"You haven't noticed? Righteous indignation is what Garou do best."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 07:17 Pacific Time on Mon Apr 1 2019.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.06 and falling, and the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint is 34 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.) For more detail, see: http://www.wunderground.com/cgi-bin/findweather/getForecast?query=98501
Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (24% full).

Edgewood House: Downstairs
The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well. (+view for details)

It's a cold morning, this April the first. The sun's not been up very long and neither has Huxley, just long enough to get dressed -- black slacks and long-sleeved white tshirt, well fitted and doing little to hide how thin he is -- and make coffee. He's settled into the living room, hunkered at one end of an overstuffed couch, staring vaguely at nothing in particular, bruised-looking eyelids half-lidded, long-fingered hands wrapped around the warm mug.

The door opens to let in a gust of cool air, and a somewhat breathless (and, frankly, sweaty) Philodox. Judging by the clothes - thermal shirt, jacket, jeans - it was a morning jog rather than lifting weights this morning, and judging by the sweat, she did it on four legs instead of two.
Lifting her shirt enough to dab at her forehead, the undershirt beneath allowing for continued modesty, she notes the occupant of the living room and pauses for a moment. "Good morning," is offered politely, not too long after. "Just woke up, or is that," a nod to the coffee, "round two?"

Huxley bestirs himself and sits up as Sandra arrives, pulling himself into the here and now. He lifts the mug to his lips, one-handed now, and sips, the free hand waving vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. "...Just my first, so the pot is fresh."

Sandra glances towards the kitchen, looking momentarily tempted, at least, though she gives a slight shake of her head. "I've already had my allotment for the day, but I may have to raid the pot after I've showered," she says, then turns to look him over again. A moment, then another-- then, "In the meantime, while there's probably a better time for it-- do you have a moment to talk?"

Huxley makes a bit of a show of looking around, then turns pale eyes back to her. "There doesn't seem to be anyone or anything else demanding my attention at the moment," he says with dry humor and a guarded smile.

A vague shrug is made in response, and the Philodox makes her way into the living room, keeping a respectable distance, presumably on account of the sweatiness. Remains standing by a recliner, to begin with, "These kinds of conversations don't tend to go well with 'mornings,'" said mildly, "but I've been curious about some things you said, when last I saw you."

Huxley takes another sip from his mug, swallows, then asks, "Such as?"

"From what you said, it's been some time since you were Rited," Sandra says, apparently inclined to get straight to the point. "It sounded like there was a story behind that. I'd been meaning to ask what it was."

The Metis smiles, tight-lipped. "No story," he says, the lightness in his tone obviously feigned. "At least not a very interesting one. I mean..." He takes another sip. "A metis in a Sept largely made up of Silver Fangs and Wendigo. You'd think there would be no place to go but up, but what /actually/ happens is that one doesn't move at all."

Sandra gives a slight shake of her head, rounding the recliner to seat herself, after a moment. "My first exposure to metis was among the Fenrir," she says-- even if it seems like stating the obvious, she doesn't, for whatever reason, appear to think so. "For all their faults, it seemed as though they'd never dream of leaving one of theirs behind on the basis of breed alone. For that, they'd have to fail utterly at being a capable Garou in the first place. The-- 'career menopause,' if you'll pardon the term, is foisted largely on the parents." A pause. "Otherwise, I'll admit, my experience with the Fangs and Wendigo both is rather lacking."

"As is mine with the Get," Huxley says after another sip. "My mother's career wasn't put on hold so much as it was... terminated." He tips his chin up makes a gesture with his free hand, four crooked fingers slicing the air in front of a bared throat.

A subtle furrow in the Philodox's brow comes of it, though the expression is muted. "I never understood the premise of that," she says, "but I suppose coming into things late might have a hand in that. Seems more akin to shooting ourselves in the foot in a show of righteous indignation than anything else."

Huxley utters a low, dry chuckle. "You haven't noticed? Righteous indignation is what Garou do best."

"Oh, I'd noticed," Sandra replies, affording him a wry if understated smile. "Not terribly far off, I think," she says, crossing her legs and leaning her elbow against the armrest to adopt a more relaxed posture, "from the effect that irrefutable proof of God's existence would have on modern-day Christians. Not that we haven't already done a rather impressive job of emulating the end-result that would inevitably lead to."
A pause. Then, "That aside," she says, "would it be incorrect to assume that your journey here has something to do with the stagnation you were subject to back home?"

Huxley nods, his free hand joining the other in wrapping its fingers around the still-warm mug. "...I'm very patient. I've had to be. ...But there are limits."

"Well," Sandra says mildly, "the good news, I suppose, is that-- if we manage to solve this matter with the Wheel Eater, you'll likely have enough renown to claim Adren in a laughably short amount of time."

"Hmm." Huxley examines the shallow remains of his coffee, his expression doubtful. "I've been studying the information posted about that. Seems only a bit of a step down from solving the Apocalypse." He lifts the mug, drains off the last.

"Yes and no," Sandra replies. "On the one hand, yes, all signs are pointing towards the solution being the rejuvination of a caern that's been thoroughly devoured, and is by all rights likely to devour anything that comes near it-- on the other, given all the time I've spent with the stories and documentation, it still feels like we're missing something."
A pause. Then, "That said, I'm going to be putting together a trip to the 'village' that I keep hearing about. The one connected to the old woman that's been linked to Magpie. We've not really given the area a thorough once-over, and with more people present, it's looking more likely to happen. If you're feeling up to it, you're more than welcome to come with. Safe to say that, no matter one's station, we could use all the eyes we can get on the problem."

Huxley's grin is wide, toothy, positively skeletal. "Sounds delightful." The light tone is very obviously feigned and 'interested' is too mild a term to describe his mood.

"Good," Sandra replies, raising up to her feet. "In the meantime, I'm still in desperate need of that shower." Making her way to the stairs, she says, "Let me know if you have any questions," over her shoulder.