Meeting Andrea and Jervis

[hazlogs]

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (93% full).

It is currently 12:35 Pacific Time on Sun Aug 5 2001.

Porch

A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the
steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is
suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small
table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which
face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The entire
area holds an atmosphere of peace and comfort during these summer days,
lending itself well to evening reading, small talk, or just watching the
stars. Low shrubs snuggle up to the porch held back by the railing, their
flowers filling the air with the sweet scent of greenery.

An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door
of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a
number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside
them.

Jervis nods to Andrea, and smiles, a touch of warmth in his face all of a
sudden. "Hello, Andrea-rhya. How are you?"

Andrea's answering smile reflects that hint of warmth; though not
effusive, her manner certain is not unfriendly. "Well enough," she
answers. "Things have been quiet by the lake, so I left Susan to watch
things and came to see how things are here."

Andrea and Jervis are both on the porch. Jervis smokes a cigarette,
leaning against the railing, and Andrea has apparently just mounted the
steps.

Jervis frowns. "Susan?" He takes a drag as he awaits an answer.

Malachi bangs the door open as he trots out, grubby and barefoot, with a
bit of hay clinging to his shirt. The skinny kid pulls up short, though,
upon seeing that the porch is occupied, and for a moment seems at a loss.
"Um."

[Andrea] Standing a petite 5'3", this tanned woman appears to be in her
thirties. Brilliant silver streaks pepper the braid of her dark, curly
hair, which is a few shades lighter than her sober black eyes. Her
clothing appears servicable and warm: a dark blue flannel shirt, blue
jeans, and short tan moccasins. On her left, a bright woven bag hangs off
a leather belt; on her right, the jawbone of a large grazer is hooked
through the same. A diamond stud glimmers in her right ear. Also on her
right side, she wears a gold charm bracelet and a carved wooden ring. Her
only serious flaw is a twisted burn scar on her neck, which covers most of
the visible skin of the left side and disappears back into her hair.

[Jervis] He's one of those guys that always looks like he's thinking.
Either staring at something, or staring at nothing at all. He's
timid-looking enough; he only stands five feet ten inches, and really
can't weigh much more than one hundred thirty, but his eyes suggest
something a bit more active than a lanky, underfed undergrad. They lie
somewhere between an cat's eyes and those of a snake; large pupils, with
even larger, bright green irises. There's not much white to them. He's
Caucasian, that's for sure, probably French and some other ragtag European
nationality. Fair-skinned but hardly pale, with lush, almost feminine lips
and large, heavy eyebrows. He'd be a lot more attractive, perhaps, if he
took the time to mind his appearance. His brown, wavy hair is much too
shaggy to pull off his current hairstyle: a simple part down the middle,
with each side flapping down over his ears. A masculine jaw-line saves his
face from appearing girlish, but his body is so frail-looking it can, at
best, come across as androgynous. When he moves, it's as if he's a puppet
being manipulated by master of the craft; every movement perfect, but
joint-motivated and mechanical. Close observers will notice his tee-shirt,
evidently of some obscure, abrasive band. It is black, with a white
insignia consisting of a circle with pointed arrows sprouting out from all
around it. The back reads: Coil. The front reads, in a font that resembles
faded, cracked marble: How to Destroy Angels. Ritual Musick for the
Generation of Male Sexual Energies.

[Malachi]
          Malachi Gardner is a scrawny kid of about eleven or twelve years
old, small for his age -- maybe four and a half feet -- and rough around
the edges. There's a hardness to the kid that's more than a little
unsettling; he seems angry all the time. Angry, and ready to explode into
violence.
          A brutally short fuzz of black hair covers the kid's head --
hardly fashionable, and even less flattering than the messy uncut mop he
used to sport. Mismatched eyes -- the left brown, the right pale blue --
swim fishily behind coke-bottle glasses with big, thick black frames. The
glasses are adult-sized, obviously secondhand.
          His clothes are oversized and obviously hand-me-downs, t-shirt
and shorts that hang baggily on his thin frame. His feet are bare.

Andrea's dark eyes flicker to the boy she doesn't know. Raising a hand
toward Jervis in momentary stall, she turns to Malachi. "Hello," she
greets, a hint of questioning in the tone.

Malachi's gaze flicks uncertainly, even suspiciously, from one face to the
next. "Um... hi," he says cautiously.

Jervis shrugs quietly and shakes his head. He takes another drag and waits
for things to play out.

Andrea doesn't betray any impatience as she goes on to say, "I'm Andrea.
Did someone leave you here?"

Malachi shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking ansty. "Um, yeah.
'Licia did. Since I was goin' nuts in the, uh..." He glances from Andrea
to Jervis and back again uncertainly. "Um, are you, um... livin' here
too?"

Jervis ashes in his little metal ashtray, and extinguishes the cigarette.
He then crosses his arms and leans back against the railing, listening.

Andrea shakes her head. "I just visit, but I'm a cousin of Alicia's."

Malachi shifts his weight again, foot to foot like he has trouble keeping
still. "Oh, then you're, um... like her?"

Jervis smirks, at last speaking. "Right. Are you, would you say?"

Malachi wrinkles his nose, pulling a bit of a face at Jervis' smirk.
"_Yeah_, though not..." He looks back toward Andrea. "I'm Mal."

Andrea inclines her head. "Mal," she returns. "Though not what?"

Malachi hesitates. "Not, um, a cousin of hers. 'Least, maybe, but nobody
knows, so I guess I could be but--" He stops, then starts again. "Jus'
that I'm not s'posed to trust strangers 'n stuff, you know?"

Jervis nods once, and lights up another cigarette.

Andrea nods in answer. "I understand," she says. "You're pretty safe here,
but not a hundred percent. Most people don't like this place. All the
cousins, more distant or not, that stay here have made it...uncomfortable
for those that do not bear the blood." Gesturing toward the door, she
says, "Still, I'm more comfortable being open when inside. If you want to
join us after your cigarette, Jervis?" Her smile returns as she concludes,
"I can answer your question then."

Jervis silently extinguishes the still very long cigarette. "Sure." he
says, casually.

Malachi, chewing on his lower lip, opens the front door. And holds it open
in a spasm of vaguely remembered courtesy.

Andrea offers the cub a smile. "Thank you," she says politely, before
walking in ahead of the two men.

Andrea opens the front door with a creak, and walks through, closing the
door behind.

Farmhouse: Hallway and Living Room All doorways in the front part of the
house lead to the front hallway, a J-shaped area with the short tail
starting at the stairs, the front door hitting the bottom curve, the
doorless opening to the living room halfway up the long side, and the also
doorless opening to the kitchen and dining room at the very top. The hall
has a simple wooden floor, and decorated with a generic print of
soft-colored flowers hanging on the wall to the right of the front door,
and a tall table sitting under the print which serves as a place to toss
keys. A closet under the stairs serves as a place to hang coats or to toss
shoes.

The doorless opening to the living room is halfway up the side of the
hall's J, and the word cozy might spring to mind when looking into is, as
it seems to radiate comforting vibrations. A long couch sits against the
south wall beneath a large bay window curtained only by sheers that
manages to obscure the view in but only filters the day's light. A variety
of out-of-date magazines are strewn atop a low coffee table; more neatly
presented are the plethora of books filling the small bookshelves which
line the eastern wall. Three chairs sit about the room, focused inward, to
allow group conversations. Large floor pillows are stacked in one corner
of the room, except one, which lies carelessly in the middle of the floor,
apparently left out the last time it was used.

An opening in the northern end of the hallway allows access to the kitchen
and dining room at the back of the house, while carpeted stairs twist up
at the other end of the hall, leading to the second floor. A door at the
base of the J lets out to the front porch.

Jervis steps in from the porch, closing the front door behind him.

Malachi shuts the door and lingers there, hands stuffed into his pockets
and looking restless.

Jervis flops down on a distant, but still earshot proximity chair.

Andrea also settles on one of the three chairs of the room, leaving the
one closest to the door for Malachi. After curling comfortably into the
seat, she says, "I'm Andrea, as I said. My name is also
Drinks-Deeply-of-the-Bitter-Cup, and I'm Alicia's Elder in the tribe of
the Children of Gaia. I take it you're not quite sure what tribe you
belong to?"

Malachi remains standing for the moment. He nods in response to Andrea's
question. "Yeah. I din' have one'a those, um, spirit things. The Gnawers
found me but I _know_ I ain't one'a them."

If Andrea has an opinion on that, she keeps it to herself. "The Bone
Gnawers take many of the cubs that don't know their tribe," she says
mildly. "At least, if your wolf form doesn't give a hint of your lineage,
and no other tribe has claimed you. My tribe takes many of the others,
since we believe that all Garou are the Children of Gaia." Offering Jervis
another brief smile, she says, "Jervis's tribe takes lost cubs so rarely
you can safely say they won't put forth a claim. Susan, Jervis, is my
Fianna packmate. Her Garou name is Tempered-Blade."

Jervis perches his cheek on top of his fist, listening. He gives a barely
perceptible nod as his previous question is answered.

Malachi grimaces. "Don't wanna be a Gnawer, though. I hate th' city. It
pisses me off, drives me fuckin' crazy."

Andrea makes a considering noise in her throat, idly raising her right
hand to rub at the burn scar on her neck. "Has anyone determined your
auspice from your birthday?"

"Yeah," says Malachi. "It's full."

Jervis blinks at the response, but betrays no other interest; it's as if
he's listening to some other conversation, and not this one.

Andrea continues to occasionally look at Jervis, though the majority of
her attention remains on other speaker. "Ahroun. That will make everything
drive you a little crazy, unfortunately, at least until you learn the ways
of the anger that burns inside you. Your rage will help you become a great
warrior, but the side effects are at best uncomfortable." Andrea doesn't
appear ironical at all, referring to the scrawny Malachi as a great
warrior. "Many ahroun spend very little time in the city, since humans are
far less likely to survive their temper than other Garou."

Malachi fidgets from one foot to the other. "Yeah..." His eyes flick past
the Gaian and toward the stairs to the second floor, then back again. "Um,
I'll be right back, okay?"

Andrea inclines her head, tacitly excusing the cub.