For all the talk that the sept here is odd, there are only a few oddities that are spotted immediately. The first among them is the sheer number of kin walking around. None of the rumored wunderkind are present, near as anyone can tell, but the rumored children running around the caern certainly are. It's a half-moon, certainly, but it's clear just from a couple glances - and from comments from the locals - that the families live here full-time. Yes, even through the full moon.
It's about the only thing that stands out at first, however. Easily shrugged off as something that the locals likely have a contingency for. Everything else more or less falls in line with how the caern typically operates, from the teaching of cubs, to the changing of the guard when it comes time for a group of fresh faces to go off on patrol.
Or, face, in this case. There's at least a couple Ahrouns that run solo, though one in particular's been pointed out as the go-to for anyone interested in either joining up, or running the circuit. A Get of Fenris, of course, responsible for corralling all the Cliath and Fostern taking part in patrol. Seems it's both a stroke of luck and an unfortunate drawback that this particular Get is - so far as the Bringers of Light are concerned - also the Person of Interest that's been pointed out. True, she's someone to be spoken to if and when time permits, and if, in taking her temperature, she's found to be a poor fit, but a semi-public figure is an attention-getter. Easier to find someone who can fade into the background.
Nonetheless: the marching orders are clear. No matter her position, someting about her personal history makes her interesting to them, enough that what prominence she *does* have wouldn't be considered a suitable drawback. What the source of that interest is? ...It hasn't been spelled out yet. One of those 'need to know' topics that will be given further explanation once someone's got a feel for her personality.
As Ivana helpfully explained, "It's not that they don't trust you. It's that they don't trust you to play it close to the vest." Any looks she gets are promptly waved off, with little more than, "Trust me, they do this with everyone when they're first starting out. Just one last test to make absolutely sure you can manage without a handler."
The potential recruit is an iffy prospect anyway, she explains, so if it turns out she's not interested (which isn't entirely unlikely), or isn't the right fit (same), then no harm, no foul. If he's the one responsible for losing her interest, though? It won't look great for his resume, but it won't be a massive blow to the camp as a whole.
Which is probably a good thing. Get of Fenris aren't exactly known for being pliant creatures, and this one doesn't appear to be the exception to the rule. Older in appearance, wearing a standard t-shirt and jeans that have seen better days - work clothes, most likely - she's waiting at the mouth of the caern's entrance for the current Cliath on patrol to check in, before she herself heads out into the field. As with all Ahrouns, she looks cranky no matter what the moon is doing, though at least she's polite enough to look a bit more stoic.

It's not that they don't trust you, it's just that they don't trust you. Yet. Not the most rousing vote of confidence, really. Still, one pays one's dues. Repeatedly, apparently. By the time the ocean's been crossed, the suitcases settled in the... tolerable flat, the jet-lag thrown off, any resentment the reticence may have engendered has been filed away somewhere, replaced by determination. And perhaps just a little excitement, as Oliver goes through the proper introduction to the caern, and takes that first good look around.
Quite... odd, yes. But at least 'odd' was a large portion of the brief; it isn't exactly a surprise. It's almost more surprising how un-odd most of it seems, at least at first glance. Then again, many things do. No conclusions yet. Onward.
The potential's position may be inconvenient later, but just for now it's rather handy; no effort at all in arranging a first encounter, at least. He strides from within the caern to where the Get stands near the mouth, making a quick assessment of the obvious details of her appearance. Around his own age, by the look of it. Interesting. He's in a t-shirt and jeans himself, though they've seen only enough days yet to be properly broken in. Black shirt, black jeans. Good boots.
Right. He judges about far enough not to already draw notice, but close enough that it isn't necessary to yell, just to raise his voice a touch: "Just the woman I was told to find, I believe." He doesn't break stride in his approach, confident but not aggressive. "Razor-Eater, yes?"

For all that she appeared to be in a foul mood to begin with, her expression nonetheless takes a turn for the neutral as she realizes she's the one being addressed, her brow arching slightly as she pauses to give the incoming arrival a not-so-brief once-over. Hardly unexpected to someone who stands out so plainly in 'mixed' septs such as these, though the observant sort might note that, given the scrutiny she levels on him, this is the type of person who makes it a point to memorize the look - probably even the names and ages - of everyone she meets. 'Detail oriented,' to put it mildly-- what might well be a boring sort, if the brutal scar leading from her throat to the neckline of her shirt didn't say otherwise.
Might be something of a bore anyway, though. She doesn't have the look of someone who gets out much, save to belt some unruly Cliaths in the back of the head.
Has a decent enough poker-face, though, what incredulity she has regarding his overall appearance, paired as it is with the distinct *lack* of traits that should be pinging on her radar, either not registering, or absent. It's not in her voice, either, "That'd be me, yes," offered in a polite, but ultimately dry tone. "Sandra Miller," put forward with a hand, in an offer to shake. If it's accepted, the grasp is firm, confident, and unsurprisingly reminiscent of militaristic sorts. "Fostern Ahroun, Get of Fenris." She releases his hand to amend, "Though I prefer Sandra, if it's all the same to you. Outside of a formal setting." A pause. "And you?" she asks, then, giving him another brief once over, this one a lot more shortlived to punctuate the question, "Are you here as a potential recruit, or is there something else I can help you with?"

Likely isn't boring for the Cliaths. Which... well, which is technically him again, now, isn't it? What are the odds that stops being odd before it stops being true, do you think?
At any rate. Detail-oriented is a plus; he notes the quality of her scrutiny, and the lack of evident reaction to the oddity he presents. "Sandra," he repeats, accepting the hand. His shake is firm and confident as well -- though not military on his side -- and is accompanied by a smile, quick and small.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance. But I'm being terribly rude, my apologies. Oliver Cholmondeley-Fetherstonhaugh," pronounced chumly-fanshaw, because of course it is, "called Ouroboros, born human beneath the new moon, Cliath of the Shadow Lords." An almost imperceptible pause, assessing the effect on that poker-face. "I suppose I =am= a potential recruit, really. But I've just arrived; still trying to get a good idea of the lie of the land. I was told you might be willing to let me tag along to get a better sense of the bawn, if I made myself useful." Another faint smile, with that. "If you are, I'm at your disposal."

There is the requisite arch of Sandra's brows at name of the tribe given, of course, but it's followed rather swiftly by a flicker of something else. A subtle tightening of her jaw, a hardening of the look she levels on him. For someone who - from what little is seen - seems to present with a distinct lack of pretense, it might read as strange that she's making a visible effort to choke back-- whatever it is.
The expected disdain, perhaps, both for what is visibly a renunciate, and a Shadow Lord, besides. The Get may recognize the virtues of the tribe, if 'virtue' is indeed the word that can be applied, but some of their warriors think otherise. But that doesn't seem to be right.
For that brief second, she has the look of someone whose worst expectations 'paid off.'
"I'm sure you are," she says, finally, turning to look at the mouth of the cave as a Cliath returns, as expected. He snaps to attention, occasionally glancing at Oliver with the sort of look the newly(ish) minted Shadow Lord has likely come to expect - a mix of confusion and bemusement - as he gives a brief report of what all was (or, in this case, wasn't) seen. She asks what sound like a standard, itemized list of questions, and, upon receiving the answers, waves him off, her attention returning to the man alongside her.
"Ouroboros is a curious name," she notes, then, almost offhandedly, signaling for him to follow as the only real indication that she's saying 'yes' to his request, though she doesn't seem to think she has much choice in the matter. "Was that something you picked yourself, or was it given to you?"

Good, in a way -- no reaction at all would be more notable -- but yes, with its own oddities. Doesn't quite fit the obvious options... but whatever it is, it's clearly going to need a certain amount of overcoming. That is, at least, not entirely unexpected.
Oliver inclines his head slightly to her when the audible reply comes, and stands quietly while she deals with the other Cliath -- there's a subtle upward flicker of one corner of his mouth at about the third of the glances, but otherwise his overall mien is rather neutral, giving off a cordial but not familiar self-possession one might well imagine was trained into him as a child. Good posture. That likely was too.
Another slight inclination of his head when she gives him the signal, and he falls into step alongside her. "Afraid I have to take most of the blame for that," he says easily, "I've always liked the word. And it seemed appropriate enough." Another of those faint flickers at the lip corner, barely perceptible; easier to see is the glance her way, perhaps to see whether she has both the knowledge and (acuity) to infer likely reasons. Perhaps just conversational. "How did you come by Razor-Eater?"

"I lost my footing outside an enemy encampment," comes the reply, spoken bluntly, the Fenrir taking a moment to survey the immediate surroundings for-- whatever reason - maybe just for something to do - "fell, got tangled up in razor wire, and chewed my way out of it before said enemy could take advantage of the situation." As one does. She gestures, then, for him to follow along what appears to be a well-trodden path, though it's unlikely that they'll be taking the easy route for very long. For now, it works easily enough.
Then, after a time, she says, "If you were a Glass Walker, I'd say you were a benzene enthusiast." She glances over at him. "If you were Get, I'd say you were suicidal-- either that, or your mentor despised you." Her gaze turns back to the forest as a whole, and she says, "The Ouroboros is, after all, the symbol that broadly represents Jormungandr." She doesn't clarify that meaning; she seems to think he's at least heard the name before, as well as what it references. "Lucky for you, I don't know that many of my tribemates are aware of that."
A beat. Then, "Interesting that you personally opted for 'a dramatic symbol for the integration and assimilation of the opposite, ie: of the shadow,' though," she notes, making it-- painfully clear that, yes, she's aware of its Jungian meaning, given the direct quote. "Leads me to think you don't think too highly of your kinsmen." --And isn't the least bit concerned with floating that out in the open from the get-go, either, apparently.

"Effective," Oliver says to the explanation of her eponymous escape; despite a note of amusement, it sounds like genuine appreciation of her solution. He follows along the path, watching both his guide and the terrain as they go. Wouldn't do to get back and still not know the bawn, after all.
There's silence until she speaks up again, companionable on his side, at least. The phrase 'benzene enthusiast' gets a sudden laugh, but he doesn't interrupt while she's giving her further thoughts. The smile remains as she goes on, if still faint and perhaps wandering a little closer to the neighbourhood of a smirk than ideal; the clearer suggestion is the brightening in his eyes and the crinkles at their corners. Yes, he appears to be aware of Jormungandr -- another slight inclination of his head there -- but it's the direct quote that gets the clearest reaction. Blink and you'd miss it, but for just that space, there's something in his expression much like delight. What replaces it is much more deadpan, if with a touch too much light still dancing in the eyes to qualify fully. "You might think that," he replies, "I couldn't possibly comment." He apparently can, however, quote back: "'It is said of the Ouroboros that he slays himself and brings himself to life.' But it would be difficult to argue I haven't integrated and assimilated the Shadow, don't you think?" No point being terribly cagey about the tribe change; it is, after all, rather obvious even to decidedly less intelligent Garou than his interlocutor.
A quiet step or two. "Jormungandr is an ouroboros, yes, but Death is a horseman and we don't hold it against them, do we?" he asks lightly. "One could also argue that if Jormungandr releasing his tail is what begins Ragnarok, then every moment he remains an orouboros, he's actively preventing it."

Sandra actually gives him a bit of a look at the mention of Death, as if to say 'come on, you know the answer to that.' Which, of course, is: it depends on who you ask. As for the remainder of the comment: "Sad to say, I think our Galliards came to the conclusion some time ago that 'active prevention' wasn't a bulletpoint on his resume. And speaking of active prevention," she continues, gesturing idly to a sunken stone firepit surrounded by a couple of rotted out logs, the burn scar left by numerous campfires making it clear that crowding around the thing is quite en vogue these days, "if you're serious about becoming an active part of patrol, you'll probably end up here at least once or twice. It's put to use for informal gatherings, primarily among the Ahrouns, though others have put it to use, as well. Not all of us are used to sharing a caern with families, as you might imagine."
If she has an opinion on the matter, she's being awfully good about keeping it to herself. Veers into the 'a little too good' category, the explanation edging on the formal, in comparison to the previous exchange. Not that it comes off stilted; it just sounds even drier than everything else she's saying.
"Normally, I'd say that a renunciate might raise some eyebrows insofar as their intention to serve," she continues, "but here, I suppose embracing Shadows will give you an advantage," her attention turning back to him as she continues along the trail, which, itself, gets a bit more murky as it moves beyond the firepit. "There are fewer of your former tribe present than mine. And, I'd imagine, it'll at least get good airtime with your local Elder. It's considered rather unremarkable that he's mated to Silver Fang kin; less so that she's the mother of his children."

"That's as may be, but the fact remains that as long as he IS an ouroboros, the world goes on. It's only when he ceases to be one that we have a problem," Oliver says. "Perhaps what we need is a massive sleeping tablet."
He surveys the firepit as it's pointed out, another small nod acknowledging the information, though it's that last, bone-dry line he responds to. "I can't say I'd find that particularly difficult to imagine, no," he replies in a tone that probably sits next to hers at family reunions. "I suppose things like this are part of how they make it," just a hint of a pause, "work?"
He of course continues along with her, keeping note of the terrain. Another of those little nods to the idea that his status could raise said eyebrows, but if he had anything specific to say there it's lost as the next bit raises his own eyebrows. "Really." A small pause. "There must be QUITE few of my old tribe present."

There's a certain kind of regret that comes over someone's face when the thought occurs that 'I could really get to like you if not for that one nagging detail,' and though it's downplayed in Sandra's own (seems to be a running theme with her), it's still present for all of a heartbeat. There and gone, replaced with the usual scrutiny she's employed since this began, no matter that it's arguably more laser-focused on his reactions-- both to the firepit, and to what's said about the Elder.
"This comes as a surprise to you?" she says, then, a note of incredulity sneaking into her tone, and her expression-- as if she has no reason to wonder whether or not he's being genuine. "I'd have thought the more-- liberal attitudes of this place were a lure in their own right. It's nothing if not a perfect spot for a renunciate to make a name for himself without anyone batting an eye." She looks ready to add something to that, but she refrains-- has the manner of someone that's already overstepped some invisible line that she'd marked down for herself.

"I don't need to make a name for myself. I've already got several. And no one in this country seems to know how to pronounce half of them," Oliver says; something in the flippancy suggests that present company may not necessarily be included, literal meaning aside.
His lips purse briefly. "I was told this Sept was a bit... unusual. There's talk, you know," he adds, tilting his head to glance to her. "But it isn't terribly =specific= talk. Not across the pond, certainly. And, yes," a fleeting rueful half-smile, "I suppose I =was= rather in the market for a change of scenery... and it sounded intriguing to go see." A small pause and a furrow in his brow, "I'm not entirely sure what I expected, I admit. But yes. It does come as a bit of a surprise. Is there much else I ought to be prepared for?"

*Now* she's looking at him like she doesn't quite buy his answer, her brow furrowing, eyes narrowing to squint at him for a moment or two. Not the best sign, someone who gives out tells like they're having a fire sale, so-- *something* must be pretty damn interesting about her to get the higher-ups talking. And it's probably not the 'can quote Jung' thing, though being booksmart never hurts.
Much.
"That depends," is said, regardless, as if all the squinting hadn't just happened (though, to be fair, it doesn't last that long; just long enough to be noticeable. "What all have you heard?"

"Like I said," Oliver answers almost apologetically, "not terribly =specific= talk." That said, however, he goes on, "Something odd going on with regard to rank... Elders in their 20s, apparently, but no one seems to have heard stories of just what they did to get there. Usually we at least get the highlights reel. And word is a couple are Striders -- but that they've managed to put down roots for a remarkably unusual length of time. Not entirely unheard of, mind, I know that. But still: rather unusual. And then," another tilt of the head, "there's the rumours about the kin. Kami and magi and ritualists two a penny! The stories make it sound like there must be something in the water." He lifts a brow, "...and that it's been decided it ought to be bottled, not boiled." It's more bemused than anything else, but she might get the sense that there are somewhat less tactful things it could become.
He gives a small shrug. "As I say... it seemed worth a look."

The more he talks, the more Sandra's expression takes a turn for the incredulous. Not to the point where she looks like she's about to pop a blood vessel, but she's definitely trying to piece something together that isn't really matching up. It's enough to make one wonder if all the rumors are way off the mark-- as if that question hasn't been raised already.
Granted, there's a slight tic of-- something, ire maybe, at the mention of Kami, though she gets over it rather quickly. Either way: she seems to think she's being taken for a ride, on top of everything else.
"A look, maybe," she says, regardless, seeming to realize her pace has slowed, as she's quick to remedy that. "Personally, I don't know that it's worth much more than that - and you'd be hard pressed to find a Get that says otherwise - but the Elders have other ideas." For all that she's hit a stumbling block, the line is delivered well enough. Not enough to bypass the reaction she has, mind, but it's a semi-decent recovery. "And while the details may not be specific," she says, easing a bit more into it as she moves along the not-trail, "what you've heard is accurate."

Oliver does indeed for a moment look, in the face of that incredulity, as though he's wondering if the stories have been greatly exaggerated. But then she confirms it, and his brow furrows again. "Not exactly your cup of tea," he doesn't exactly ask, still matching his pace to hers. "But you stay?" The 'why' is unspoken, but the curiosity is clear enough; if it's nosy, at least the tone suggests he doesn't doubt she has her reasons. "You looked a bit surprised at the talk," he observes, a moment later, "but if it's accurate... surely I'm not the first to mention others have noticed?"

There's another flash of ire at the observation, a tension in Sandra's jaw as she shoots a look in his direction that, at any other point, might serve as a warning if it was sustained for long enough. 'Flustered' may not be quite the word for the overall reaction, but it's in the same zipcode of whatever that look is.
"It'd be idiotic to assume that others haven't noticed," she replies. "And regardless of whether or not it's my 'cup of tea'--" She pauses, then. Rather abruptly, she stops, turns, and just-- *looks* at him for a good, long second. Then, "What do you want me to say to that question, exactly? When we both know what you're doing here. Granted, you're a lot better at the Shadow Lord presentation than your local superiors, but your timing reeks of the usual poor planning I've come to expect. And you're welcome to tell them that whenever it is you've offered over an official report."

"The Shadow Lord presentation... I feel as though I ought to have some slides and a a laser pointer," Oliver says dryly, and studies her for a moment now that they're stopped. "All right, I'll bite. What is it I'm doing here?" he asks, head cocked.

This is usually when a flustered 'you tell me' follows, but something shifts in the Ahroun's expression. The look turns from uneasy to pointed; to the impression of someone willing to go down swinging, rather than dancing around the subject. To that end, she closes the distance between them to look him dead in the eyes, and speak in an even, albeit surprisingly non-threatening tone. Just a very-- pointed one.
"You're Cliath," Sandra says, "so either you were Rited into your new tribe quite recently, or you've been on the bottom wrung for longer than you'd care to tolerate, be it due to a lack of trust among your superiors, or simply a lack of opportunities. Regardless of which answer it is, you're in an optimal position to be put to use by members of your tribe that, were they anywhere else in the Nation, would easily be either the same rank you are, or just a couple tenuous steps ahead.
"For you, the benefit of showing up and 'observing' is two-fold. You get to not only sniff around at the behest of your local superiors for dissidents, but you get to out them as overstepping brown-nosers that earned their titles through as much literal and figurative lipservice as they could realistically cough up. Lipservice directed solely towards two Striders whose faltering grip on reality has lead them to style themselves as demagogues. This is assuming, of course, a rather forgiving assessment of your character: that you're not as much of a glassy-eyed, brown-nosing ankle-grabber as the local representatives of your tribe. For all I know, you're perfectly content to fall in line with anyone willing to give a walking novelty the time of day-- but you seem smart enough to hold your own in a conversation for longer than the others, so I'll refrain from passing that judgment. For now."

To his credit, Oliver stands his ground as she closes that distance, and meets her eyes. Not quite long enough to count as a challenge, though as deadpan as he aims to remain, something about the set of his jaw and shoulders feels more... well, Silver Fang, not to put too fine a point on it, and something about the length of time he holds the gaze steady and the very precise way he breaks it at that point might suggest to the perceptive that her Option One is more likely -- and that 'being Cliath' may not come entirely naturally anymore.
He's silent while she speaks, listening, and when she stops, there's about a breath of still just watching her, followed by an extremely dry, "More of a top, really."
Another moment, and there's that small upturn at one corner of his mouth again. "Well. I should certainly =hope= I'm clever enough to hold my own acceptably in a conversation. My family might finally =actually= die of shame if not." There's a touch of acid on the edge of that one. He tilts his head again, still considering her. "That's an interesting take. Logical. Fits the known facts. But as it happens, I'm not doing anything at the behest of my local," another of those barely perceptible pauses, "superiors at all, as yet. Haven't even met them."
He glances upward, taking in the branches overhead. "Everybody knows if you ask someone to sum up the Shadow Lords, you're most likely to hear 'sneaky bastards'. Working our quiet little angles behind everyone's back, or right under their noses. Not really cricket, what?" Both the 'Fanginess' and the plumminess of his accent are somehow notably more intense on that last sentence, adding to its sardonic feeling. He lowers his gaze back to her. "Well, yes. I'm wholly capable of being a sneaky bastard if necessary. Always was. Could deny it, but you wouldn't believe me if I did, so why bother? But people forget: the Shadow Lords have ever been loyal to a competent Alpha. Emphasis," he adds tartly, "on 'competent'. That implies and requires a certain amount of self-direction and personal judgement, thank you."

She watches him closely throughout his answer, still clearly puzzling him out, something more analytical taking the place of her earlier incredulity. Slowly but surely, that takes a turn for the-- sheepish would be the wrong word for it. But she's clearly beginning to doubt her assessment, if only a little. Could very well be the presentation, among other things-- or the fact that he *is* eloquent, but, overall, her response to him says less about him personally, and more about how low the bar is set locally. Not that what she's said hasn't made that abundantly clear already.
"I don't recall casting aspersions on the tribe as a whole," Sandra replies, to his last, "save to say what's assumed to be typical, and what would arguably be a more pragmatic solution were the tribe to get involved. Whether or not the means of acquiring rank here are laughable at best, any representative they send *would* be dealing with an Elder, and an Athro, both of whom are woefully ill equipt for their roles. I'd hope for your sake, and the sake of the tribe, that if someone *were* to accept a request for help, it would be at the behest of outsiders looking to run political damage control."
A pause. Then, "And for what it's worth, I refuse to believe that even the most stereotypical members of the tribe as a whole would be as idiotic as their representatives here. But it isn't without precedent - in the case of any tribe - that would see the kind of feeble-minded, limpwristed leadership employed by the both of them as an opportunity in and of itself."
So. She's reassessing, certainly. Or perhaps she's of the mind that she has nothing to lose if, indeed, he is what she thinks she is. Which she hasn't quite clarified. Except to say that the leadership is terrible, and they've, apparently, got 'dissidents' on their hands.
To that end, however, she says: "That said, if I'm wrong, then I'm wrong, and I owe you an apology. It's not your fault you walked into a political powder keg, but, as I said before: your timing couldn't possibly be worse."

Oliver marks her reply with slight nods here and there, and a furrow in his brow again as she speaks of the pair in question. Whether she's right or not, if the perception is more than hers, that's an issue... and he has no reason to presume she isn't right, given the rumours.
"It wouldn't be the first time my timing was abysmal," he says wryly, stance sliding a bit more casual again as he tucks his thumbs absently into his jeans pockets. "Why's it so bad this time? Or, rather, in what way? 'Why' is presumably the amusement of the universe. Or my sins in a prior life."

"Because said Athro recently made a decree stating that he had the god-given right to break the arm of whichever kin he felt was mouthing off too much to the Elders," Sandra says, bluntly enough, "no matter the tribe. As for what counts as 'mouthing off too much,' I can only assume that the answer is subject to the whims of his Alpha, and how easily hurt his feelings are that day." A pause. "It'd stand to reason that he'd want to suss out who among the Guardians isn't on board with this edict from on high, and you're just as good a tool for that as any. On face value, anyway." Beat. "Too good, now that I think of it," she amends dryly, with a note of frustration. "For all the reasons I already gave. It's too logical."

There's a pause again, one of Oliver's eyebrows lifting slowly. "No matter the tribe? And-- the Elders have no issue with this?" He glances toward where he thinks they left the caern proper; it's probably good enough for government work. "The Grand Elder is a Child of Gaia, isn't he? I know the Warder is a Bone Gnawer." The eyebrow's back down, the furrow in his forehead stronger than before. It's his turn to be clearly puzzling things out, and if he's finding any answers that make sense, they must be ones that only pose further questions. No less unsettling ones.
'Speechless' might be overselling it, but it's certainly a longer amount of silence from him when she isn't speaking than usual. "...so I presume when you mentioned dissidents -- those who have a problem with this? Are there other issues as well, or...?" Certainly doesn't seem like something that can be ruled out; more of the 'odd' may be coming into focus now.

The reaction that plays out is one that seems to put Sandra's mind at ease, the series of questions shifting her expression away from calm defiance, little by little. It's still there, granted, but the more genuine he seems-- More than likely, given what she's said, she doesn't for a minute believe that whomever is responsible for the mess she's described could deliver on what, in the Garou world, passes as a highly trained actor. Or an expert liar, anyway. Too much foresight involved.
Nonetheless, she does nod to the first question. Then to the second, with a soft 'mm-hmm' to punctuate. As to his question-- she arches a brow, and says, "I think you already know the answer to that," without the trace suspicion from before; just one of those cases where it stands to reason. "We *are* talking about a sept that willfully takes Magi in as a matter of course, has no set requirements for how one stumbles into the upper eschelons of the Nation's hierarchy, and sees no particular problem with allowing infants into the caern under a full moon. Add in that I've never been particularly clear about how they conduct their moots, as I've never been to anything official since I arrived, and I think it's safe to say that this is just the tip of the iceberg."

"So no one knows the stories of their challenges =here=, either?" He knew the stories weren't coming out, obviously, but apparently he was allowing for the possibility that, well, the stories just weren't coming out. But not even among their own Sept? Oliver's brow is not capable of furrowing much further. Maybe check again in a decade or two. So the bit about the babies gets a sidelong glance instead, and dry again, "Surely our population's not got high enough again to be that Darwinian." There's a faint preoccupation behind it that suggests -- if one hadn't already suspected as much -- that the archness may be nearly automatic, less difficult than being earnest. The part about the moots, however, widens his eyes as he looks sharply to her again, the furrows fully returning. "Never? How long have you been here? Are they-- they are HAVING some sort of moot?"

"The caern's still standing, isn't it?" Sandra replies. "Still patroned, though I'm not sure through what means this is made possible. Being lulled into passivity by the endless pontificating of our Elder Theurge, perhaps, on another one of his verbal forays into how marvelous he is." A pause. "And near as I can tell, challenges here are--" She considers. "Easiest to say that, when I challenged for Fostern, I got the impression that it was seen as something of an anomaly. An option, one that many would prefer to bypass, rather than bother with. I hadn't assumed this extended up the chain of command, but since I'd been here, two Garou have made Elder, and none of us have heard how, exactly, that came about. "The only answer I've received in response to my questions about it have effectively boiled down to, 'if Gaia didn't will it, it wouldn't happen.'" And while she could probably add something snide to that, she opts not to; seems to think it speaks for itself. Which is to say, it's not really an answer at all.
"As for how long I've been here-- I've been present within Enduring Spirit on a more permanent basis for upwards of six months, now. Eight, if you count the time spent splitting my attention between this sept, and the one I came from originally. Throughout that time, I can say with some certainty that I haven't attended a gathering that resembles a moot of any kind, save those I remained in Wyoming for, within my home sept." A pause. "In any event, I suspect that, when it comes time to make a bid for Adren, insisting on a challenge will earn me the same strange looks I was given before."

"Somehow," Oliver murmurs to the first part of the reply; her theory on what might be making this possible gets an almost silent laugh, just a quick exhale through the nose along with a flicker of a smirk. Turns out it IS slightly different than the other one. Slightly.
The amusement drains rather swiftly at the remarks regarding challenges, his eyes narrowing at the 'if Gaia didn't will it' portion. "Call me a fusty old traditionalist," he says, tone clipped, "but rank is not a participation award." He can't -- or perhaps doesn't bother to -- keep a flash of Rage out of it, and there might be the impression that, slight as his may be compared to her own, it's been building for a little. Clearly not aimed at her, at least. "...and yet somehow they must be persuading the spirits to accept it..." Almost to himself. For a moment there's a tension in his frame suggesting imminent movement, and then he shakes his head and it seems to disperse. "Is there no one else around here who's earned their rank properly?"

If Sandra has any immediate reaction to the flash of Rage, she's not showing it, save to glance elsewhere for a time-- in a fashion that isn't too dissimilar to giving a mourner a moment to compose themselves. Just being polite, perhaps, on the off chance it was unintended-- even if it's not exactly a typical response, and a practiced one, besides. All told, the more inobservant type might not even notice the move as anything other than a glance in the direction of the caern.
She turns her gaze back towards him in time to see the ebb of that energy, and, to his question, she says, "There are a few, though they're a small handful. Members of the pack Last Call have all undergone rank challenges. Rhys Stoker, a Fianna, has undergone one of his own recently, and there have been a couple others along the way, but no one else that sticks out in recent memory." And if anyone's liable to have the memory for it... "But yes," she says, apparently opting to give that brief impulse towards movement room to breathe by signaling him to continue following her again, "the spirits are more permissive here than anywhere else I've seen, from rank and file to the 'Gift economy' that exists here."
Which is a whole 'nother kettle of fish, it sounds like. "And I have to say," she continues, "I'm still not entirely convinced you weren't recruited by Jake and his lot in an attempt to sniff out dissidents. Choosing someone who finds the infrastructure he swears by insufferable would be at his usual level of 'aww, shucks' ineptitude."

"I rather think he'd have difficulty choosing someone who didn't," Oliver says as they begin walking again; the flippant tone is back, though perhaps with thunderclouds gathering somewhere in the distance behind it. A glance toward the caern again, busy as it is, "...although I suppose only difficult, not impossible." The names have presumably been noted, as they got a small nod, and this 'Gift economy' -- well, perhaps inquiring after that one can wait JUST a bit.
"Still, I wasn't," he says after a step or two more, "which is almost a shame, really. ...almost. Could be rather poetic. But I have to admit, I came expecting oddness, and on that front at least, this Sept certainly doesn't disappoint."

Sandra makes a soft 'mn' sound by way of response. Then, "I'd been told to anticipate much the same," is said, "though not quite in those terms. More that I shouldn't assimilate the local culture, and focus more on the diverse nature of the threats the city lays claim to." She glances over her shoulder briefly, with a slight raise of her brow. "'Immersive training,' such as it is. Still, I'm not sure I could assimilate this 'culture' if I tried. And 'trying,' I suspect, would require several heroic attempts to drink my own weight in alcohol." 

The last remark gets another near-silent laugh. "I'm fairly sure I made a few of those in university, and it doesn't appear to have worked," Oliver says, "Though I suppose it might be a matter of insufficiently much insufficiently late. Can't say it sounds wholly unattractive. Aside from that potential assimilation issue." He makes a vague dismissive gesture, and brightens slightly as he moves on, to a topic that's clearly more appealing, "...but tell me about these diverse threats. They must be something for your superiors to find them worth the... culture."

The mention of college-age alcohol poisoning gets another 'mn' from her, but not much else. The question, however: "It's not nearly as interesting as it sounds," Sandra replies. "Wyoming is home to--" she pauses-- and seems to carefully sidestep a specific word in favor of, "some very specific threats of its own, some of which we've gotten a bit too accustomed to facing. As such, while Tower Falls can't spare sending their Fostern and Adren on coffee and cake runs meant to diversify their own tactical portfolio, they *can* spare new blood, if need be, to ultimately assist in formulating new strategies based on a broader range of experience." A pause. "It's not appreciated by the old guard, mind, which is why I assume they sent me, rather than anyone else. If our 'Generals' are going to have their 'glorious' plans corrected or modified, hearing it from someone my age makes it less infuriating.
"As for what threats are here, it's a matter of 'take your pick.' Keeping in mind that the local vampires are left more or less to their own devices, provided they stay in their territory, and we stay in ours." She arches a brow slightly, even as she nods her head in the direction of what-- *might* be a trail? Or just a really sloppy obstacle course. "Funny how even the most self-righteous among us are cowed by phrases like 'war of attrition' and 'mutually assured destruction.'"

That word-adjustment is noticed, of course, but not remarked upon. It's Oliver's turn to 'mn,' a nod acknowledging most of the explanation for her presence -- the bit about her age gets that little lip-quirk again, and a nod of its own.
"Mn," he says again when she finishes, "...funny how that works. Can't say I'm in a hurry to run toward either of those phrases myself, mind. But they're entirely left alone? Hm. Is there some sort of official agreement, or just... an understanding?" He seems to be considering the situation for a moment before he goes on -- though it IS possible he's focusing on not tripping on the sloppy obstacles as they move onto that maybe-trail. "And do you head out to deal with threats more... cityward, or mainly focus on the bawn?" There's no emphasis to suggest one or the other would be either what he'd prefer or expect to hear.

"The latter," is said somewhat offhandedly to his first question, which is more or less expected. Sandra doesn't seem inclined to expound on it, but it doesn't appear to be on account of being cagey about it. More likely, she just doesn't have any more information about it, and doesn't appear to be all that bothered by the idea in general.
"The threats I deal with are largely centralized on the bawn," she says. "As you're well aware, I'm in charge of overseeing the Cliath and Fostern looking to join the Guardians-- which means the majority of my time is spent out on the perimeter." She moves rather effortlessly through the obstacle course, herself, though that probably has more to do with rote memorization - or, at the very least, a keen awareness of her environment - than unnatural grace.
"There are plenty of opportunities to take the hunt to the city, though," she notes. "Plenty of 'average citizens' that are little more than ill-fitting attire for a spiteful bane." It's a long walk to avoid the word 'fomori,' there, or an eloquent if dismissive means of describing one, but the point is made. "Those with the worst afflictions cluster primarily around the warehouse district, and down by the docks. The rest can be found just about anywhere, but I'm sure you knew that already."

"Well, the place is strange enough they might have unionized and demand regular tea breaks and a canteen, for all I know," Oliver replies, scanning the more difficult trail and their surroundings as they go. He's having to depend more on attention and grace, which means it's not nearly so effortless as it is for her -- but at least he isn't falling on his face. "Warehouses and the docks -- that sounds par for the course, at least. And I suppose even thinking about going after namebreakers would be rather awkward here... but as long as they're all behaving themselves, I suppose." It's not entirely undubious. "Much trouble with Dancers?"

The initial observation earns a light snort and a raise of Sandra's brows as she walks, apparently looking to move as the crow flies to some set patrol circuit of some kind. Either that, or this *is* the patrol circuit-- easier navigated on four legs instead of two, though two makes conversation a bit easier.
The term namebreakers earns a bit of a curious look, though, as she seems to puzzle through both what that is and what about it is awkward. And though she doesn't ask aloud what he's referring to, the raised eyebrow poses the question silently. As to his own question--
There's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it hesitation in offering an answer, but it could just be a case of quickly putting together all the instances that encounters *have* occurred, as she says, "Nothing more than usual," after a moment or two. "Only two incursions on the bawn, to my knowledge, and one had less to do with us than you might expect. The second instance was in response to taking a Spiral from the first incursion prisoner, so that he could be questioned, and eliminated once he'd offered what information he had available to him. There've been no more since."
A pause. Then, "I suspect it may be because they have their own territory to tend to," is said simply. "A hive, of some kind, that I'd imagine is hurting for adequate protection, either due to in-fighting, or being in its nascent stages. Or both, perhaps."

Oliver takes in the curious look, sidelong. "Warpers," he translates, "...magi, wizards. Little Harry Potters." There's a sort of lilt to the last one, a rhythmic bounce to it, light but even more precise on the Ts than usual. He doesn't bother to cover why it would be awkward.
If he notices that hesitation, it's either discarded or catalogued silently; the actual answers, though, draw his attention directly enough that he has to take a less elegant step than usual to avoid a half-hidden rock. "You took one prisoner?" he asks, "What did you learn from him?" There's a breath where he might go on, perhaps remark on her suspicions, but he waits for the answer, instead.

Sandra acknowledges the clarification with a silent 'ah' the moment he says 'warpers,' the namebreaker term apparently a bit new to her. His rather direct question, on the other hand, gets a slight arch of her brow, more curious than anything, and says, "We took two, technically. As for what we learned-- it wasn't nearly enough to keep him breathing for very long, but it was something. Stories of a conflict between rival Wyrm factions, one of which is particularly interested in putting an end to any werewolf it comes across-- the Spirals included. Apparently, it's gotten bad enough that G'louogh," the name of the Nexus Crawlers' 'mother' spoken without stutter, and done so correctly, "has opted to intervene directly, on behalf of her Bastards. Had even sent along one of her 'children' to deal with one particular threat in what I can only describe as a stunning act of overkill, but it got the point across. To some extent."
As she continues to walk, she says, "Research into the matter has been more or less at a stand-still due to intervention from the local brass, and a distinct lack of proper manpower. Beyond that, there's something to be said about allowing the two sides to wear each other out on the sidelines before making any moves of our own." She glances over at him. "Not exactly 'glorious,' I suppose, but war rarely is, especially if you're trying to be smart about it."

"Only way to be about it," Oliver says with a light shrug, "At least, if you're aiming to win. Glory's nice. Victory's better."
No comment on her good pronunciation, though it did seem to get noticed -- of course, it could just be that it's quite a word. Probably not, though, since after a moment he says, "Yes, I'd imagine a Nexus Crawler is a reasonably persuasive message in most contexts. Assuming there's anyone left to receive the memo." Another silent step or two. "Shame the brass and manpower issues are being obstructive, though. A hive that may be under-protected or just beginning, while the Dancers are already fighting on another front... well. That does seem worth investigating. And that other faction..." He trails off, looking thoughtful. Yes. This is interesting.

That he knows what 'children' implies at all gets an acknowledging incline of Sandra's head, though she doesn't seem to have been testing him on that front. More that there's a lot to unpack in the condensed anecdote, and 'Totem spirit sent something nasty along' is descriptive enough.
As for the rest: "We're still not entirely what the other 'faction' is comprised of, save some souped-up meat-puppets and their lackeys. A 'new breed,' if you feel like calling them that." Seems she probably has a few, decidedly more colorful names to call them, herself, given that even the veneer of a neutral tone doesn't completely cover over a thick coat of disdain, one that's largely absent in reference to the other threats that have been mentioned.
"Either way, I don't foresee the 'problem' going away anytime soon," she continues, "but we'll have to act eventually. Like it or not, the Spiral Dancers are an enemy we know-- and this new breed is something altogether different than anything I've seen before."

"Too well and not well enough," Oliver murmurs to the remark that the Spirals are an enemy they know, with a small nod of his own. "Well. Perhaps I can make myself useful, if you'd be willing to brief me more fully on what you know so far, later. Never hurts to have an idea what your enemies are up to, after all. Anyone else been looking into these things? Before the stand-still. Or on their own time. As it were."

Sandra doesn't seem disinclined, at least, giving another slight incline of her head to indicate that she'd be amicable to a talk at a later time. The rest, she addresses with, "Not currently, no. To my understanding, the Black Fury that brought the breed to anyone's attention was looking for some other lead when she ran across them in the first place. Beyond that, she, like any other sane individual in this godforsaken sept, has her hands full."
Given the situation, that it's a Black Fury says enough on its own as to 'being busy'-- and there's a definite lack of the patently stereotypical derision that most Get females tend to put forward, in that respect.
"In any event-- we've spoken a great deal about this place, and not all that much about you." She looks over at him, not so much eager to move on as unwilling to let her own curiosity sit idle for any longer. "Aside from what I'm sure came off as some rather paranoid suspicions, I'm sure you have to know the first question I'd like to ask."

Oliver mns at the answer, with another of those faint half-smiles when the Fury's described as a sane individual around here. "I'll see if she's got a moment to spare to talk about it," he says, "She has to eat sometime, presumably. If not, I'd quite like to talk to her about that, too."
As Sandra directs the conversation his way, he glances toward the leaves above them for a moment, in much the same way he's been regarding the rest of their surroundings as they go. "Probably," he says, and looks over to her again, the lip-quirk a bit closer to rueful, "but ask anyway."

"'What prompted the change in tribe,' seems a bit personal," Sandra replies, "though it's one you've probably heard more than once." A pause. "To be honest, it seems like something that would have been mentioned once or twice, even here. And, speaking frankly-- for lack of a better word, your pedigree alone tells quite a story." If nothing else, she seems aware, at least, that her initial approach makes this question a bit dicey, but it isn't preventing her from asking anyway. That said, she doesn't appear as though she'll take it as an affront, or as insubordination, if he refrains from giving an answer.

It's only a flash, but that close and watching, it's hard to miss the spike of Rage that flows through him. Probably a day at the beach for her, but for your average Ragabash... and then it's gone again, as if it had never been.
"The king is dead," Oliver answers, "...long live the king." The tilted, sideways glance and hint of apology in the look suggest this is Oliverish for 'no comment'. He considers her for the space of a breath. "Someday, perhaps. What's the =second= question you'd like to ask?"

The Rage spike is noted - or, at least, has to be, to some capacity - but she doesn't seem to be overtly concerned by it. As with most Ahrouns, she's likely taken a 'read' on him by now-- judged him incapable of flying into an incoherent temper tantrum without extenuating circumstances, and is, instead, merely filing those instances away for future reference.
As for the answer, Sandra takes it in stride, at least, with, "Fair enough," being all that's said by way of response. Bears the initial impression out, as she clearly didn't expect a full answer straight out of the gate. "'Why the Shadow Lords' was the second one to come to mind," she says, then. "They're not exactly known for taking in renunciates, though I can hazard a guess as to why they made an exception for you personally. But why did you make an exception for them?"

"They made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Oliver replies, spreading his hands, palms up, as he gives her another tilted glance. "Well, no. Of course I could have refused. But it sounds much more dramatic."
He steps around a half-hidden gopher hole, then looks her way again. "Tempting to say 'because I'd make an entirely ridiculous Bone Gnawer', but I shan't. Although really, wouldn't I?" Ghost of a smirk, there. "Really, though... because the opportunity to consider it was offered, along with quite a decent argument to give it that thought. Because I always admired their ability and willingness to take a calculated risk. Because it's nice to be appreciated for my actual talents rather than my pedigree or some idea of destiny." The barest fraction more of that smirk, "And depending precisely what you're guessing for their 'why', possibly just a touch of that as well."

For all of a moment, Sandra looks as though she's eaten something sour. It's brief, there and gone before there's any real idea of what caused the look in the first place, but it doesn't appear to have soured her demeanor towards him personally. Though, arguably, if anything was going to do that, it was the diatribe that came before the more reasonable talk began.
"Meritocracy over aristocracy," she comments, regardless of the 'lapse.' "I think I heard at some point that there was a nation built on that premise, but that always sounded a bit like bullshit to me." It's a dry remark, though it isn't lacking for an actual note of (admittedly bleak) humor. "Digressions aside, it's an interesting offer to make, and isn't without its own calculated risks. You're old enough that you were clearly in your tribe of origin for long enough to consider it at least a decent fit-- so who was to say that you wouldn't refuse, and call them out for their--" A pause. "Well. For whatever it was they were using as an opportunity. All talk of what's typical and what isn't aside, I can't imagine they'd make an offer like that without a lucrative payoff. Nor would any tribe that *isn't* known for taking in outsiders."

"A whole nation? Never last," Oliver says, with a similar tone and a dismissive shake of his head. If he noticed and wondered about the sour look, that's apparently staying to himself for now; he gives their surroundings another thoughtful glance as she goes on.
"What can I say? I'm a catch," he says, no less dry than before; it's enough to give it an odd hint of self-deprecation, considering the words. "...all taken into the calculation, I suppose. Do the homework, then weigh the risk and rewards. But yes, I would, overall, like to think it's a mutually beneficial change."
A pause, as he mulls over her comments. "I have no doubt you're a formidable warrior. You're clearly educated and intelligent. Competent. And you equally clearly haven't followed my path. So one might reason that either you've had some rather bad breaks, you've avoided higher rank until now, or you =haven't= been in your tribe all that long. If you considered it less of a decent fit, would you have already thought about looking elsewhere? What point is long enough to conclude the fit must be satisfactory, I wonder?" he muses.

Sandra considers the musing, herself, not seeming to flinch or take offense, which is on par with what's been said about her so far. There's nothing to take offense to, after all. "It goes without saying," she says, then, "that when Fenris chooses you to serve, you listen. In my case, he overlooked what many of my tribe believed to be a sign of deficiency." She glances over at him. "I didn't first until I turned 34," she says, in a fashion that, by all rights, is conversational, but there's a weight behind those words that could easily be missed.
"The change raised all manner of questions when it came to whether or not I was fit to call myself Get," she continues. "Raised questions as to the potency of my bloodline, and of even my spirit, so needless to say, it wasn't a warm reception. I had plenty of time to consider whether or not I wanted to be a part of the tribe-- and plenty of reasons to look elsewhere. But that's the nature of induction. Every flaw, every possible shortcoming, is scrutinized and ridiculed, and drives many cubs away."
She looks over at him, then. "The difference here, I think, is that you have to fight to become Get. You don't fight to become a Silver Fang, if you have the appropriate breeding. To my understanding, the fight faced by your former tribesmen is to *leave* the tribe of their birth behind. The rest of that fight is reserved for gaining status." A pause. "I could be wrong about that, of course. My dealings with your tribe is limited. Nonetheless: I'm likely only repeating what you already know, but it's worth stating that we could be facing a Fenrir cub with breeding of your caliber-- he, or she could bear the appearance of Fenris himself, and we'd still question whether or not she's fit to be a member of the tribe, which is as much a matter of ideals as it is a matter of skill, or endurance. A poor fit is a poor fit, and harms unit cohesion, which is itself the absolute foundation of Fenrir values. Good breeding doesn't erase incompatibility as a distinct possibility.
"Beyond that, we don't suffer indecision. If you enter into your Rite without absolute conviction that the Get *will* ultimately be your brothers and sisters, you're allowed to undergo all the trials - and may even overcome them in spectacular fashion - only to be shown the door by the tribe's totem. You can't be of two minds. So, I suppose, if one were to feel as though they were of two minds well after their Rite, one need only think of how Fenris would evaluate your candidacy, were you to approach it again in the here and now, and make the appropriate decision from there."

Oliver's brows go up slightly at the mentioned age; whether in surprise or just acknowledgment isn't entirely clear. "Notably late," he says, which is definitely the latter, since she's inevitably quite aware of the fact. There's a hint of the obvious question behind it, but for now, only delicately. He nods a bit as she continues, continuing more or less in step with her.
"And if you don't have the appropriate breeding, fighting won't do the slightest bit of good," he interjects in agreement with at least the first part of her assessment of his birth-tribe. The rest, he listens to quite carefully, as though he's never heard this explained, or at least not by a member of the tribe in question. Which is, of course, a possibility.
Another nod as she finishes, and he considers for a step or two before saying, "I may be misunderstanding, but that sounds as if even entertaining the idea of leaving the Get would itself be evidence that one ought to do so."

Though she certainly does her best to aim for a 'I don't know, either,' look, Sandra doesn't quite master it as well as she could. There's clearly *a* story behind it, and she knows it, and it isn't sitting well with her. Close enough to the surface that something about it is still a little raw, but she feigns neutrality easily enough that anyone who wasn't looking for it would miss it entirely.
Well-- no. To say it's merely observation that offers the insight would be incorrect. Like attracts like, and, in this case, one who knows deep-seated, life-ruining betrayal will recognize the threads of it - or, at least, what they believe are the nascent threads of it - in another, like a sixth sense that no one in their right mind would ever ask for.
"Entertaining the idea is a rarity in and of itself," she replies, nonetheless, doing a commendable job of breezing over that tic without a flicker of Rage, or even a tonal acknowledgement. The product of sheer force of will, perhaps; or maybe he misread the reaction somehow, though the former seems more likely. "But it's not without precedent. Often times, if it's just a question, some Fenrir will undergo a journey or trial meant to repair the damage done to their convictions. Others do it on accident. At least one spoke of stumbling into an avatar of Fenris, having his heart torn out, and being forced to eat it again to regain his strength of purpose." She glances at Oliver. "Hard to tell if it's a parable, or a statement of fact. I've seen and heard far stranger from our Theurges, on more than one occasion."
She looks at the trail ahead again, and vaults over some fallen logs that have long since become host to everything from moss to nascent slime molds-- among other things-- still apparently insisting on doing this on two legs, instead of the much easier four. "Gets the point across, though. Fenris upholds strength in all things, even if some of my esteemed brothers might like to sweep 'strength of character' under the rug sometimes. But strength of purpose and conviction is key. If you waver, you'd best think long and hard about why, and whether or not it's insurmountable."

Those familiar threads can't but be noted, that internal flash of recognition, but there's no sign thereof; they aren't the sort of threads one pulls without a closer acquaintance -- and some idea of what might come up on the other end. Oliver merely gives it another nod, listening as she goes on.
He perhaps has reason to briefly regret the current choice of forms, as the placement of his hand for that vault turns out to be a bit off; whether mold or not, it ends up in SOMETHING rather slimy as he makes the jump. There's a brief yelp as it slides, leaving the leap decidedly less elegant than he'd probably prefer, but he does manage to end up on his feet, if not fully stick the landing. "...bugger," he mutters, looking at the palm of that hand as he moves back into walking, and pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the mess off.
"Given givens, definitely hard to know whether it's literal. But yes... clear enough either way," he says. "Seems like good advice just in general, too -- if unsure of one's purpose and convictions, think about why and what can be done. And then, presumably, do it."

Sandra does him the favor of not laughing at the predicament - doesn't really seem the type for whom laughter comes easily - though she does purse her lips slightly, just enough to make it clear that she's avoiding a smile. "Presumably," she says. "So. Though that was a long walk to answer your initial question, I think it suffices. A question is long enough to conclude that something is wrong, and, should more follow, the necessary steps must be taken, for good or ill."
Easy to talk about it when she's not in the thick of it, of course, but it sounds like she believes it. A net win for him, potentially. "Either way, I'm not sure the experience is comparable. I came into my tribe by way of conviction, whereas you entered into yours by blood. I had the option of studying what other tribes I could gravitate towards, and, knowing what the Fenrir were asking of me, I did. You, I imagine, weren't given that opportunity. It-- changes things, I think. And, I suppose, better illustrates why the Shadow Lords were so appealing in their own right."

Potentially! Oliver finishes cleaning his hand and folds the handkerchief with deft, well-practiced movements, leaving the mess on the inside of the resulting packet by the time he slides it back into his pocket. "I never mind a long walk if the scenery's appealing and the destination worthwhile," he says, and absently rubs the just-cleaned palm on the thigh of his jeans, as if wiping it off again despite there being nothing left to remove.
"No, you're quite right. There was never any question of there being the slightest question. Which tribes did you study, at the time? I'm curious what you saw as the pros and cons of your various options, at the time. And, a bit, whether you feel they've held up in the time since."

Hard to argue with the initial sentiment, though Sandra doesn't comment on it. She instead pauses in her stride to look at him when the questions are posed, and doesn't do anything to hide the fact that she's weighing whether or not to give an answer. In its way, it *is* a rather personal question.
Once she's made her decision, she continues, offhandedly gesturing to what appears to a tree stump not far from where they're walking, the earth around it disrupted by multiple clawed hind feet scraping through the soil. Markings; easily detected in wolf form, but far from difficult to see, if one knows what to look for. A checkpoint, probably; or a staging ground. Something to be explained later as she speaks on something else.
"To be honest, I looked at all the ones that would have me, without exceptions being made." Obviously, the Pure Ones were out. "Which, yes, includes both the Gnawers, and the Furies. Even the Shadow Lords, as they possess a caern not far from Tower Falls." A pause. "To me, a 'pro' would be what I could offer the tribe in question. Could I uphold their values, help achieve their goals? More importantly, do I *believe* in those values enough to let them dictate the course of my life?" Beat. "No one wants a fairweather recruit, especially for the long haul." Present company's former tribemates excepted, of course.
"Cons would be where those values differ, obviously, and whether or not the tribe in question is as internally consistent with them as they claim to be, outwardly. I had, for example, observed the Glass Walkers to be more in tune with what's widely believed to be typical of Shadow Lords. Not because the Walkers are explicitly two-faced by nature, but because they're inconsistent, and don't have a set belief system to adhere to, so much as a given lifestyle. To some extent, that observation still holds, though that may just be a function of not having interacted with the right ones."

No evident impatience while she makes that consideration; from his expression, he's aware one might prefer not to answer, so he likely wouldn't take it amiss. Only fair, one could argue. The indicated tree stump of course gets an interested look and some examination as they go, if for no other reason than it having been pointed out.
"Thorough," is all Oliver has to say about the lack of exceptions, "...and that makes sense, of course. I think people often underestimate the importance of feeling one has something to offer to the groups of which they're part. Feeling accepted is only part of belonging; feeling you deserve to be matters as well." It sounds a bit like thinking aloud, though it's clearly not an idea that's only just hit him. "The distinction between a lifestyle and a belief system is an interesting one, also. Some tribes certainly combine the two, of course."

"The Gnawers, especially," Sandra says, without even seeming like she's trying to needle at any remnant Fang sensibilities. "Though they could arguably be seen as inhabiting the same category, to my understanding, that trait is exclusive to what they refer to as their 'Rabble.' Leaving them aside, they have their own functioning hierarchy and belief structure that works quite well for them. It's just not the kind of lifestyle or environment that I could see myself functioning in for a prolonged period of time, much to the dismay of at least one local Ahroun."
She pauses, then, glancing over her shoulder at him. "And what about you?" she says. "Were there others you considered, when it came time to look elsewhere? Or was the choice a simple one?" Beat. "I'd imagine, given that there *are* shared valued between the Lords and the Fangs, it was at least an easier transition than it could've been. Silver Fangs are nothing if not obligate politicians, which, itself, comes with much of what the Lords are typically accused of, though I'll admit that's more conjecture than anything. Too many years observing mundane politics to believe that werewolves could be any better at it."

"Mn," Oliver replies to her example, with one of those small nods, and her last remark before the pause gets a faint smile. "I can't say I'm the least surprised," he says, which could be regarding her inability to see herself there, the other Ahroun's dismay, or both.
Her question gets a very soft laugh; if he's somewhat sparing with them, they do come at least a bit more easily to him. "Werewolf or not, children of my class are exposed to politics with their mother's milk," he says, and with a hint of humour, "...or wet-nurse's." Now that their path is less treacherous, he gestures more while speaking -- fairly small movements, flowing.
"Looking elsewhere hadn't seriously crossed my mind, before it was suggested. So, considering other tribes -- well, for the sake of completeness, I did run through the other possibilities while I was thinking things over, you never know what might surprise you -- but realistically, which tribe was reasonably simple, as choices go. The choice to change at all, that was the tricky one."

Sandra responds to the comment on the wet nurse with the equivalent of what may well be called a soft laugh, more a 'hm' than anything, with a faint but accompanying smile. A dry sound, certainly, but, hey. Step in the right direction, given how the mood could have turned for a moment, there.
"I'd imagine," she says, once he's said what he has on his own experience. "In your case, I assume it wouldn't be far off base to say there's more than just a contingency plan to keep in mind. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious as to what that all entailed."

Subtle as it may be, her amusement gets a nearly-as-subtle further quirk to the corner of his lips. Her curiosity, however, shifts it to something more serious, even pensive.
"The practical matters were certainly part of it," he says, "Awful lot of things to take into account, as it turned out. All that aside..." He glances at her again, similar to her earlier consideration of him when he asked about her choice-making. And, similarly, when he comes to a decision, he continues. "I spent most of my life knowing precisely who I was and where I stood. How I was seen, what was expected of me... although in some ways the detail on the expectations was... broad. All the relationships and obligations that went along with everything. And I was very good at it. Even considering a change meant, for the first time, I had to step back and take a truly clear look at the things that made up my identity. Identify which aspects were, mrm, essential, and which more... coincidental. And then, of course, there was the issue of feeling that I would be essentially second-guessing the judgement of Gaia and Falcon. Even a Ragabash can't take that lightly." Another silent moment. "There were other aspects, too. Questions of what would be gained and lost, what would happen if things didn't go as planned, et cetera... but if you don't mind, I think I'll let that suffice for the time being."

Truth be told, it's a more candid answer than Sandra was expecting, and that much is clearly seen in her expression. Allowed to be seen, more importantly, the acknowledgement offered, and the 'if you don't mind' greeted with a subtle incline of her head.
"Call it heretical," she says, "but I don't recall Gaia speaking directly to anyone but those who seek to change the rules for their own gain, save in ancient times, and even those read like parables. Arguably, a force of that magnitude has to convey their desire indirectly, lest they run the risk of causing their supplicants to go insane." She looks over at him again, pausing before they enter into another maze of underbrush.
"Putting it more simply, one could easily argue that Gaia's sole interest in anyone's life is to make the most of what they're able to offer. It may seem impersonal, but war itself is impersonal-- and war is what we were created for-- supposedly. If a soldier's utility is being squandered, for one reason or another, it seems to me that the only proper course of action is to put it to use elsewhere. We don't, after all, have the luxuries afforded to the US military, in which we have all the bodies and funding we can ask for. We instead live in a world where all it takes is one 'bookkeeping' error to lose the edge we need."
A pause. "That said," she continues, "if I got the impression you'd left for personal reasons-- the 'fuck you, dad,' approach, if you will," which sounds a little funny coming in her formal manner of speaking, but she has to know that, "I might say that's something to consider. In this case, however, and others like it, I can't help but feel that all the barking about Gaia's will is standard tribalism in the mild cases, and classic zealotry at its worst."

"All reasons are personal on some level," Oliver says, glancing down the underbrush-filled path that seems the next leg of their trek, "But yes; I won't claim I've never been petty, but not quite THAT petty, I think." He looks back to her with a small incline of his own head. "You make good points; I don't believe I'd argue against your premises. In fact, I'd say I came to a similar conclusion: my duty to Gaia is to do the best of which I'm capable in her service. So given the options before me, where and how would I be most effectively deployed, as it were?" A small pause. "It's difficult to throw off the training and habits of a lifetime, though. Logic can be depended on for most things, but not always comfort."

Sandra pauses, considering. It's the same consideration she had in her expression when she was thinking over whether or not to answer his question, and, as with before, she doesn't bother hiding it. In the end, she says, "It's difficult, sometimes, thinking that I somehow benefitted from my change coming late. Those years weren't what I'd call comfortable-- especially seeing as the Curse, and all that came with it, didn't wait for a First to take place before it manifested." Though it's an indirect way of putting it, it's candid-- more than she likely expected to be offering, but it seems she's putting it forward as a sign of good faith, in light of his own admittances.
"That said-- it's afforded me distance that most people don't have. What you call comfort - whether or not you mean it literally - is a new concept to me. Even if I was aware of the Garou as kin, aware of Gaia, 'God,' and all its permutations, was still a hotly debated topic in the circles I found myself in. And while I've heard that referred to as 'sad' once or twice, I don't see it that way. I see it as not being indoctrinated; allowed more flexibility in being pleasantly surprised when these things are made manifest to me, rather than looking to it as a means of sustaining the only proven faith I've ever known."
She begins to enter into the thick underbrush then, affording him a glance before putting her focus on the trail ahead. "For what little it's worth, though," she says, "you have my sympathies," this put forward in the same neutral tone, however softened, as a kind of 'take it or leave it.'

Despite the likelihood that the Curse is, and has been, less of a factor in Oliver's life than that of many others, the glance he gives her make it clear enough that he can imagine the effects of an Ahroun's level of Rage on the life of a kinfolk. There's some subtle sympathy there.
"Mm. There's things to be said for coming to something as an outsider, when you're old enough to think for yourself. Some of them can't be broadcast before the watershed, granted, but others... It must be an interesting experience, with all this." The gesture there is vague, but 'this' is probably clear enough, given the context.
He glances back to her as she offers her sympathies. A small pause, and then quite simply, "Thank you," as he steps with her into the brush.