"Whatever else the kid was, he was one of Gaia's."

[hazlogs]

4/24/04

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 44
      degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in 
      from the southwest at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.40 and 
      falling, and the relative humidity is 79 percent. The dewpoint is 38 
      degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (32% full).

The Sept Compound(#2075RAM)

Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of
      this clearing, no more than an open space of grasses and beaten earth in 
      the heart of the forest. Some pains have been taken to keep wear and tear 
      on the area to a minimum, so the firepit tends to shift from time to 
      time. The firepit, several sawn logs polished from use, and a stack of 
      firewood discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp, 
      are the only signs of constant occupation. However, a student of such 
      things might think that some minimal landscaping or planning has been 
      done, for the meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an 
      unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number 
      of bees and butterflies.

A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.

Flash(#2873Pce)

        He's tall but gawky, a rail-thin, bit-over-six-foot beanpole with dark
      blond hair that's almost brown and muddy blue eyes that usually are 
      forced to peer out from behind overlong bangs. While he's not out-and-out 
      ugly, his youthful, nerdish features are not particularly handsome, 
      either, and depending on what he's wearing he looks to be anywhere from 
      his late teens to his mid-twenties. His tenor voice, which tends to rise 
      in octave when he's worked up, has an accent that's hard to pin down.

        A plain white t-shirt and a pair of faded denim biballs are the height
      of hick couture, and the American flag bandana around his neck only adds 
      to the rural stylishness. His feet are bare today and rather dirty.

Flash, barefoot and hicklike in his t-shirt and biballs, sits on one of the log
      'benches'. He's got the fire going and has a couple of hot dogs roasting 
      on a stick. The remainder of the package, along with some buns and a 
      bottle of ketchup, sits on the ground nearby next to a sixpack of root 
      beer.

The scent of roasting... meat draws a wolf in from the forest, rather like the
      Domestication of Canis Familiaris except for the root beer. She pauses at 
      the edge of the clearing, one foot lifted, then pads around the Metis in 
      an arc designed to bring her to the far side of the fire. Runs at Top 
      Speed. I did not expect to see you here.

On the small side for an adult, this beige female wolf probably doesn't tip the
      100 pound mark. Unlike many wolves she doesn't sport a darker mask around 
      her eyes; instead a scattering of darker brown hairs fleck her entire 
      body. Frequent small scars suggest she is the survivor of plenty of 
      fights. She isn't as long-legged as other wolves, her build more like a 
      brick than a gazelle, hinting at stamina in addition to speed. Her eyes 
      are not a typical wolven gold, but more of a pumpkin-orange.

Flash peers at the wolf for a moment before grinning toothily. "Hey,
      Pumpkin-Eyes. Wow, it's like Wolf from _The Talisman_. Only with more IQ 
      points." He takes the roasted dogs from the flames and offers it to the 
      Glass Walker. "First of the kill?"

Holds-the-Line delicately peels her lips back to tug the offered hot dog free.
      Cow lips. My favorite. Not that she's about to turn it down. Almost 
      immediately she spits out the hot dog - it is, after all, hot - and 
      settles down over it, slapping it with a paw so it tilts across the 
      other. Thank you.

"My pleasure." Gingerly, Flash removes the second dog from the stick, slaps it
      in a bun and squirts on a generous amount of ketchup. "Heard about Sly," 
      he says casually, and takes a huge bite.

An ear flicks toward him, then away. His Silver-Tongue was the death of him.
      Daintily she nibbles at her hot dog, as if she were a twelve-pound Poodle 
      instead of a wolf, and a not particularly hungry Poodle at that. What did 
      you hear?

Flash takes another bite, then balances the dog on his denim'd knee while he
      cracks open a root beer. "That he mouthed off a lot, then put a knife 
      against his wrist, then mouthed off s'more, and then Dakota chomped his 
      head." His face is more solemn than his voice.

Holds-the-Line flattens a paw on the hot dog's attempt at escape. Those are the
      basics, yes. Though you missed the false-speaking. He told me one thing, 
      told Rifthealer another. When we spoke to each other we discovered this. 
      We went together to speak to him. That is when he did what he did. She 
      looks up at him with a lick of her lips. Who told you?

"Ah, well," Flash admits, "I inferred most of it." He shakes his head and slugs
      down another swallow of root beer. No Bud on the Bawn. "How're they 
      taking it? The Children?"

Holds-the-Line chomps her teeth together on empty air and returns her attention
      to her hot dog. I spoke... at Rifthealer yesterday. I believe she blames 
      herself for the cub. I do not think there is any blame. Perhaps he could 
      have been... turned about. Perhaps not. But I do not believe he wanted to 
      turn. He wished to go on as he was, and blame others for things that 
      happened to him.

Flash takes another huge bite of his dog dog. "...Yeah," he says insdistinctly,
      cheeks bulging. He chews a bit and swallows before continuing. "It's too 
      bad. Has there been a Gathering yet?"

Holds-the-Line's answer for that is immediate. No. Rifthealer spoke of burying
      him, but. Sharp teeth finish her meal in three swift bites. His fate is 
      always for the Children to decide.

Flash frowns. "There has to be a Gathering. Whatever else the kid was, he was
      one of Gaia's. His spirit needs to be sent back to her."

Holds-the-Line acknowledges this with a guilty splaying of her ears. I have not
      spoken to Guards-Flame. She may be planning a hero's burial. I do not 
      know. I... am thinking that I am not good with cubs. For that, if nothing 
      else, it is good I do not lead Those Who Walk Among Glass.

Flash licks his lips, tongue catching a bit of ketchup at the corner of his
      mouth. "Why don't you think you're good with cubs?" Dr. Flash, armchair 
      psychiatrist. He stuffs the rest of the dog in his mouth.

Holds-the-Line can't do that Spock-like single eyebrow raising that Salem had
      perfected, not in this form or any other. She has to content herself with 
      a teasing forepaw slap at the Metis, which would undoubtedly be far more 
      terrifying were he half an inch tall and about six inches away from her. 
      Because. Cubs that I spend much time with I wish to cull. First Follows 
      the White Bear and now Silver Tongue. I have not wanted to cull Places 
      Images on Paper, but it is no doubt a matter of time.

Flash grins at the swat, then gets a puzzled look. "Follows the White Bear?
      Places Images on Paper?"

Wolf-Heart has a new name, she explains smugly. And Defiant-Storm has a new cub
      as well.

Flash blinks owlishly. "Iiiiinteresting." He slugs root beer, then reaches down
      to impale another couple of hot dogs. "So, cubs make you impatient?"

They do. A sudden itch has her nibbling on a foreleg. I do not know if it is
      because I expect them to know more than they do. Perhaps because I expect 
      them to act like adults. ...No, like Garou.

Flash smirks. "Problem is, they're not /born/ Garou, are they? I mean, they
      are, but they're not. I mean, lookit me. Freak mule, born in Crinos, 
      learned the Mother Tongue first... can't get much more 'Garou' than that. 
      And the lupus, well, they have all those wolf instincts, so at /least/ 
      they don't backtalk. Much. But homids? Especially free-thinkin', 
      free-wheelin', sassy little American cubs? Heh." He lowers the dogs over 
      the fire, taking up his can with a free hand and chugging.

I was not a free thinking cub, the wolf protests with another of those guilty
      ear-splays that gives the lie. Perhaps you are right. I knew what I was 
      before I shifted. But there must be a better way than beating them. I 
      wish Scar were still here. I do not trust Paints-with-Light to... do what 
      is right.

"'Scar'?" queries the Stargazer.

Holds-the-Line blinks those jack o'lantern eyes at him. Scar-rhya. Fostern and
      Philodox of my tribe. He was elder when I came here. I took elder over 
      from him, and Paints-Light from me. She lays her head down on forelegs 
      with a chuff and watches the fire. He is... he left for personal reasons. 
      Firewatcher-rhya was not pleased. The wolf delivers the information as 
      flatly as possible, but the expressive wolf-shape does little to hide her 
      unhappiness.

Flash makes a little 'mm' noise, his eyes half-lidded, waving the dogs lightly
      back and forth over the flames while his eyes stay on the Walker. 
      "Well... s'not much I can say, having never met the man 'n barely able to 
      claim I've ever said 'boo' to Paints with Light, but... y'sure y'being 
      fair to her? Or t'you?" His tone has taken on a vague drawl; mostly he's 
      speaking more slowly, lazily. "Living up to a Fostern's work ain't easy, 
      yanno."

Holds-the-Line slides her gaze toward him. I am being fair to her. I have not
      challenged her for Elder. I believe I would do a better job than she, but 
      I will give her time to prove me wrong. She has not had even a full moon 
      yet. Another chuffing sigh, and she looks back at the fire.

Flash smiles and tips his head slightly to one side, a brief show of throat.
      "By the way, how /is/ lil' ol' Joshie?"

He seems to be settling in very well. Cockroach accepts him. Your cow lips are
      burning.

"Blackened!" cries Flash, taking them from the fire and blowing them out. "Jus'
      how I likes 'em!" He waves them around in the air to get them cool, then 
      gets them nestled into a bun each. Add ketchup, and the act's almost 
      sexual.

Holds-the-Line watches his display with dry amusement. Burnt. Yes, White Bear
      is doing well. Much better than I expected. Now to get him out of our den 
      and into the rest of the city. We speak. We act like full grown adults. I 
      believe the end times have arrived.

"Think he'd be interested in following Fox?" Flash offers her one of the
      prepared dogs while he takes a bite out of the other.

One of her ears swivels in surprise. ...I would say you could ask, but I
      believe you would not... No.

Flash chews and nods. He uses one bare foot to scratch an itch on the top of
      the other. "Shame," he says, mouth still mostly full. "Pack's missing an 
      Ahroun. A Philodox, too, but seeing as how Fox is considered, well, 
      dishonorable, I don't expect we'll get one. But an Ahroun..." He 
      swallows. "Pack needs a warleader. Yup. I think Josh'd be a good'un, 
      given the chance."

Holds-the-Line pushes herself up to a sit, shock scribbled all over her, from
      wide eyes to cocked ears. I do not know if I should be more surprised 
      that you would pack with White Bear or that you think he would pack under 
      Fox. I will tell him you would speak with him. I do not believe he will 
      come to the Caern without direct order from Firewatcher, but I will take 
      you to see him.

Flash grins toothily. "Maybe I'm a fool. I /know/ I'm a moron. Us mules, we're
      stupid as a rule. But... yeah. If you'd do that, I'd be grateful. And, 
      hey, you could show me your cool Hollywood mansion."

Holds-the-Line accepts his words with a flick of one ear, shrugging back into
      equanimity like a pulling a blanket over her shoulders. I would be 
      pleased. What do you expect to do, under Fox? She carefully reaches over 
      to claim the second 'dog and settles down with it. Wolf with Hot Dog. 
      Very surrealist.

Flash cracks open another root beer and sets it thoughtfully down next to her.
      His own's almost gone already. "Slink around, snoop around, do things 
      underhandedly? Cutter's the boss, I'm just the pack bitch."

Holds-the-Line eyes it, then him, then shifts smoothly up to her breed form,
      still sprawled on her belly near the fire. "I'm not even going to -try- 
      to drink that in lupus. ...Yeah, that could be. Interesting. You probably 
      could've talked me into it, if you'd been here six-eight weeks ago."

Flash smirks. "Bet Wolvie's more exciting, though. And goes 'shnikt'! No, wait,
      wrong Wolverine."

Natalie blinks wide empty eyes at him. "Hugh Jackman's /dreeeaaamy/." A blink,
      and intelligence returns bringing along a grin as chaperone. "Yeah. 
      Frothy. So how do you feel about nosy personal questions?" She rolls onto 
      one hip, freeing up an arm for 'dog and root beer.

"Why, yes, I /do/ wet the bed, but don't tell anybody," is the candid and
      not-very-serious reply. There are some dogs left in the pack; Flash looks 
      down at them, then shifts to his deformed four-legged body.

Natalie's reaction to him is far more controlled than the last time she saw
      him; homid has a better grip on those instincts than lupus. It's only a 
      pair of heartbeats before she manages, "Good to hear. Nah, not that. Hng 
      - how old are you, I guess? Since 'how long have you been Garou' is the 
      same question, just more tactful."

Shit-Eater(#2873Pce)

        This leggy beast doesn't much resemble a wolf, though he does possess
      many wolflike qualities. The deep-chested body is held tall on long legs 
      that end in oversized paws, and his bushy tail is perfectly lupine. His 
      scruffy pelt, primarily a dark sandy color, pales to ivory from throat to 
      groin, and he bears a dark, thick stripe of fur from the top of his skull 
      to the base of his bushy tail. Branches from the main stripe extend to 
      follow the curve of his ribs and cover most of his upper back.

        The real disturbing bit is at the front, especially above the neck,
      where the usually wolven features are subordinate to something that 
      mostly resembles a vampire bat. His ears are oversized and hairless, his 
      eyes are a fathomless black, and his snout is flattened and upturned, 
      almost piggish. The teeth within that snout are like those of a vampire 
      bat as well, especially the 'buck teeth', which are enlarged and pointy. 
      He seems, in fact, to have more teeth than is necessary, all of them thin 
      and needle-sharp.

        The glyph-shaped scars on his chest and stomach are mostly obscured by
      fur. An American Flag bandana is tied around his long neck.

Shit-Eater flops down with his forelegs fencing in the six-pack (now a
      four-pack) and the buns and dogs. The meat vanishes first, then the 
      bread. Since wolf-speech isn't much for numbers, he answers in the Mother 
      Tongue. ~Seventeen years since I was born.~ He follows this up with a 
      curious inquiry of why she asks.

Natalie taps her temple. "Nosy, like I said. Just... curious. Like to know
      things, you know? When I was your age - and gods, doesn't /that/ make me 
      sound ancient - hmn. Heh. I was about three months off of my Rite of 
      Passage. I'm twenty-one, myself. You got any nosy questions you're dying 
      to ask me? And yeah, I know I'm opening myself -wide- open on that one." 
      She smirks, but doesn't retract the offer.

Shit-Eater lolls his long red tongue out. Did you know any Metis before here?
      Seen any of us ugly bastards born?

Natalie covers the moment with a swig of root beer. "Yeah, I did. I packed with
      Rainbow-on-an-Oil-Slick - I knew her as a cub, too." Solemn. "Hah. Used 
      to call her Rabbit-Breath. ...But no, I've never seen a Metis birth. 
      Never been present at /anyone's/ birth."

Shit-Eater licks his chops, then the outside of the soda cans. Before we
      Change, we age faster than you. So, /really/, I'm /older/ than you are. 
      His oversized ears splay with amusement.