Can you fight? I have been trained by Pierces the Ice, a great warrior of the north.

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:21 Pacific Time on Mon Apr 19 2004.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 50 degrees
      Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      south at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and falling, and 
      the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees 
      Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (0% full).

Bawn: Western Forest(#3018RA)

Tall Sitka spruce and sequoia crowd around and above you. Many of the trees are
      old, their branches twisted into impossible shapes, trunks broad and 
      draped with lichen, mosses and creepers. Tendrils of moss hand down from 
      them like green spiderwebs, snaring the unwary with cold, ghostly 
      fingers. The patches of younger growth are dense and pale, needles tinged 
      with silver. Matted undergrowth huddles sullenly in the occasional small 
      clearings, clutching with thorns and burrs at the legs of those who would 
      pass. Deer seldom venture here, but the forest is full of rustlings, and 
      tiny glints from wary, watchful eyes.

The forest spreads out to the east, bounded on the west by Sunrise Road. From
      farther to the west, one can occasionally hear the distant sounds of the 
      town of Kent's Crossing.

Silver-Tongue looks at her with a little growl as he tugs on the arm, though he
      lets go when she asks. He doesn't hang around though, bounding backwards 
      and too the side, staying out of reach. Who you? His ears are perked and 
      his tail is curled over his back, ready to run or pounce.

Atcen makes her way through the forest at a steady, ground-eating lope, a
      starved gray she-wolf with her grayish tongue hanging out. She pulls up 
      short, sniffing rapidly, then makes her way toward where Silver Tongue 
      and Eve are.

Eve inspects her arm for damage, then shrugs and drops it down into her lap.
      "Someone who is allowed to be here same as you. Eve 
      Walks-The-Darkened-Path. Cliath and Theurge of the Bone Gnawers. You?"

[Atcen]
This not-quite fully adult wolf bitch is a starved, unhealthy-looking beast,
      too tall for her scant flesh. Her dry, unkempt pelt, light gray, 
      stretches tight over bone and muscle and sinew, showing clearly the jut 
      of ribs and spine and hip. Large paws, each toe tipped with a blunt, 
      yellowish claw, suggest that Atcen has yet more growing to do.

Within her long muzzle are needle-sharp fangs that have an unhealthy yellowish
      hue, and from deep sockets within her lean wolven head burn pale blue 
      eyes, cold as the frost.

Silver-Tongue flicks his ears shifting his attention from Eve and the newcomer,
      still looking somewhat suspicious. Silver-Tongue. Moon Dancer and Cub of 
      Unicorn. His muzzle tilts up, exposing his throat. Forgive, 
      Walks-The-Darkened-Path-Rhya?

Eve waves off the cub. "Don't worry about it." The Theurge doesn't seem
      terribly conserned or upset, which might have something to do with the 
      moon.

Atcen lifts her head as she steps forward, her tail rising slightly as she
      introduces herself. I am Spirit of Cannibals in Winter, gibbous-moon cub 
      of Little Brother. Pierces the Ice is my teacher.

Eve wrinkles her nose up a little, as she looks over the new arrival. "Geeze,
      kid, you're skinner then I am. I have half a sandwich, if you're hungry."

Silver-Tongue bristles his fur up a little, a bit un-nerved by her name and
      appearance. He sniffs in her direction carefully, searching for sickness. 
      Why hungry? Not hunt well? He shifts from paw to paw a bit, chuffing. 
      Silver-Tongue help you. If want.

Atcen looks interested at Eve's offer of food and waves her tail briefly, but
      the other cub's words only net him a snarl and a snap of teeth; she 
      shoves toward him, not so much to attack as to -- very roughly and firmly 
      -- assert her dominance over him. I am named after the spirit of hunger 
      and winter, I am Winter's child, I am _always_ hungry. I am metis, but I 
      probably hunt better than _you_.

Eve rolls her eyes. "Oh, stop with the posturing, Winters-Child. The Gaian was
      only trying to be helpful. Something the Tribe is known for." Diging 
      around in her outter shirt, the Gnawer locates the sandwich she mentioned 
      eariler. Removing the plastic wrapping, she holds it out to the Wendigo. 
      "Still interested in this?"

Silver-Tongue growls and snaps back, his hackles raised and fangs bared,
      rejecting her assertion of dominance. He splays his paws out, ready to 
      take her charge. Listen to Elder. She smart.

Atcen ignores Eve for now -- or at least doesn't reply to her -- and pulls up
      short, standing in front of the other cub with her head, ears, and tail 
      high. Helpful? Maybe. But Little Brother knows about the kind of help 
      that Wyrmcomers bring. You, homid-cub, you who _must_ be homid because 
      you talk like one who can barely walk on four legs. Submit. I am your 
      better.

Eve rolls her eyes, balances the sandwich on a knee and watches the pair of
      cubs.

Silver-Tongue snarls at her, hackles still raised and fur fluffed, appearing
      larger than he is. His head cocks a little as she mentions the Wyrm, 
      bristling at her insults. You. You are metis. Silver-Tongue knows you 
      must be. Your mind is sick. Think you are better. He lets out a Lupus 
      snicker at her, ears perking.

Atcen bristles right back and takes another step forward, initiating a
      staredown. Her manner is supremely confident. How long have you been 
      Garou? Can you fight? I have been trained by Pierces the Ice, a great 
      warrior of the north. I defeated an Ahroun cub in battle without taking 
      more than scratches. I have been Garou longer than you, will probably 
      Rite before you, and can tell stories better than you. So, yes, I am your 
      better, so submit.

Eve yawns and closes her eyes, waiting for the pair to work things out on their
      own.

Silver-Tongue keeps his gaze locked with the emaciated cub, ears perked,
      listening to her. His own posture and attitude is that of a stonewall. He 
      obviously isn't in the mood for taking her macho posturing at the moment. 
      He listens, then chuffs out his own response. Questions and lies. Not 
      worth answering sick Metis. Body weak with hunger. Mind weak with disease 
      of Litany breach.

Atcen huffs. I will _show_ you 'weak'. Submit, or I will make you see how weak
      you are, Forked-Tongue-of-Silver.

Silver-Tongue snorts. Metis trap. I beat you now. You cry to Elder. Elder maul
      me. Think I stupid? Insults and lies bad attacks. You say sorry. I 
      forgive. All happy. Understand?

Atcen snorts and shifts, slowly, up to hispo form. No, Forked-Tongue-of-Silver.
      You will either show throat and submit, or _I_ will beat _you_. Or you 
      can run away, and I will tell everyone that you are a coward, I will tell 
      _everyone_ the tale of Forked-Tongue-Who-Runs-Away-Whining.

This dire wolf bitch's appearance harkens back to the Ice Age, to a time of
      endless ice and snow and famine. Around four feet tall at the shoulder, 
      Atcen is a whip-thin killing machine with a dry, unkempt pelt of light 
      gray that's stretched tight over bone and muscle and sinew; she's a 
      creature without spare flesh or fat. Huge paws, each one armed with 
      viciously sharp claws, suggest that she still has more growing to do.

Within her long, powerful muzzle are needle-sharp fangs that have an unhealthy
      yellowish hue; her claws are the same color. From deep sockets within the 
      brutish wolven face burn pale blue eyes, cold as the frost.

She's winter's own pup -- a gaunt, hungry beast of winter.

Silver-Tongue follows her shifting into hispo, mirroring her. Listen,
      Winters-Child. Apologize. I will not tell of 
      Winters-Child-Who-Hates-Her-Race. No others will know how you hate help. 
      How alone you will die. Refuse your race? You will fall to the Wyrm. You 
      will attack your brother. Fear and hate are in your heart. They will take 
      you as sickness. Like rot in tree.

Atcen snaps her massive jaws together. ~You talk too much, monkey,~ she says
      curtly, and then lunges forward, teeth bared.

Silver-Tongue focuses and makes a supple motion, moving rapidly to the side to
      avoid the first lunge of the enraged metis.

Atcen, for those with the wits to perceive it, is not enraged. She's perfectly
      in control of herself, and cussedly determined to show the other cub 
      who's boss.

The Metis' lunge seems to be a feint and she is fully prepared to follow
      Silver-Tongue's dodge. Atcen moves faster then should be possible, not 
      only dodging the Gaian's attack, but spinning around and sinking her huge 
      fangs into Sly's left shoulder.

Atcen, having gained first blood, doesn't rest on her laurels. She yanks
      herself backwards, seeking to pull her teeth clear of Silver-Tongue's 
      shoulder along with a goodly amount of his flesh.

Silver-Tongue growls as the fangs sink into his shoulder, Rage flowing through
      his blood as he snaps at the other Garou, aiming for the side of her neck 
      to keep her in place.

Atcen yanks and pulls, causing even more damage to Silver-Tongue's shoulder.
      Yanking away enough flesh and bone to expose a white knob of bone 
      underneath, while blood freely stains the grass beneath the two cubs. Sly 
      did what he could to avoid this, but his first bite failed, only 
      rewarding him with a mouthful of fur. The second bite struck flesh and 
      now Acten is bleeding as well, but it is a minor wound. Eve is sitting a 
      sort distance away and passivly watching the two, prepared to step in if 
      things get too ugly.

Atcen bounces out of claw-swipe distance, just out of it, and spits out the
      mouthful of Sly's flesh. She starts to circle around him, snarling, 
      ~Submit or else, Forked-Tongue-Monkey.~

Long distance to the room: Atcen notes that those who come in physical contact
      with Atcen probably notice how chilly her flesh is. Twenty degrees lower 
      than normal body temperature.

The howl of announcement clearly belonging to Kills-Wisely of the Wendigo
      sounds from the east side of the bawn.

Silver-Tongue lifts his throat with a growl. He stays silent and ignores her
      insults, fur bristling, his blood dripping.

Eve cracks her knuckles. "Well, now that you two have gotten that out of your
      system..." The Gnawer looks at Silver-Tongue's retreating back, then 
      lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "Jerk. Still interested in this 
      half-sandwish, Winters-Child?"

Atcen snarls at the other cub's reluctant and, to her eyes, insincere
      submission. Triumphant but unsatisfied, she shakes herself and sinks onto 
      her haunches. After lifting her muzzle to howl a response to 
      Kills-Wisely, she turns to the Gnawer. ~Spirit of Cannibals is a better 
      name, Walks-the-Darkened-Path-rhya. Winter's Child is an older name. And, 
      yes, I will take what you offer.~ Her manner toward the cliath is much 
      more polite, bristly and irritated as she is.

The wind blows in from the south with a slight chill, carrying with it a
      certain Wendigo's scent as the two talk. A little later, from the 
      southeast Kills-Wisely is spotted, loping in Atcen's direction with 
      speed, but generally looking unhurried.

Eve sets the sandwich down about a foot away from where she is sitting, not
      wanting to demean the wolf by making her take it out of her hand like a 
      dog. Its roast beef and actually less the 48 hours old. Wonder of 
      wonders. "Okay. Was just sticking to the other one because its easier, 
      but I can avoid being lazy if I want to. Can just call me Dark, if you'd 
      like. Far less complicated."

Atcen snaps up the sandwich, making it vanish with an alacrity that would put a
      Gnawer to shame. ~My other name is shorter, but cannot say it in this 
      form.~ She licks crumbs and blood from her chops, then shrinks down to 
      lupus and goes over to greet her tribemate in a politely and properly 
      submissive way, cub to cliath.

Kills-Wisely gets close enough now to eye the one he has been scenting this
      whole time, a familiar but only slightly so, scent. As Atcen approaches 
      he raises to a stiffer and more dominate posture for only so short a time 
      as to kind of 'get that out of the way'. A quick barking chuff of 
      greeting is given to the Wendigo cub as Kills-Wisely begins to walk once 
      more towards where Atcen sat moments before, not bothering to check if 
      the cub is in tow.

Eve sighs and stands up as the wolf aproaches, justing off her pants as she
      does so.

Atcen follows Kills-Wisely back over toward Eve, looking at her curiously. Are
      you leaving?

Kills-Wisely eyes Eve with equal curiousity as to her leaving or staying,
      though he does not make any obvious communication on the matter.

Eve slips her hands into her pockets and nods. "Yea. Its a long way back to the
      city." She looks over at the new wolf and inclines her head in his 
      direction, before starting to walk away at a decent clip.

Kills-Wisely growls gently at something that seems to bother him. ~That was
      familiar urrah. But... not.~ He looks to Atcen as if perhaps the cub has 
      an answer to his confusion.

Atcen has no real answer to that. She flicks an ear and gives the lupine
      version of a shrug. Her name is Walks the Darkened Path. She is a 
      crescent-moon of the Bone Gnawers.

Kills-Wisely seems even more perplexed at this description, perhaps appearing
      to hold some disbelief but then physically shrugs this off. ~The affairs 
      of the urrah are strange,~ is all he says further on the matter. He turns 
      to the bleeding Atcen, ~And...?~ it is said in question as the wolf 
      gestures towards the blood.

Atcen snorts. A cub of the Children of Gaia named Silver-Tongue. Forked-Tongue,
      I call him. He would not accept my dominance and we fought. I beat him, 
      but his submission was not proper. He showed throat and growled, and then 
      ran away like a coward. Dark-rhya witnessed.

Kills-Wisely growls at the name first, then further and louder at the
      explaination of his actions. Will speak with his elders. Forked-Tongue 
      will learn by them or by me.

Atcen's tail waves faintly, her pale eyes turning fierce.

Kills-Wisely looks to the slightly bloodied cub and his tone turns to approval.
      Growling turning to a single chuff, ~What of you, Winter's Child? You 
      rite soon... are you prepared?~

Atcen growls faintly and briefly, then huffs a sigh. Pierces the Ice has said
      now that Turtle and I will not rite until the summer. She wishes to teach 
      us more, and she wants Turtle to be prepared so we can rite together. The 
      cub's ears flatten. It will be very hot.

Kills-Wisely does not seem pleased with this, hackles half-raising at the
      concept. ~I understand your impatients. I too, for a time, was to wait 
      for other cubs before my rite. But I came before Leonard and spoke to 
      him... I am ready, and I am ready now. I will rite.~ He looks off in the 
      distance, perhaps the way that Leonard traveled, ~He simply nodded, and 
      we prepared the sweat lodge.~

Atcen sits down and scratches at her side. Except for the time and that it will
      be hot... I'm glad to rite with Turtle. I like her.

Kills-Wisely thinks on this for some time and then sits back himself. ~It is ok
      to like your fellow cubs. What I do not think is alright, is holding 
      yourself back. Do /you/ think you are ready to rite, Child?~

Atcen pauses, ears cocking backwards. She eyes the other Wendigo. Maybe I am.
      Maybe I am not. But Pierces the Ice is older and wiser.

Kills-Wisely scowls deeply at the cub's words, ~You are not ready,~ he remarks
      with less than indifferent tone. His attention turns back towards the 
      east, and standing once more he faces the bluff, ~Why are you so far out 
      here, cub?~

Atcen bristles a bit, her ears flattening properly now. Displeased, she tells
      him that she has free run of the bawn, even to the ~farmhouse~ if she 
      wants, but she usually doesn't want.

~If that is your answer.~ His tone has become less friendly than a moment
      before, ~And how well do you hunt?~

Atcen gets up, moving away slightly with her tail closer to her haunches. As
      well as my wolf-born mother taught me. Why?

Kills-Wisely growls, though it is the sound of one being worked up more than
      anger or dissatisfaction, ~And you can fight?~

Atcen cocks her head, looking wary, unsure as to exactly what the other is
      getting at. Yes, though I have not yet fought the Enemy.

Kills-Wisely has been looking away towards the bluff all this time, but now
      does his neck turn and his eyes gaze measuringly at Atcen. ~You know lore 
      of our people?~

Atcen asserts that she does, though not as much as others.

Kills-Wisely turns his whole body now, prowling slowly towards the cub as his
      eyes bore holes with ever-strengthening gaze. ~And... do you think you 
      can kill?~

Desiree walks into the bawn, making her way back towards the bluff. She seems
      to be frowning conciderably as she walks along, making sure to keep alert.

Atcen clearly dislikes the other's aggressively dominant manner, and she
      responds in a perfectly lupine kind of way. She backs off and crouches, 
      tail lowered and ears back, her lips pulling into a submissive's 
      appeasing grimace. Of course I can kill. I kill everytime I hunt and 
      succeed. Why are you asking me all of this?

Kills-Wisely sniffs deeply with his nostrils and looks suddenly towards the
      direction of Kent Crossing. ~Inhale... scent deeply. You do not need to 
      smell the wyrm to catch that putrid air on the breeze. It is distant, but 
      tonight... we hunt corrupted animal flesh, and we do not eat, we kill.~

Atcen's ears perk with interest. We hunt? Hunt Wyrm?

Kills-Wisely doesn't bother answering in any fashion aside from a quick chuff
      before begining a run towards the woods closer to the crossing and 
      somewhat away from the old warded boundries of the bawn.

Kills-Wisely pages to the room: Not a huge fan myself. Basically, there is a
      forest cat, that in hunger ate some tainted meat and while sick was taken 
      by a small wyrm spirit. Nothing difficult to kill but definatly a fight 
      you'll earn yourself a small collections of painful scratches from.