"I don't think... being elder of a tribe of one really counts."

[hazlogs]

(Edgewood House: Garage)
This old and spacious building was once a fairly large carriage barn, but has been converted first as garage, and then into something else entirely. It once had massive two-story front doors, but they've been permanently closed, and a smaller door built into them. (It seems to have been reinforced at some point recently.) The walls, too, appear to have been reinforced in some way, making them stronger and somewhat soundproof. The size of about two large rooms, the first floor is undivided. It's got wooden plank flooring, and has exercise equipment dotting its expanse, with free weights in one area on the door's side of the building, a punching bag in a corner, and other equipment scattered about. There's a rough ladder up to the second floor loft, which is carpeted, but has unfinished walls, a few dangling light bulbs, and is apparently serving as a somewhat informal bunk area. The lighting is, understandably, somewhat inadequate. The floor mostly consists of mattresses, innumerable throw pillows and bed pillows, warm bedding, and the occasional glimpse of carpet. There are a few shoes resting against the wall near the ladder; clearly, people are expected to take their footwear off once they get up here. One can peer down from the ladder-opening, or from the edge of the loft. (There's about three feet of space between the edge of the loft floor and the barn walls.) A wooden door on the upper part of the garage leads into the second floor landing of the house. There is no exit to the house from the first floor of the barn.

(OOC) Sandra says "Second floor has a little alcove she's made for herself. Bedroll, footlocker for a nightstand, cinderblock-and-wood-panels bookshelves. Downstairs has a drafting table and a giant corkboard she tacks all the ooze info shit onto. Doesn't detract from the workout equipment. Some of the upstairs stuff has suffered some, um. Claw damage."

It's calm if chilly morning, the humidity making the meager thirty five degree weather feel a hell of a lot colder. The sun is still creeping up over the horizon, though the blue pre-dawn halflight has given way to actual sunshine.
The Edgewood house, likely what's pointed to as the housing for the sept's more displaced residents, appears to have all of-- zero activity, at the moment. Either everyone's asleep, or out, at the moment, though there is, upon closer inspection, some light filtering through from underneath the garage door. And sounds, besides. The kind of grunts one would expect from a strenuous workout, distinctly female if not at all traditionally feminine.

There was someone here last night. Upstairs in the bunk house, someone fast asleep who didn't stir. Whoever it was is male, took up a lot of space while also taking up none that he didn't absolutely need, and kinda likes patchouli oil - and is probably something to do with the motorbike that arrived yesterday. But now it's morning. There was some movement upstairs earlier before it all went quiet, and now there's a knock on the garage door. "Hey," calls Snake as he opens the door and makes his way into the garage, his voice a bass rumble of curiosity. "Anyone home?"

Huxley is nothing if not adept at being unobtrusive, so it's hard to say where he spent the night, exactly. He's had a lifetime's practice in staying out of the way, after all. He follows Snake quietly, slipping in just behind the much bigger and more noticable Garou.

The woman at the weight bench is dressed in a sleeveless shirt stained with motor oil, and a pair of jeans that's seen better days. Some nods to the less than comfortable temperature on the ground floor, the space heater having to put in overtime just to make a small patch of the room comfortable. Setting the barbell she's having a wordless if rather intense conversation with on the rack, she sits up, making a grab for the towel at the end of the bench to mop the sweat off her brow and chest.
Next up is the water bottle, a swig pulled off of it, her free hand raised to swipe at her mouth with the back of her hand. Scars aplenty on this one, specifically on her upper arms-- deep claw gouges that may well be battle scars, as well as a collection of other, smaller offerings, which suits the appearance. 'Fenrir' couldn't be more obvious.
"You're the newcomer, I take it," she says a bit breathlessly, gaze flickering towards the movement she sees behind Snake. "Newcomers, rather," she corrects, returning her attention to the Uktena.

(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.

Snake nods politely to Sandra, offering her a wave of the hand that doesn't really get close to salute as he gets clear of the door so there's plenty of room for Huxley. "Name's Snake," he says, his eyes catching on Sandra's scars before returning to her face. "Hunted-Elk-Takes-Down-the-Hunters, Homid Ahroun of the Uktena. C...liath." And either hiding the stress of it well or rather nonchalent for a full moon when the moon's this full. "Just got here yesterday." And he doesn't look much like the average Uktena, either.

(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.

"Huxley Seen-Not-Heard," says the other newcomer, pale eyes half-lidded. He has a sidelong way of looking at her, looking without directly /looking/, taking in the garage's interior, the gym equipment, the space heater, the loft, all these different details in a methodical, detached kind of way. His voice is low, words unhurried. "Metis Ragabash Cliath of the Silver Fangs."

(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.

It's possible Sandra didn't first take into account the strangeness and, ah-- *scope* of the two newcomers, though the latter only really applies to one. To her credit, she doesn't bother to hide the pause that comes of it, allowing herself to really take in the look of them both, though Huxley may well be pleased to discover that he isn't the star of the show, this time. The word 'metis' does win him back some attention, though, as more of an 'ah' than a means of staring him down.
"Sandra Amsel," she replies. "Twice-Bitten, Homid, Cliath Philodox, Get of Fenris-- currently serving as Master of the Challenge, and as one of the sept guardians." Not really the rank one would expect of a near 40 year old, but let he who is without oddity cast the first stone. "You should speak to Copperhead," she notes to Snake. "She's both the Warder, and one of your tribemates."

"Pleased to meet you, Twice-Bitten," says Snake, before finding himself somewhere to lean. It could almost be his natural state, leaning against something rather than standing up straight. "We was told not to go eastwards 'til someone proper looks us over." If he finds it odd to meet a Cliath in her late thirties - well, he's almost certainly not a teenager himself, though he's not yet gained the wrinkles of life on the road and what's visible of his face isn't the same sort of texture as his jacket. "I'll look forward to meeting Copperhead. Thanks for letting me know."

Huxley is almost certainly younger than the both of them, though his gauntness and hairlessness make it difficult to pin him down to an exact number. "I should ask... I suppose... who's charge for my own tribe." That same slow, deliberate manner of speaking. Not to mention the question asked but not /directly/ asked.

"No one's taken up the mantel yet," Sandra says to Huxley. "So far as anyone knew, Isaac, a Cliath Philodox, was the only Fang present, and he hasn't been seen in some time. Nearly a year, by last count, so--" she pauses, taking a moment to towel off a little more, "there's a not-insignificant chance that it's just you, for the time being."
Towel and water bottle still in hand, she raises to her feet, tipping the bottle just enough to get some water on the bench before wiping that down. "As for 'someone proper' giving you a once over," she says, "I'm afraid I don't have the Gifts necessary to clear you." Straightening, the towel tossed aside, she turns back to the two men, and says, "I can, however, see about getting word to someone who does. The more people we have, and the quicker they're inducted, the better off we'll be." A pause. Then, lifting her chin as if to gesture to the both of them, she says, "What brings you two here, anyway?"

Snake grins at the idea of Huxley as the senior Fang present, and he turns that grin on Huxley. "Instant promotion, man!" And then back to Sandra, "I hear you, loud and clear. Me? I'm here to find more Uktena. Didn't have any where I got Rited, so I got a few things to learn." He continues to let Huxley answer for himself; it seems he's only willing to be a meatshield in some circumstances, however good a meatshield he may be.

Huxley, dryly, "I don't think... being elder of a tribe of one really counts." His pale gaze shifts from Snake to Sandra. "Fortunately, though, I'm not in need of tribal lessons. Just... opportunity."

"I held tribal eldership when there were none around to shepherd," Sandra replies. "The point, in cases like these, is more setting yourself up to be an advisor to anyone that might arrive, so-- if you find the idea of claiming the role attractive, then there's an opportunity in and of itself." A pause. "Though it may not be the type you're looking for," she adds, the question of what exactly he means presented wordlessly, but it's easy enough to get a handle on.
"You'll have better luck finding tribemates, however," she says to Snake. "An Ahroun named - somewhat coincidentally - Snakepatcher is your tribal elder, though an Athro Ahroun has arrived recently that may decide to assume the role, herself. Her name is Little Silvertip. Copperhead, as I said, is Warder-- and Cliath." Beat. "If it isn't obvious by now, we're spread a bit thin, so rank and roles are a bit more malleable than they are in most septs, though I've been told that even when the populace was more robust, this was still the case. Still, I somehow doubt it was anywhere near as pronounced."

Snake blinks at Sandra. "The Gnawers always said other folks didn't do things the same way as them, but I didn't think as that was the kind of thing they meant," he says. "Still." He glances over to Huxley again. "Looks like your luck may be in on a few counts, man." And then to Sandra again, "Sounds like there ain't no shortage of Uktena Ahrouns about. Sounds perfect. So what does the Sept need, other'n warm bodies willing to get stuck in, if you got all that?"

Huxley doesn't answer Sandra's unspoken question directly, instead shifting his eyes and tilting his head slightly in Snake's direction when the big Uktena makes his inquiry about the Sept's needs. Then he rolls his attention back to Sandra, hairless brows lifted.

"A number of our guardians are absent," Sandra replies, noting the non-reply from Huxley by way of a return on that arched brow, though her attention shifts back to Snake. "I can show you the grounds if you have an interest in assisting. Otherwise, at the moment, there are--" She pauses, glancing at the cork board that, quite honestly, looks like a conspiracy theorist went berserk. "--Issues," she says mildly, turning back to the two men, "that we're working on. Something I'll be able to cover in more detail when I'm not about to start my shift."

Snake nods. "Without speaking to the head honcho - or honchess, whichever - I ain't gonna put my name down," he says, "But if I'm here, I gotta contribute somehow." It's a moral imperative, apparently. He glances at the board a few moments later, then blinks. "Looks like you ain't got issues, you got back catalogues," he says, then nods at the rest. "Thanks for your time, Twice-Bitten. Appreciate it."

Huxley started drifting toward the cork board once Sandra drew their attention to it. He stands in front of it now, hands in jacket pockets (really they never left), eyes practically crawling over the posted information. "Hmmm."

"That you'd have to wait until you're cleared goes without saying," Sandra replies to Snake, "but-- once you are, I somehow doubt that Copperhead would be adverse to a new applicant." A beat. "In any event, make yourselves at home. There should be some cuts of venison in the freezer, still, and other assorted items." She begins to move towards the door, noting, "It was a pleasure meeting you both," and doesn't appear inclined to wait for any additional chatter, seeing herself out the door, the distinct sounds of bone and muscle snapping into an altered form coming not long after.

Snake nods to Sandra, then drifts over towards the flowcharts. "Hmmm," he agrees with Huxley. "Fun."

"It's... unusual," says the Metis. "Weird, even." His gaze slides sidelong to Snake. "But this... kind of thing is an Uktena's bread and butter, or so I've always been told."

Snake coughs. "I want a chance to go through it /all/," he admits. "Proper-like. But that'll take hours, and I got to spend time cleaning the bike today. She brought us a long way, need to make sure she's okay after the trip and that she knows I appreciate her. Don't want her getting pissed with me."

Huxley nods. "Of course." He's silent for a beat or two looking at the cork board like he's going to spend those hours studying it, but then he says, "...Need a hand?"

Snake shrugs. "Can if you like? But don't give her too much fuss or she'll start expecting it from every passenger, and then I'll be /screwed/. If you want to take your turn with the wall full of bits of string now, do."

Huxley has spent his whole life within the Garou Nation's flavor of animism, so the idea that Snake's motorcycle actually /might/ be, on some level, aware, doesn't phase him. At least, his nod suggests that Snake's explanation is perfectly rational. "All right, then." He goes back to studying the board.

Snake nods. "Enjoy," he replies with a smile, then heads back outside to get started on the bike. It's going to be a long, cold day, but at least it'll be a long cold day with coffee available and other people around, rather than a long cold walk with an uncooperative machine. Snake treated his transport as sentient before he found out he was a Garou and it might be real, but now? It'd be stupid to do anything else, as far as he's concerned.