The Homid and the Homid-Gone-Feral

[hazlogs]

Saturday, November 14, 1998

Bawn: Foothills of the Mountains(#2986RAh) The hills that rise here are roughened by the frequent rains, and rocky places show through the grasses and shrubs that grown in the clearings. Trees grow as often from shallow soil on rocky hillocks as from real loam. Occassional boulders show through like the bones of ancient creatures, covered with spreading patches of moss and lichen. The land is rough, and the weight of the ancient hills gives the place a chilling quality. The stones seem to resent intrusion.

No visible delimiter marks the eastern edge of the Bawn, only scent-marks and occasional scratches on trees. To the west, the hills become softer and the covering forest thicker, while to the east, the rocky slopes of the foothills become mountainous in truth, and the tree cover thins. I-90 to the north and the railroad to the south provide the remaining edges to this region.

Contents:

Magister

Obvious exits:

Two Eagles Bluff Silent Valley South North East Thunder Cave West

Too thin, too intense, and far too damned quiet -- at seventeen years old, Magister already has the look of disturbed genius, though most people think he's just disturbed. He's about five and three-quarters feet tall, at most, and perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, a narrow-featured, skinny youth. Narrow, wire-framed glasses over deep-set brown eyes add to the "starved intellectual" image, and his long-fingered hands sport fingernails that have been bitten to the quick.

Hair so dark that it's nearly black is shaved close along the sides and back of his head, with the top left much longer, though still far too short to put into a ponytail. On the whole, he's somewhat attractive, but only to those who happen to like the "thin weird guy with glasses" type.

The kid wears a lot of black, which generally suits him. Black jeans, dark gray t-shirt, black eighteen-hole Doc Marten type boots. A "Happy Noodle Boy" pin is fixed to the left lapel of his black trenchcoat. The back of the coat bears the brooding image of Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, his eyes hidden in shadow, torso wrapped in mummy gauze, and arms crossed like a Pharoah's over his chest, the blades of wielded knives pointing downwards.

Walks-Far-Alone moves through the bare-branched bushes and over the fallen autumn leaves all but silently. Her pace a ground-eating trot, she heads towards the mountain, her head, tail, and ears at a level that indicates her relaxed state.

Magister trudges along at a steady pace, heading from the direction of the clearing outside of Thunder Cave, heading more or less toward the central bawn. Tinny music can be heard from the headphones plugged into his ears, and he sings quietly, underbreath. "...When he said he didn't like his teddy, y'knew he was a no-good kid... but when he threatened y'life with a switch-blade knife -- what a guy, makes you cry, und I diiid..."

Walks-Far-Alone slows for a few strides as the walkman's sounds reach her. Dark ears prick forward, then turn back as she adjusts her course. Coming up upon the Lord cub on an angle, she alters her pace and direction enough to put her ahead of him. Picking a spot, she stops, the shadows of an underbrush seeming to pull most of her into them... though she leaves just enough of herself exposed that an alert Garou will see her before stumbling over her.

Magister seems lost in thought, his eyes on the ground in front of him to keep him from tripping, but his mind is a thousand miles away. He steps over an exposed root, kicks a rock, and almost steps on Walks before he notices her and pulls up short.

The closer Magister comes to the Fianna without seeing her, the higher the wolf's head lifts; as he comes within paces, her hackles also start to rise. Head tilted to allow her to look up into his face, she makes a displeased noise.

"Whups, sorry." Magister's hand dips into his coat pocket, where the headphone wires disappear. He turns off the Walkman with an audible click and tugs the headphones off his head, letting them dangle around his neck. He clears his throat. ~Hello?~

Not lowering at all, Walks-Far-Alone's head extends forward as she sniffs the air around the cub. Bit by bit, her hackles lower now that the music has ended. She chuffs a greeting, still looking up expectantly at him. ~Cub.~

Magister's lips pull back briefly, twitching into a short-lived, no-teeth-showing, shadow-ghost smile. "Yeah." He coughs again, manages, ~Understand English?~ and grimaces, finding Garouspeech evil on the human throat.

Walks-Far-Alone's expectant look is starting to become more pointed. She lets the question hang in the air for a time, then flicks her ear yes. Her posture is harsh, though not overly aggressive as of yet; her eyes do not leave him.

Magister glances down as the wolf sniffs him. He's not nervous, exactly, but seems to know the virtue of standing still in situations like this. "Oh, well, yes. Out on good behavior."

Walks-Far-Alone finishes her inspection of the cub and steps back. The low grunt she makes this time is a more satisfied one, unlike the sound she produced when he seemed about to walk into her. Indeed. A shifting of her ears indicates amusement, but it's a far more subtle gesture than a splaying of them. Tell me, have you been taught to hunt yet?

Magister ers, giving his glasses another push up his nose. "Er, hunt? No, not as such. Never got past the eating dead furry animals bit."

Walks-Far-Alone tilts her head back to give the Lord another look, this one somewhat more critical. If you were hungry enough, you would 'get past' it.

Magister arches a brow. "Somehow," the young Shadow Lord says, dryly, "I doubt it, since hunting is a learned skill and, I imagine, requires a teacher."

Walks-Far-Alone sits, her amusement coming more fully to the forefront. Oh, you don't necessarily have to hunt to find 'dead furry animals' to eat. Her tongue appears, licking her nose as if to illustrate. You can follow the scent to carrion.

Magister arches a brow. "Well, I suppose. But you mentioned getting /past/ the eating dead furry animals stage. Eating dead furry animals I can do. It's, ehm, not something I'd choose, but." He shrugs. "Of course, perhaps it takes some skill to find carrion really well." And all of this delivered with an air of complete deadpan seriousness.

Walks-Far-Alone asks, You prefer (she pauses a moment, cocking her head as if seeking a name) ~peanut butter~? Then she continues: If you believe it might take some skill to follow such a scent, then perhaps you should practice. There may come a time when there is no ~peanut butter~ to be had.

"Actually," Magister quips, "I have a horrible addiction to Big Macs. I think they put weird addictive things in the Secret Sauce." A twitch of humor quirks his lips. "The scent thing is interesting. I do practice it still sometimes."

Somewhere around the mention of the Big Macs, the wolf turns her head to gnaw at an itch on her side. She looks back to him as he adds the comment about scents. 'Still sometimes,' she repeats, then tilts her head slightly. How old are you?

Magister blinks. "As a Garou, or in general?"

Walks-Far-Alone flicks her muzzle at him. In general. How many years have you been alive?

Magister ahs. "Seventeen."

Walks-Far-Alone shifts an ear, accepting that answer. And how long have you known you were Garou? How long since you first wore your wolf form?

Magister tilts his head, apparantly doing a quick mental calculation. "About two months."

Walks-Far-Alone looks away as if pondering his answers. Seventeen years as a two-leg and two months as a wolf. Her eyes sweep back to his. Is 'sometimes still practicing' enough?

Magister shifts his weight from one leg to the other and cocks his head slightly to one side. "Well," he replies, after a moment, and with a finger-push of his glasses up his nose. "I'm certain that if Moon Otter wished me to be in wolf form more, he wouldn't hesitate to let me know."

Walks-Far-Alone snorts softly, sounding like she's disappointed in his answer, though she makes no further direct comment on it than that. She rises to her paws and stretches. And shall you wait to ask to be taught to fight until there is a bane ripping out your throat?

Magister scratches his chin, rubbing at the faint hint of stubble there. "Banes. No, actually, I think if I met one right now I'd very sensibly run like fuck away."

Walks-Far-Alone's ears prick forward with sharp interest. And if I had been a bane...?

Magister blinks once, a bit owlishly, and peers down at the wolf. "As I said. I'd run like fuck away, by choice."

Walks-Far-Alone tilts her head a little, then licks her muzzle. Once you noticed me you would have run. How far do you think you would get after tripping over a bane?

"Ah-ha." Magister holds up a thin finger, lets it hang into the air, and then rakes back his hair and grins, a touch sheepishly. "Feint, attack, and score. Good point."

Walks-Far-Alone doesn't sit back down, though she doesn't start walking away yet, either. How do you spend your days? What do you do?

Magister makes a vague gesture. "Oh, helping out at the farmhouse mostly. Making long treks to keep a fellow cub company until he gets set free. Occasionally bothering people with questions."

Walks-Far-Alone tilts her head to one side. Sounds like a full schedule, but perhaps you can make time for lessons that would help you live a little longer? Do not wait for others to come and teach you, ask Moon Otter and any other teachers you have. Your job as a cub is to /learn/. You will do Gaia no good if you are dead.

Magister wrinkles his nose very slightly, an odd look passing over his face. "Mm, quite. And on that note... you're wolf-born, aren't you?"

Curiosity at the reason for his question mixes with a wrinkling of the Fianna's nose in distaste at her answer. I was born of ape parents.

Magister's face smooth, accompanied by a rise, and then lowering of his eyebrows. He shifts his weight back to the other foot and asks, quite seriously, "Why do you call them apes?"

Walks-Far-Alone's ear flicks impatiently. Apes, two-legs, ~humans~, all mean the same.

"Not really," replies Magister, his tone still quite serious. "If you're Homid you must be aware that there are flavors of meaning to every word. 'African-American' is clunky but inoffensive. Likewise 'black person'. But 'nigger,' 'jungle bunny,' and 'coon,' while they mean all the same thing, and quite definitely insulting."

Walks-Far-Alone's ears flatten backwards before she forces them into a more neutral position. She ignores his correction. Why did you ask about my breed?

Magister's lips press together, thinning; perhaps he's noted the evasion. His tone, however, remains polite. "I was going to ask about your views upon being a lupus, and how you, as a former wolf, felt about humanity, and ask about your experiences in your prechange days." And yes, he seems quite serious about that.

Walks-Far-Alone snorts softly out through her nose once more. Her ears keep trying to edge backwards, giving her at least an annoyed look. Good questions anyway, she begrudges the cub.

"Well, I try," the cub replies, calmly enough. "Perhaps you could tell me a bit about being a Galliard instead?"

Walks-Far-Alone starts out with a lupine shrug. We remember, and remind. We tell tales and spread news.

Magister's lips thin again. "That, I know. Do you have any feelings or opinions about your auspice besides that?"

Walks-Far-Alone regards the cub a moment, a wrinkling of her muzzle and the continued slipping backwards of her ears giving her an annoyed, puzzled expression. All auspices are needed, each has a job to do. It is not something to have an 'opinion' on.

Magister's brow furrows a bit, and he scratches the back of his neck, absent-mindedly. "So you don't think about it at all? I mean..." He stops scratching and makes a slight circling gesture with one hand. "It's part of who you are, a large part of how this society treats you, what they expect from you." He's beginning to talk a bit faster, getting intent on the topic of discussion. "It's who you are."

Walks-Far-Alone shakes out her ruff as she disagrees. The wolf still has yet to sit back down and looks ready to walk off at any moment. I am one of Gaia's warriors. The part I play is unimportant, the individual part you will play will be, too. I do what I can the best I can, nothing else matters. She looks hard at him, daring him to disagree.

Magister's lips thin again. He's too aware of Garou manners to meet an elder's gaze directly, but his disapproval of this answer is evident in his posture and expression. "Mm-hmm. Okay. I'm sorry to waste your time." He glances at his watch. "I'd better be heading back to the farmhouse anyway."