"Are we certain this is a Garou Sept and not some kind of... Bastet Clowder?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 09:39 Pacific Time on Sun Mar 17 2019.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 32 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.31 and steady, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 31 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (75% full).

Sunrise Road, In the Forest

This is a wide black-topped road through the woods, without any lines at all, though the pavement looks fairly new. Majestic trees, both conifers and deciduous, grow right up to the road, but give a peaceful ambiance rather than the more looming look of the woods to the south. Now and again, a mailbox and the beginning of a driveway can be seen on either shoulder, expensive homes on large plots of pristine land. The houses are generally set a good distance back on their lots, and screened from the road by trees, so that they can't see the cars and the cars can't see them. Sunrise Road is known as a place where nature-lovers with a lot of handy cash live. A sign on the roadside indicates that Highway 22, Kent Crossing and Wolf Woods are to the south, while I-90 is a ways up the road in the opposite direction. A large Deer Crossing sign stands on either side of the road as well.

The road winds its way both northward and southward through the woods.

There's a parked-up motorbike in a clearing at the road's edge, and a blanket spread out nearby. On that blanket is, among other things, a man who's probably even larger when he's not lying down. Snake's hands are being used as a pillow, and there's a thermally-insulated bag that's apparently been taken out of a now half-empty backpack, along with a Thermos flask, next to him. It's perhaps a slightly odd scene, given the wolf's howl that rang through the area earlier.

(Snake)
Six feet and ten inches tall, this guy is built like a professional wrestler, with broad shoulders, big muscles and a beard. Either he's in need of a damn good bath, he picked up a good tan, or he wasn't exactly white to start with, and his brown eyes don't disagree with that latter option. His hair is dark, long and greasy - what there is of it sticking out of the back of an everpresent bandana, at least - but at least his beard is kept neat and short. Although, given that face, it should probably be allowed to grow long and used as a veil.

With a pair of ratty black cargo pants, army surplus boots so big that anyone else would wear with a red nose, a black leather jacket with a snarling tusked spiked skull on the back, and a washed-many-times heavy metal band T-shirt straining across his torso, he looks the very epitomy of either 'biker' or 'roadie', possibly both. That's just reinforced by the steel chain he's using as a belt.

Paler, thinner, and much more alert, Huxley stands nearby, hands in his jacket pockets and quite still apart from the movement of his head as he scans the nearby forest. He doesn't fidget or shift his weight needlessly; his whole manner is one of watchful patience.

(Huxley)
This pale young man looks rather sickly. He's thin to the point of gauntness and completely hairless, with hollow cheeks and watery blue eyes surrounded by bruised-looking sockets. A sharp, beaklike nose protrudes boldly out from his face, making him look even more thin and narrow. In age he's probably around twenty, though it's hard to tell for certain, and in height he's nothing special, maybe a few inches under six feet tall.

A black hooded jacket hangs loosely on his skinny frame, the hood usually up to cover his bald scalp. His black jeans and plain white shirt are better-fitted. On his feet are black canvas sneakers of no particular brand.

Perhaps 10 minutes pass between the howl and a response, although the response might not be what one might normally expect. A cougar all but materializes out of the trees, sticking to the shelter of the forest and not coming into the road-adjacent clearing. His approach is slow but cautious, clearly keen on keeping some distance between himself and the newcomers, and clearly not sneaking up on them. He stops dead in his tracks when noticed, looking and watching back.

(Brings-the-Pack)
This is a North American cougar (Puma concolor couguar), which is not an uncommon animal in Washington State, although they are rarely seen by humans. Typical of the species, it has a slender, muscled body with a round head and pointed ears. Like most cougars, this particular specimen is substantially longer, taller, and heavier than the average wolf. He likely tips the scales at about 160lbs and measures nearly 8' from nose to tail: Much of that is certainly tail. This cougar's pelt is slightly more reddish-orange than usual, although not unusually so. Lithe, powerful, sinuous musculature is readily visible beneath the cat's short fur, giving some indication as to the power and speed available to this apex predator should it choose to use it. The black "mustache" marking around his nose and mouth is more pronounced than usual, giving the feline's already-handsome face an even more suave--almost debonair--appearance.

A few minutes after the howl, probably while setting the picnic blanket out, Snake had sniffed at the air. "Somethin' odd coming," he says, though that's about as much information as Huxley's going to get. And, for all that he's lying down with his hands behind his head, he's not exactly unaware of the surroundings - he's just relaxing in them.

Huxley, thus forewarned, fixes his attention on the cougar, studying it with a deadpan expression. After a moment, and without looking away from the big cat, he asks his companion, "Are we certain this is a Garou Sept and not some kind of... Bastet Clowder?"

Brings-the-Pack settles back onto his haunches now that he's been spotted, perhaps waiting to see what the two newcomers do next.

Snake props himself up at Huxley's comment, glancing over at the other man and then following his gaze to the cat. "Hey," he greets the animal. "Snake and Huxley. We ain't exactly expected, but we rang the doorbell."

One side of Huxley's mouth quirks up; he utters a quiet, brief chuckle.

Brings-the-Pack raises his head slightly, sniffing the air, and then pushes back to all fours. He gives himself a brief shake before looking pointedly at the two garou and motioning a "follow me" gesture with his head, a distinctly not-an-animal gesture. He turns and moves further into the woods.

Snake rolls to his feet, revealing in the process just how big he really is, and possibly just why he wasn't vertical when the cat arrived. With a last check for the location of his keys - trouser pocket, as usual - he nods to Huxley, then moves to follow the cougar.

Snake whispers "That ain't likely to be a Bastet. Don't get surprised."

Huxley tilts his head, looking sidelong and up at his companion, and nods in response to a whispered comment. He falls into step beside the big man and keeps his attention on their surroundings as they follow the odd feline.

Brings-the-Pack takes the garou a good couple hundred yards into the forest before turning around and, finally, addressing them. His words are a faintly rumbly, feline-accented English. "Who are you?" comes the inquiry. "And what brings you here?"

Snake moves through the forest fairly easily, though he has to duck a lot more than the other two. "Name's Snake, but some folks know me as Hunted-Elk-Takes-Down-the-Hunters," he replies. "Looking for a place with a treaty and three kettles." And with that, he folds his arms across his chest and nods to Huxley.

"Huxley Seen-Not-Heard," says Snake's companion, after a little tic of surprise hearing a human language coming out of the puma's mouth. "Mostly right now, I'm following him." He tilts his head toward Snake.

Brings-the-Pack's ears splay momentarily in humor after Snake's brief statement. "A treaty and three kettles. I have not heard that one before, and it is a good one for a sept whose name is a mouthful." He looks the two of them over again. "Neither of you smell of Wyrm taint, so I will escort you to a place where you can stay until one of the garou come to interview you and, perhaps, grant you status as visitors. There may still be a bastet or two in the area. For some reason, we seem to attract the Khan." He adds, "I am not Pumonca. I am Brings-the-Pack, a warper and ally of the sept."

Snake flicks a smile over at Huxley. "Only as long as you want to," he reminds the other man. He does smile at Brings-the-Pack's expression, and he nods to the rest - including the bit about not being a Pumonca. Apparently somehow the big biker already either knew or suspected. "Pleased to meet you, Brings-the-Pack, and thanks," he says. "There parking somewhere, or am I taking the bike to a lockup in town before I come back out here?"

Huxley looks thoughtful, perhaps even a little calculating, at Brings' words.

Brings-the-Pack offers to Snake, "I can give you the address if you wish to ride you bike there instead of follow me. It is your choice. It is only a little under a mile away. And they do have parking available. Kin occasionally visit too, so be cautious."

Snake nods. "Probably the best idea. If nothing else, leaving stuff lying about in the woods ain't polite."

"My duffle bag is still back there, too," says Huxley.

Brings-the-Pack offers the address to Edgewood to the two garou. "Park wherever. I will be waiting for you at the back of the property near the pool."

Snake nods to Brings-the-Pack. "See you there," he says, then nods to Huxley and turns back towards the bike.

---

Edgewood House: Meadow

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.

Brings-the-Pack is awaiting the garou by the time they arrive. He's out behind the pond in the back yard, loitering just between the trees so he's nearly out of sight from the house (unless someone is actively looking or spectacularly perceptive) and totally out of sight from the road.

The bike's approach is audible before it arrives - almost from the moment it starts up again, in fact. And then it pulls into the driveway, and from there to a corner to park. Snake's backpack turns out to be a frontpack, and it's probably just as well the bike is big. Snake waits for Huxley to dismount, then follows him off the machine. The keys go back in his pocket.

Huxley wears his duffle on his back, the strap shortened and diagonal across his body. It looks neither especially large nor especially heavy. The area gets a careful look-over, the house studied -- the windows especially -- and the yard likewise visually examined. All caution, this one, though not visibly nervous.

Brings-the-Pack doesn't move to join the garou in the cleared area of the property. It's as if perhaps the appearance of large predators out in the open, even though there are trees shielding the proerty from the road, might be frowned upon or an unnecessary risk.

Snake too gives the place a look-over, then turns towards the back yard and the pool that Brings-the-Pack mentioned. "Coming?" He offers Huxley a smile, shoves one hand in his pocket - the other's holding his helmet - and sets out to find the cougar.

Huxley gives a thin twitch of a smile. "Sure." He falls into step beside the big man, his attention on their new surroundings unwavering.

"Oh, good. You did not get lost," the cougar says from the woodline as the garou make their way close enough for speaking without yelling or raised voices. "There are not many rules here, other than to treat the house as if you were a visitor and to clean up after yourselves. For garou, you should use the homid form while outside so as to not inadvertently damage the veil should someone tresspass or if there is a hunter in the area. And as there are occassionally kin visiting or staying at the house, you should avoid any form other than homid unless you are in the garage or the barn--where people can go to heal after fights."

Snake gives the cougar a flat look at the suggestion they might have gotten lost, then nods to the rest of the information. He finds a place to learn while he listens, unhitching the bag strapped to his chest in the process. "Makes sense," he says.

"Perfectly logical," says Huxley, who seems to be studying the house's roof. "Do many use the place as their primary residence?"

"A couple do," the cougar responds to Huxley's query. "I am not entirely certain who or how many at the moment, as I had been away for a length of time and only recently returned. I do not tend to venture into the house very often." To Snake he adds, "Most of the rules tend to be common sense and common courtesy."

Snake glances towards Huxley, but at Brings-the-Pack's words he hehs. "Common sense ain't," he says, as though that in itself makes sense. "But thanks for bringing us here and telling us where to find the ropes. It's appreciated."

Huxley turns pale eyes back to the cougar. "Yes, appreciated. And very interesting."

Brings-the-Pack inquires, "How did you learn of this place, and what brings you here?" He considers his own question before adding, "If you are at liberty to discuss such things."

Snake shrugs. "Was told this was a good place to learn some stuff it turns out I need to know," he replies to Brings-the-Pack. "Couldn't do it where I was, so hit the road with my old Grand Elder's blessings and a roadmap that took me to a couple other places on the way."

"My Sept was one of those places," says Huxley. "There isn't much opportunity for advancement for someone like myself, there." His smile is brief and humorless. "So, you know, why /not/ leave?"

Brings-the-Pack nods to Snake's comments and then, to Huxley, offers what might be encouraging words. "I have only been to one other sept, and it was nothing like this one. Here, they tend to be more open-minded." He pauses to look rather pointedly at himself, then back to the two garou. "There have been representatives from all the tribes in the past at this sept. I don't believe that is the case now, but in general all garou are typically welcome."

Snake's eyebrows lift at Brings-the-Pack's words, and then he smiles. "I see your point," he says, then nods. "The Sept I learned at was kinda open-minded, but I seen a couple weren't. Glad to hear this one's got space."

Huxley nods. No arguments from him, though even with Brings' statements, he seems a touch skeptical. "Space to bunk down, specifically, I hope. My friend might be more enduring, but I'm personally a little..." He smiles, tight-lipped. "Road-weary."

"I suspect the bunk room on the second floor of the house is vacant or nearly so. People who are passing through or who are too tired to go to whatever passes as a home will often take a cot there. It's essentially first come first served. If there is overflow or if you are more comfortable in a more primative setting, the loft in the barn is also serviceable." He gestures to his right and left. "And there is always the forest if you care to sleep outdoors. Although I would not stry much further to the east without first being seen by one of the garou and being granted clearance deeper onto the bawn or to the caern itself. I'm sure someone will be along shortly."

Snake gives Huxley an odd look. "You folks allowed to /have/ friends?" And then he's smiling a broad smile, one that suggests he might not be being entirely serious. He winks at the other man, then nods to Brings-the-Pack again. "It ain't just my friend here as is road-weary. But I promise I won't go further east 'til someone says I can."

Huxley's grin at Snake's quip does his gaunt face no favors, and his chuckle is quiet and breathy.

"I will leave you two to get settled in then while I try to find a wolf to formally meet you," the cat says as he turns back into the woods.