"Apparently I'm it."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 17:42 Pacific Time on Mon Mar 25 2019.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.88 and steady, and the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 44 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (69% full).

(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.

Huxley has his hood up against the early-evening rain and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket as he wanders around the back edge of Edgewood's property, close to the trees. His steps are deliberate and careful, stopping often so that he can stand very still and study some detail, the movement of a squirrel up a tree or the way one tree slightly leans toward another tree.

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.

Little Silvertip has the good sense to shift up to homid before she exits the woods, what with the veil and all, and emerges from the woods. The stout warrior is wearing a semi-transparent jacket that looks like it has a regular, bumpy pattern in the right light, no doubt to keep the rain off of her. She pauses at the edge of the woods as she spies Huxley, slowing a half step when she sees the unfamiliar face. The lack of familiarity doesn't stop her, though; after a thorough look over from afar, she approaches, raising one hand in an abortive wave. "Cama-i." She says, obviously some sort of greeting.


This Alaska Native woman stands an inch or two under five feet tall, and cuts a rather stout figure. The early thirty-something has broad shoulders and hips, which draws a square silhouette interrupted only by the feminine curves of her waist and chest. Muscular arms and thick legs contribute to this stocky look. Her round face has a small, broad nose, a wide mouth, and wide-set, almond shaped dark brown eyes with thin arching eyebrows. A faint scar runs along her lower left jaw, suggesting past injury. A series of facial tattoos, three sets of vertical lines, run from lip to chin. The lines run in pairs, with a third, dashed line, between each pair. Her thick black hair hangs to her waist, usually braided. In spite of her small stature, she can seem physically dominating, and possesses a unstopability usually reserved for locomotives or rampaging beasts.

She's wearing a qaspeq - a loose, hooded dress-like shirt of paisley blue, the pleated hem of which reaches the knees. A simple zigzag line decorates it, one yellow and one brown, circling a few inches above the hem, as well as the sleeves and hood. The pattern also outlines the curved pockets which dominate the front. Underneath, she wears thick dark brown pants and a pair of ankle high, heavy soled boots; brown at the bottom and white rimmed at the top. When the weather is wet, she also wears a hooded jacket of nearly transparent skins. It has a regular, strange bumpy texture. She wears a necklace made of smooth stone beads, and she has a small fur pouch on her hip, partially hidden under the shirt. It has a faint phenolic smell. She has an ornate bracelet on her left wrist, seemingly made of molded bone, and bearing a piece of the purest turquoise in the center. She favours her left leg slightly when she moves. Depending on what she's wearing, sometimes the whale fluke tattoos can be seen circling her collar bone, two in the front, two on her back. (+details set)

Huxley stops his careful wandering as soon as she makes her appearance and, after a moment, offers up a quiet and mildly quizzical, "Hello." He studies her, sidelong though not furtive, taking in details but not staring.

Ciuraq approaches slowly, but with a evident sense of self-assuredness that dangerous people sometimes project. She brushes her hood back, eyes narrowing as she looks at the sickly looking man appraisingly. She stops a few meters away, folding her arms. "Ah... Are you new? Or am I?" She asks, butchering her Rs as always.

Huxley continues to keep still. "Well," he says, picking out his words almost as carefully as he picked out his steps earlier. "I couldn't say if /you/ were new or not, but I /definitely/ am new. To this place, at least. I arrived about a week ago, with another, named Snake." He pauses, mouth quirking up on one side, and with very dry humor, adds, "He's very large."

Ciuraq watches for a moment, the light drizzle running down her face as she looks appraisingly at the young man. After several seconds stretch on for what might feel like minutes, she jerks her head in an awkward nod. "Ii-i." She replies, before adding, "I... eh... met him. Hunted-Elk." She waits a few moments before adding with a smirk. "/You/ a... are very large." Apparently that's funny.

That takes him a bit off-guard, but his mouth stretches in a grin that makes his gaunt face seem more skull-like. "If you say so." He inclines his head, then, and says, "I'm Huxley, otherwise called Seen-Not-Heard."

Ciuraq flinches a bit when Huxley grins, like the other's apperance gives her the willies. She looks over Huxley with an appraising eye, before unfolding her arms, planting her hands on her hips. "Ciuraq Aketachunak. Little Silvertip Mauls the Horned Serpent; Little Silvertip Brings Back Light's Gifts to the Wolf People. Daughter of Driftwood Dances, Sister to Grapples with Fire, Mother. Fourth ranked warrior, Uktena tribe." Maybe from how many times she's delivered that, there's none of the usual verbal starting and stopping to her introduction.

Huxley nods as though her introduction confirmed a private thought, and thankfully that macabre grin disappears as he gives up the rest of his own introduction. "Cliath Ragabash of the Silver Fangs, and Metis... as is probably obvious."

Ciuraq's brow bobs in some strange non-verbal. "It... eh... is obvious." She agrees, without a hint of apology. "Many... uh... Sil... Silver Fangs? Here, now. I... uh... not... do... do not remember... I have not smelled many, since... since coming back."

"Apparently I'm it," Huxley says with a faint shrug. "That is, at least, what I've been told."

Ciuraq doesn't look terribly put out at the idea that they're thin on 'Fangs. Instead, she gives a small half shrug as if to say 'what can you do?' "Aah." She replies, shifting her weight, and wiping her face. "You, um, give chiming... chiminage, yet? Or that new?"

To be quite frank, Huxley doesn't seem especially put out, either. He shakes his head at her question. "Unfortunately, I... haven't had a chance to meet with the Alpha yet."

Ciuraq considers for a few moments, before shaking her head. "Re... uh, Reflection Howl." She provides, before giving an awkward looking one shouldered shrug. "He... um, he is... um, around." She says, nodding back towards the Bawn. "Sometimes." She thinks for a few moments, taking the time to wipe some of the rain off her face. "Snake, eh... he says... he says he does not? Does not know what to... what to chiminage. Do. Whatever."

A drop of rain rolls off the front of Huxley's hood and plops onto the end of his nose. He wipes it off with a faint grimace. "Yes, well... I believe we're both rather new to the whole... joining another Sept thing. My home Sept... well, chiminage giving tended to be rather elaborate. At least among the Fangs."

Ciuraq is standing out in the light rain, wearing a semi-transparent hooded jacket with an odd texture to it - a rain jacket of some sort. Her hood is back, and rain runs down her brow. "Ii-i. Less... uh, less... that. Less elaborate, here." She provides, before folding - then unfolding - her arms.

Slug comes out from the front door, looking- unSlugly. He's changed out the hoodie for dark green jacket that could pass for army surplus, a thick button down shirt, dark jeans. Boots. And- black hair. At a distance he might even look like someone else entirely, before someone gets close enough to see the scars, anyways.

He's a coffee cup in one hand, and a waffle-peanutbutter sandwich in the other. He crunches the Eggos, smears of Peter Pan lurking at the corners of his stern mouth.

"Convenient," says the Metis, and then dips his head. "If you'll excuse me?" He moves to go.