"I am... not unfamiliar with woodland."

[hazlogs]

Date: 28 Mar 2019

(Half Moon Pool)

Characteristic of its name, this pool is shaped in a half moon that fans out from the rocky outcropping. The bottom of the pool is covered with small, round pebbles of all colors. The shadowy shapes of minnows dart through the water, adding small ripples to the uncommonly clear water. A rivulet of water runs down the side of the rocky outcropping, filling the pool. Small waves radiate from the influx of water, making the half moon shape even more pronounced.

The lush green grass of the shore curves away just to the west.

It's another warm day to be managing a stewardship of the bawn's perimeter. When it's more efficient and effective to do so in wolf form, the risk of heat exhaustion becomes more of a threat, leaving a choice to be made: do the remainder in homid, drawing the process out and ridding oneself of heightened senses, or live with the drawbacks four legs brings with it?
The Philodox apparently went with four legs, as that's the form she occupies. Half-submerged in Half Moon Pool, like some fuzzy parody of a gator laying in wait for its prey, there's a fresh deer leg not terribly far from the shore to round out the impression. It's been thoroughly stripped of the 'good' parts, leaving only the hoof and bone to chew on, if one feels so inclined to mouth at something, the big wolf seeming rather content to just-- lay there.
Or so the impression is given. It can't be that simple, with her moon overhead.

It's the aroma of the deer leg that catches Little Silvertip's attention, leading her to approach like a ghost towards and among the rocky outcroppings that surround the pool. She pants as she approaches, pausing only to sniff at this and that, nose leading her towards the scent of venison. She hops over a little log here, and under some branches there, slowly stalking in on the unmoving quarry. Finally, she straightens up a little, like realizing she's getting close, the wolf's interest pinned in the direction of the prospect of dinner. Sandra? What Sandra. There is only deer.

This three-year-old, arctic wolf's thick white coat stretches over an equally thick and stocky frame. She's about two and a quarter feet tall at the shoulder and four from tip to tail, significantly shorter, more stout, and much more bulky than your run of the mill wolf. Copious muscles can be seen sliding along when she moves, even under her heavy coat. Like the rest of her subspecies, her paws seem almost too large for her body. She often favours her left hind leg just so slightly. Among her coat are about as many scars as one would expect for a wolf of her age. (+details set)

Huxley is on two legs, not four, when he arrives at the scene, coming out from the trees and toward the pool's shore with unhurried, careful steps. The deer gets a brief look, but he pays more attention to the wolf in the water than the wolf heading toward the meat.

The wolf in the water seems to sniff at the air first, though she doesn't raise her head from her paws, one ear cocked forward as the corresponding eye opens, gaze flicking in Stip's direction. There is the slightest twitch along her muzzle, like the beginnings of a lip curl, but she's not actively possessing the limb, so there seems no harm done.
Her head does tilt slightly in the approaching metis's direction, however, and while there's no immediate desire to raise her head, there is a greeting chuff. A slight splish in the water behind her as her tail appears from beneath the water's surface to give a single wag of greeting.

Little Silvertip doesn't notice, or doesn't care. She approaches the limb bones, nose a-quivering, getting right on top of the remains. She hardly looks disappointed by the lack of meat; she mouths at it a few times before finally noticing that she's not alone. Her attention is drawn first to Huxley, making a bit of a blanching face like she just tasted something foul when she sees him, but following his attention, she notices the other cliath. The white wolf instinctively scoops up the bones in her teeth, carrying it a few meters away to protect it from the two.

Huxley holds up spindly, long-fingered hands in a placating gesture to Little Silvertip, palms out, and takes another step further away from the meat. Away from the meat, and toward the pool's edge and the much more sociable Twice-Bitten. "Hello," he says simply, hunkering down into a squat.

You're welcome.
Were it possible for a wolf to speak 'dryly,' then that would be the case in the here and now, the aside aimed at the scrambling Uktena as Twice-Bitten, herself, raises from the water, finally. She shakes herself off, droplets of water flying every which way until her tail gives a light flick, decidedly less mortified by the Ragabash's presence.
There's a slight pause-- likely to debate whether or not to shift back to her native form when she's soaking wet, and the air isn't quite so kind to homid skin. In the end, a compromise, the wolf plopping back down in the water to make it clear - or try to make it clear - that the shift to hispo isn't mean to be aggressive.
May or may not be a good thing. True to Fenrir breeding, she's-- big. How shocking.
~You had a chance to check out the bawn yet?~ she asks, paws draped over one another in front of her.

Little Silvertip settles down with the limb, looking over her shoulder at the hispo with something short of suspicion. She mouths at the bones a few times, but it's clear that her brain is starting to catch up with her, and she's beginning to realize she's defending only-marginally-useful scraps. It dawns on her slowly, the Uktena drawing down with a 'what the fuck am I doing?' expression starting to creep into her posture.

Huxley grimaces as water drops go flying and ducks his head, one arm raising reflexively so that mostly what gets hit is cloth, not skin. "...I have, a little," he answers. "I am... not unfamiliar with woodland." HIs words are as careful as his steps, and his eyes tend to wander, sidelong and away from the Get as he speaks to her, moving toward the Uktena, then to the trees beyond the pond. "Though the growth here is more... abundant than I've experienced before."

The Uktena's pause is noted, the Fenrir's hooded eyes and the uptick of her jowls like a parody of a human smile, just as subdued as it'd typically be in homid. Not quite enough manipulation there to make it stick, and it ultimately tames itself, her attention turning to the Ragabash.
~You never did say where you're from,~ Twice-Bitten notes, shifting her weight onto one hip to let her hind legs splay to one side beneath the water, tail tip occasionally flickering up from beneath the surface.

Little Silvertip chews on the long bones a few more times, getting whatever missed scraps of flesh she can before letting it fall to the side. She sets one paw on top of it, and rests her head on her paw, bringing her eyes and attention back to the other two.

"The Sept of the Lone Range, in Wyoming." Huxley wraps his arms around his knees; he looks rather vulture-like in this pose. "I believe... a pack from there visited here a number of years ago."

Twice-Bitten's ears prick, at that, her focus solely on the Fang for a time. ~The first sept I was inducted into was Tower Falls,~ she says. ~Lone Range wasn't far from us, though, for obvious reasons, I've never been.~ The ban on Get pretty much precludes that.

Little Silvertip continues to rest her chin, gaze falling more on the hispo shaped Fenrir than on the Silver Fang. Her ears perk at the mention of the septs, but she otherwise shows no sign of recognition of either of them. What kind of caern? she wonders.

Huxley flashes a brief, skeletal grin at the Get. "Hello, neighbor." It's gone when he turns to answer Silvertip. "The Lone Range follows Tree in her incarnation as the Lodgepole Pine. It's a caern of stamina, endurance, persistence." There's little of those pauses or hesitancies here; the answers sounds very rote, very practiced. The next sounds more like his natural speech. "It's not... very large. Or hospitable."

The Fenrir gives a lolling grin of her own, eyes hooded again. Again, there's an almost human lilt to it, though the amusement translates regardless of affect.
~They're also quite irritable about any Get presence,~ she amends to Huxley's remarks. ~As for Tower Fall, it's a caern of Travel. Held and maintained by the Fenrir, but given the reach of its moonbridges, it sees a variety of tribes pass through.~ A brief pause. ~Though,~ she adds, ~given the contentious relationship between the Get and the Wendigo in the region, there are some that make it a point to abstain. Not that they can be blamed for that.~

Little Silvertip absorbs that information, the wolf not moving very far from her unconsciously protective grasp of the bone. She thinks for a few moments, before replying that she thinks she remembers something about a Tree-Caern that visitor came from. But she didn't talk much with wyrmcomers then.

Huxley nods, pale eyes half-lidding. "I couldn't say. The Wendigo of Lone Range... didn't have much to do with me. And the pack that came here..." He shrugs. "I was very... /very/ young when all that happened."

The Philodox gives something akin to a shrug, and lays her head on her paws, seemingly content to remain half-submerged. Given the still-thick pelt, it's still as much of a welcome respite as it was when she arrived.
~There were more than a few within the sept that found it curious, if not a bit insulting that the Fangs were allowed a presence,~ she says, almost absently. ~At least one or two old timers took offense; saw it as proof of 'old money' playing both sides.~

Little Silvertip looks puzzled by the idea that it was a long time ago, and seems to give that some momentary thought. It takes her a while before she finally 'says' anything: Little Silvertip doesn't remember when she slew Carnage-Ikthya. Was it a long time ago? Or is Seen-Not-Heard-Metis had his first change recently?

Huxley utters a quiet, raspy little chuckle at Twice-Bitten's words, the sound edged with more than a little cynicism. His gaze slides sidelong toward Silvertip. "I had my First Change and Rite of Passage six years ago," he says, still smiling and still cynical. Bitter, even, perhaps. "My birth was about seven years before that. The pack..." He thinks, his eyes wandering away and almost closing. "I remember them... their leaving... their return..." He looks back at the Uktena. "But only barely. I was," he repeats, "/very/ young."

Twice-Bitten raises her head at the mention of when the metis was Rited, and doesn't bother to hide her curiosity, at that. But be it due to the Uktena's prickly reception, or something else, she doesn't pry. Still, the comment is Noted.
~And this is all before my time,~ she says, as if it even needs to be said. ~I don't think I've even heard the name 'Carnage' before.~

Little Silvertip looks fairly surprised when she finally processes how long it's been since the metis' first change, and being in lupus, it's writ large across her expression. She doesn't 'comment' on it in the same way someone who jerks back from a shocking fact doesn't comment on it. Oh, is about the extent of her response. The statement about Carnage gets a wry look from the Athro. Carnage-Iktyha brought others to fight against the Hidden Walk. He belonged to the Fallen Tribe and was very powerful. Little Silvertip acted without her pack and killed him in his territory. The Uktena relates this all like it's a bit of a mixed bag - an accomplishment, but with some shame at having struck it out alone.

Huxley catches Twice-Bitten's notice and gives her a nod. Slowly, he stands up, the spindly body unfolding from its hunched squat. "...What happened to his allies?"

The Philodox's head tilts in the Huxley's direction as if to second the question, her attention on Silvertip.

Little Silvertip considers a second. The Sept joined together, lots of packs, and attacked the hive in the way that was proper. Little Silvertip fought in the spirit lands because of her strong spirit. She knows many banes were killed, lots of the Fallen Tribe too. Little Silvertip killed Eclipse-Ikthya, the metis mate of Carnage-Ikthya that was leading the others in the spirit lands. All this takes a bit to relate, and in doing so, she slowly rises up and starts pacing, miming out biting this and swiping at that. The battle re-enactment needs some work, but no one accused the ahroun of being a good galliard. When she finishes she comes to a stop (over the bones of course) and adds that it was good battle. Mostly good war.

Huxley echoes these last words thoughtfully. "'Mostly good war.'" He nods, mostly to himself, and then dips his head in a slight bow. "If you don't mind, I would like to... continue my exploration of the bawn now."

Twice-Bitten raises a paw as if to give a little 'shoo'ing motion, ~As you will,~ said mildly. As mild as a hispo growl can get, at least. ~I'll see you later, I'm sure.~

She waits only for so long as Huxley takes to make tracks before turning back to Silvertip. Her ears remain relaxed but attentive, the cant of her head suggesting a question that hasn't been voiced. Then, finally, ~You seem to bristle every time he makes an appearance,~ she says. ~Is it his tribe, his breed, or both?~

Little Silvertip flicks an ear in acknowledgement to Huxley, starting to settle back down on her haunches. The question seems to catch Little Silvertip off guard. Metis looks ugly, she replies easily. Looks sick. Little Silvertip doesn't want to get sick. Though she probably won't, because she isn't metis.