the rite in the first place."

Salem makes another of those thoughtful 'hm' noises. The hand vanishes back
into its pocket. "Why did you join the Shadow Lords in the first place?"

"That's a complicated question," Sandra replies-- and by the sound of
it, it isn't a dodge, "but-- if I had to simplify, I'd say that it was in
part because they gave me an opportunity that the Fenrir didn't. To take
a more scholarly path that put my experience and acumen to the best use--
but that's not it, entirely."
She pauses again; takes several long moments to consider, and doesn't
bother to hide it. Then, she says, "How much did you know about Thane?"
seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Less than I should, but more than I'd like," is Salem's deadpan response to
that question. "Why?"

Another pause. Sandra looks to the fire pit, her teeth worrying
lightly at the inside of her lower lip for a time, the motion visible
only thanks to the shift in her jaw, and the subtle bow of her lip. "He
had camp affiliations," she says, training her gaze on the higher ranking
Philodox, "the kind that he wasn't able to talk about with others-- and
the kind I'd ask that you keep between us." A pause. "It wasn't, after
all, by chance that I knew about them."

Salem, whose Shadow Lord breeding is, as always, rather painfully obvious,
nods slowly. "I... know something about the kind of thing you mean. And,
yes, you're correct. It's nothing that needs talking about." His weight
shifts to one foot, mouth twisting into a grimace at some memory. He
looks past her toward the caern's center, to the huge impossible tree
planted there, and considers.

"It is," Sandra says, "and it isn't." A pause. "Due to some familial
matters, I was approached by one of their number. Told that I'd be given
more avenues of study-- of managing the problem." Another pause. Then,
"They were upfront-- letting me know that this wasn't entirely in my best
interests. So there wasn't duplicity at work. Not anything that overt, at
least-- but I've come to believe that there's--" a breathed laugh, though
it's utterly humorless, "hard as it might be to believe, been more
duplicity involved than I initially suspected. Offers they made to help
haven't come to fruition, and I've been allowed to suffer for it." Beat.
"If it was a small matter," she says, "it'd be negligible. But I'd
liken this to being diagnosed with a terminal illness, and being told that
your new benefactors are willing to help find a cure. Except I don't
think they have any real desire to find one."

Salem looks back at her, his expression still not especially warm, but
certainly less scowly. "So you're saying 'fuck it' and bailing."

"Yes and no," Sandra replies, shoulders raising in a vague shrug, "and
I say that only because-- if I honestly thought that remaining the way I
am might allow for finding a method of controlling what's happened to my
family line, I'd stay. Regardless of what's been said, or done."

A pause. Then, "Don't misunderstand. What I've learned within the camp
has been invaluable. I don't think that signing on with them was a
mistake, in itself. But my place, now, is with my birth tribe. It's with
them that I can be of greater help. Besides that--" She shakes her head
slightly. "Well. I rattled more than a few cages, learning what I did
about the Shadow Lords' involvement with Last Days. Just getting the
information earned me more than a few enemies. Letting the sept know
earned more, by several magnitudes-- and I have better things to do with
my time than bow and scrape my way back into their good graces, over a
grave mistake that should have been made public from the beginning."

Salem nods. He seems to think for a moment or two more, and then his shoulders
lift and fall in a shrug. "I'll do it."

Sandra's shoulders relax, the tension in them made more evident with
just how far they slump. "Thank you," she says gently. "My hope is that
it can be conducted on the 8th of February. Much as I'd prefer sooner,
I'd like to get my affairs in order, and-- well. Performing it on the
date of my birth seems only fitting."

"That works for me," Salem says. "Jamethon will have to be there to receive
you -- the rite I know only washes your current tribe away. If he changes
his mind about bringing you into the Get, well--" Another shrug.

"I don't plan on giving him any reason to," Sandra replies, "but if he
does-- he knows that I'll honor his decision."

"All right, then." He flashes a brief, crooked little smile. "Anything else?"

The smile is returned, the expression largely understated, and
humorless, by and large. Fitting to the gravity of the situation, at
least.
"Not really, no," she says. "That's--" Then comes a pause; another
lengthy one, one of her hands raising from her coat pocket to brush some
hair behind her ear. Then, "Well," said a bit more softly, "there is--
something-- but I'd rather not make this too personal."

Salem rubs his chin, expression turning more guarded. "Personal in what way?"

"It has to do with your own renunciation," Sandra replies carefully.
"We both know that just by nature of the tribe itself, we bring a certain
amount of baggage with us into the new one. With you--" A pause. "I want
to stress that I'm not looking to relitigate the past, and I'm not
looking to take a cheap shot-- but I'd been told that you had a bit more
than some others might."

Both eyebrows rise, vanishing under the overhang of overlong black hair.
"'Baggage' is an interesting word," he says, dryly. "My ejection from my
birth tribe was unwilling and rather traumatic. That and the two years or
so I spent as a Ronin made significant changes to the man I was, to the
point that I look back and, honestly, I hardly know who he was." The
young Walker shrugs. "That I hold a grudge, still, against that tribe is
partly due to what happened to me and partly due to the fact that, over
the course of /decades/, I've met less than a handful of Shadow Lords
that I felt I could maybe trust not to stab me in the back, and far more
who /absolutely/ typified the tribe I grew up with, the tribe as the rest
of the Garou Nation sees them." He sighs. "I've held other grudges, ones
that couldn't survive contact with some truly exceptional individuals who
made me rethink my views. I have never met a Shadow Lord who did such."

A halting smile that appears, however briefly, is a contrite one--
still as humorless as the last, and Sandra seems to, at least, take the
last remark in stride. May well be she doesn't feel entirely targeted by
it or, alternatively, doesn't see anything to argue with.
Either way, she says, "I apologize if my wording seemed
oversimplified. I wasn't meaning to offend, and-- frankly, given that
we've never been particularly close, I didn't feel it was my place to say
anything overtly descriptive."
There comes a pause-- then, "Safe to say, though, that there are
things I'm not comfortable disclosing to others-- and things I'm not
necessarily in any position to disclose, either. So I'm wondering-- how
it was, approaching a totem spirit with everything that you'd been
through?"

Salem rubs the side of his nose with a finger. "Cockroach is a pragmatist, and
before I joined the Glass Walkers, I worked closely with their elder at
the time, JJ Malone, offering assistance as needed and following orders
while he and the rest of the tribe decided if they wanted me or not. They
approved, and Cockroach didn't object." A beat. "Fenris is of a wholly
different nature, of course."

"He is," Sandra says gently, "and I do know that, with Jamethon's
blessing or not, he'll ultimately be the final say." A pause; after
which, she breathes a laugh through her nose, another smile flickering to
life. "And I suppose you'll know whether or not it went well based on
whether or not I come back in one piece. Or at all, for that matter."

Salem chuckles, a brief and quiet 'heh'. "True enough. Might get a new
battlescar out of it, even."

"To be honest, I'd be a little surprised if I didn't," Sandra says,
the vague smile returning for a time. "In any event-- thank you, again.
For agreeing, and for your patience."

"I learned that Rite to help people walk the path they need to walk," Salem
responds, easily enough. "And I know it's not an easy decision to make."

The smile does warm a bit, at the last, before it fades entirely. "If
it was, I'd imagine the Galliards tasked with keeping track of everything
would quit en masse, out of protest." A pause. "In the meantime, I have
some things to attend to in the city before that becomes more of an
issue. Thank you, again," even if a third thank you hardly seems
necessary, the gratitude is there, "and I'm sure I'll be seeing you
around."