The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well.
No more than 13 or 14 years old, maybe five and a half feet tall and all skinny-wiry in that decidedly not-filled-out-yet way. Wavy coffee-coloured hair's been somewhat haphazardly cut, or perhaps allowed to grow out; it's barely above the collar in the back, and in the front a floppy fringe half-hides dark, solid eyebrows and constantly threatens to fall into a pair of wide hazel eyes. The kid's tawny complected, with a smattering of noticable freckles across the cheeks and the strong, straight nose, and seems thus far to be mostly winning the battle against teenage acne. A wide, somewhat full-lipped mouth contains clean but slightly crooked teeth, untamed by braces. One might also notice a certain alert balance to the stance -- not aggressive, but more like a coiled spring of potential energy restrained just beneath a placid surface.
Today's clothing seems to have been dictated mainly by comfort and the weather: old but presentable jeans, aged black high-top converse, and a open white-and-blue plaid flannel over a loose navy t-shirt that proclaims "I'VE GOT THAT ON A T-SHIRT" in Cooper Black. The degree of cold means an ankle-length tan wool coat has been added to the outfit, and the whole thing is topped off with a multi-coloured striped knit scarf of truly remarkable length. An old brown leather satchel hanging off one shoulder completes the ensemble.
Djehuti is a man in his late 30s, though given his weatherbeaten face and tired posture, he might well seem older. He's about 6'2" tall, and his face -- all of him, really -- is long and thin. The face is relatively dark-skinned and weathered, carved with lines and yet frequently mobile and engaging. His eyes are brown, and often warm; sometimes, they are cooler, further away. But he is always, always observing what goes on around him. His brown hair, which is not long, curls and waves and kinks around his head; the longest stray strand does not quite reach his shoulders. On closer inspection, his posture may not be lazy; it may instead be coiled, poised, resting before more action. Something in that posture hints at grace, or perhaps even nobility.
His clothes are a hodge-podge. He wears battered jeans, a gray muslin shirt, and, over that, a keffiyehesque scarf, white cotton lined with what is apparently (and somewhat incongruously) polarfleece, serving mostly as a neck-covering, the folds extending over his shoulders, as well. (Though his head is uncovered.) He's currently barefoot. His backpack, dull green army vintage, is generally nearby. The only curious thing is that he wears brown gloves in all weather, fingerless save for the pinkies; these gloves wrap their leather up to about his elbows.
This is a large if unremarkable man, apparently in his thirties. His face is rather plain outside of a scar that runs down his left eye, just barely leaving his sight intact. His hair has been shaved completely, but the beard and moustache he now sports are blonde. At least 6'8" and thick-boned, his build is a heavily muscled 320 lbs, giving him a rather wide stance. He walks stiffly as though constantly at attention. He wears only simple, almost Spartan, clothing: A faded Motorhead t-shirt, jeans, heavy boots, and a jacket that seems a couple sizes too big. Overall he looks a little on the worn side, yet in his cold blue eyes and in his stance there is a pride, an almost commanding presence of someone who is quite sure of himself. At any time that he is not wearing the jacket, a pair of iron vambraces in the form of serpents coiling around his upper arms can be seen and, should he not be wearing a shirt, a pattern of scars suspiciously looking like a bite from something very big can be seen circling around his chest, abdomen, and back, as well as a patch of scars on his lower abdomen.
Although his black-brown eyes are bright and full of amusement, Tim's appearance is otherwise average. A touch over six feet in height, he has the lean, wirey-muscled body of a man in his early 30s who has lived neither easily nor poorly. His looks follow suit, offering nothing striking in a homely or handsome way to recommend them: his face is gently rounded and a little long, with trim, black eyebrows framing clear eyes. His chin is present but not remarkable, and largely hidden behind a well-maintained, salt-and-pepper circle beard. Hints of an ethnic mix that's not easy to pinpoint abound, and his European ancestry can't obscure subtle, Eastern influences: a darker tint to his skin, narrowed eyes, and a slender nose that flattens out. His black hair might be wavey if it were allowed to get beyond the close, side-clipped cut he prefers, and it has a tendency to stick up in numerous directions until smoothed back. Belying the modesty of his looks are his movements: remarkable grace and deftness marking almost everything he does. The scent of sandalwood lingers around him.
His clothes are travel worn but clean. He wears a much-loved, black, bomber-style, leather jacket that is covered with patches for numerous music bands, most of whose prime ended in the 1980s. A few slogans are apparent as well (one shoulder declares, "Question Authority!" in bold blue and white), and on the back, a large and sloppy Anarchy A has been sewn in with crimson thread. His dark blue, denim pants are frayed at the ankles and almost completely hide scuffed but solid, brown, combat boots. A grey woven hoodie of Corona extraction keeps him warm under the jacket, and beneath that the edges of a dark red shirt are barely visible. On his right hand is a bracelet of round, mixed beads, spaced with hand-coiled silver findings: abalone, labradorite, and smokey quartz.
One of the coats hanging on the mudroom hooks ought to be Izzy's -- but it isn't. Instead, the coat's draped over the arm of one of the couches, beside the new cub, who's curled up in the very corner of the arm and back, somewhat listlessly writing (or failing to write) in a notebook. The satchel is there too, on the floor where feet should be, rather than left in a bedroom or similar.
Djehuti is quite clean, as he pushes in the front door, but there's something stiff about his movements. He seems to be favoring his right shoulder, for some reason. He brightens, however, as he spies Izzy, and says, "Good afternoon. How fares your day?" (Interruptions, not a problem.)
Izzy: quick question: did he take her cell phone or anything else, last night?
Djehuti: Oh. Yes, that would have been something that happened. I hate handwaving that kind of thing, but yes. "Because, for reasons which I will explain later, we as a people need to live in secret, and you do not fully trust us yet," kind of verbiage.
Izzy: Would that have included the laptop, given that I doubt there's 'net here?
Djehuti: Hm. Good question. a) There isn't, but b) Garou paranoia might include "one might find wireless elsewhere omg!" Um. Yes, until further notice. Probably until he explains the Litany, which of course may take a bit.
Izzy looks up warily as the door opens, and relaxes only slightly upon seeing who it is. "Hi. It's... it's okay, I guess. I was waiting for you. Mostly. I don't... no one's called me, have they? Only that phone's the number people're supposed to call if they find anything out about Mom, including the PI guy. Is it all charged still?"
Djehuti pats his puffy coat pocket, and then sluffs it off to a) hang it up on a coat hook, and b) take out the phone and offer it to her to check. "Charged, yes. I have not noticed any messages, but even had I noticed them, I would not have invaded your privacy by listening to them."
"...thanks," Izzy says, accepting it, and checks the screen. It's an inexpensive phone of the type one might pick up at Wal-mart, but it does the job, and presumably has been doing so. No new messages, it seems, and the cub leans down to delve into the bag and find a charger. Presuming Djehuti doesn't make an objection, the phone is plugged in to charge for the time being. "...so, um," the cub says, curling back into that couch corner, "You were going to tell me things. About... things."
Djehuti doesn't object, and finds a chair near her couch. "Yes," he says, frowning faintly at a movement in his shoulder. "Do you remember the change? Some don't, so it is a relevant question to ask, first."
"Are you okay?" the cub asks, eyeing the shoulder, but answers the question as well, with a slight hesitation. "I remember... =having= changed. I don't exactly remember the actual changing. I remember being stupid mad and scared, and everything being the wrong size. And you hit me." Which is stated as a plain matter of fact. "And then I was normal again, except my head hurt and all my clothes were ripped up."
"Yes, and I'm sorry about the hitting," Djehuti says, directly. "It's just that often, when cubs change for the first time -- and at other times -- they are frenzied, unable to control their actions, and prone to hurting all about them. I wanted to make sure you were not going to hurt Alexandra, or be hurt by her. But--" He makes a face. "It takes violence, to be sure. For which I apologize. But that is one reason why we take those about to change and those who are newly changed to places where they can learn to control themselves without being a danger to humans and other innocents." He rises to his feet (a bit stiffly) and goes to get a glass of water. "I will be fine," he adds, as he comes back. "We just had a bit of excitement yesterday. Now." He puts the glass down on a small table. "What you and I and others here are, and what your mother is, are werewolves. We call ourselves Garou. I don't know explicitly what has happened to her, though I will email my friends and contacts at other places where we gather -- Septs -- and ask them. Our job, as Garou, is to work on behalf of the earth, of Gaia. Some of what we do, as is evidenced by the warform that you experienced and Alexandra showed you, is and can be violent, but not all of it."
Djehuti pages: He's Allies 3 and is learning contacts, but most of the Allies are off at the Wheel of Ptah and so on. But I would suspect information could trickle in anyway, next couple weeks.
"'sokay. It makes sense. I mean, now that you explain it, especially, but. I mean, I =felt= out of control. I don't like that." Izzy shifts position slightly while the elder Strider heads off to get water, legs starting to draw up, then leans down to undo the sneakers and toe them off before completing the move to an indian-style sit on the couch cushion. "Good," the cub says to the assurance that the shoulder will be well, then hesitates. "I'm... you're =sure= my Mom's a werewolf too? I mean, for certain certain? 'cause I thought... a different thing," she finishes a bit lamely.
Djehuti pauses, as he lifts his water glass. "I don't either," he says, wryly. "Being out of control like that is /not/ entertaining. But -- I'm curious, and you don't have to tell me, obviously, but what /did/ you think about her? That she was dead, or something else?"
A shake of the head. "Not that she was dead. It's just..." Izzy hesitates again, looking over at Djehuti as though trying to assess him, bottom lip being worriedly bitten. "A couple years ago I was getting really pissed off about her never being around. And Dad said okay, look, this is a major secret, but a lot of the stuff people thing is out there, like vampires and werewolves and aliens and monsters and ghosts and the other stuff like that, some of it's actually real. And that she was away so much because she was helping fight the monsters. I mean, I guess it sounds kind of dumb now that I'm saying it, but Dad never lied to me, not ever. So I just kind of. I mean I guess I assumed if there were werewolves they were some of the monsters she'd be fighting." The kid looks kind of embarrassed about this, despite now having tangible proof that at least one of the things on that list does indeed exist.
"Oh!" Djehuti, unaccountably, relaxes; he also seems to think her supposition isn't at all odd or silly. After taking a sip of water, he shakes his head. "I thought you were worried she might be," he gestures with his left hand, "Abandoning you and your father, but I didn't quite think it'd be polite to say so. No," he goes on, as he puts the glass down, "The legends are... right in many ways and wrong in others. But no, I have met her, and I have seen her change to wolf -- Or, in our case, jackal -- and she is neither vampire nor evil monster. Werewolves..." He trails off. "Well. Since your father introduced the idea I will assume he is one of the relations who do not shift, Kinfolk. But in any case, we werewolves, we fight the monsters. For there /are/ monsters, spawned by the destructive force of nature gone out of control. We call it the Wyrm. It breeds monsters, but it also breeds hatred, disention, and abuse, and so we fight the monsters, but we also work against the more subtle things created by the Wyrm's machinations."
Another shake of the head. "She wouldn't've left us on purpose," Izzy says with conviction, "...at least... not without a really good reason. Which's why I have to find her. Most of why. That was what the cops thought, I think. That she just decided not to come back. But it doesn't make sense." The rest is all carefully listened to, with some more worrying of that poor lip. "...so technically we're... werejackals? I think that kinfolk thing makes sense, 'cause he said his dad did that stuff too. I never met him though, my grandfather I mean." A small pause. "Why do you call it the worm? It's not, like... a Dune kinda thing, is it?"
He listens. Slightly tentatively, he says, "Some do, of course. Leave. Because of the rage and the anger, and other things. But--" He smiles, then, a brief but sincere thing. "I don't know her /well/, but I was able to gauge her as a person, and it doesn't /sound/ like something she'd do. And--" That smile comes back. "You talk about her differently, too." After a moment, he answers Izzy's actual question."Wyrm." The pronunciation is subtly different. He then spells it for her. "It -- I have not read Dune, but as I understand it, the sandworms there are -- simply large worms. The Wyrm, our Wyrm is -- a universe-wide concept of being." He makes a rueful face. "I suspect they named it Wyrm, back when, when it was corrupted, because it is like the world-serpent of Norse myth, all encompassing and impossible to get away from. But that is but theory."
"REALLY large worms with lots of huge sharp spikey teeth," Izzy says, giving a little shudder, but more of the 'enjoyable scary thing' type than of actual fear. "Wyrm. Okay. ...nature doesn't LOOK out of control though. I mean... well, maybe, there've been all those tsunamis and earthquakes and hurricanes and stuff lately. That seems kinda hard to do anything about, though."
"I seem to have stopped reading fantasy with Tolkien. Perhaps I shall have to explore more." At her question, he makes a wry face. "Ah, well." He takes a sip of water, and then cracks a knuckle, in preparation for talking. "There are, in point of fact, three spirits of this natural cycle. Chaotic creation, constructive order, and destruction. Wyld, Weaver, and Wyrm. All of these, in their place, are reasonable and necessary to the world. But the Weaver has gone insane, as the Wyrm is both insane and corrupt. And so the world has cities which have taken over the landscape, pollution which destroys us as it expands, and fathers who beat their children, and... So on. And many of the more obvious creations of the Wyrm are in the spirit world, and we combat them there." He smiles, a wry thing. "I realize this most of it sounds fairly abstruse and rather insane, but you'll see it more in action once you're more steady on your metaphorical -- and actual -- feet."
Izzy seems to be paying fairly close attention, and nods a few times during the explanation. "So... okay. Wyld is chaotic creation, and that's not insane or corrupt, and Weaver is orderly stuff but it's gone nuts which is why we've got all these huge cities, and Wyrm is destruction, only it's gone crazy AND evil and it pollutes things and stuff?" The cub brushes fringe away from eyes, and considers this. "I don't think I totally get the spirit world thing. Are they ghosts?"
"That's about the size of it. It's not that it, specifically, pollutes, but those it has influenced do." At her last question, Djehuti shakes his head firmly. "This is a thing which is hard to explain without it happening to you, but there is another world, essentially layered over this one, which is of the spirit. Its denizens are quite solid, most of them. They are just -- Spirits of animals, or pegasi, or unicorns, or of water or rock. We can reach this world ourselves, though I caution you it can be both overwhelming and dangerous, the first time, so you should have company. We call it the Umbra."
"There's... I'm gonna have to learn a whole lot of stuff, huh." A glance at the phone. "What do I have to learn before I can have my stuff back? I won't tell anyone about any of this stuff. I mean, they'd think I was crazy, and anyway I don't really have anyone to tell. But I'd like to have it back soon in case I get any calls about Mom." Izzy sighs. "So is that why mostly people don't see the vampires and monsters and aliens? They're in another dimension, like the cybermen when people thought they were ghosts?"
"Well. There are 13 of our main laws that I would like to explain to you, first. And in doing so, more of our culture and more, yes, things you have to remember will come up," Djehuti says. "But once I'm done with that, and once you promise to hold to those Litany tenets, I can give you it back. I /also/ promise that if you get a call before that, I will bring you the phone. Does that work for you?" Djehuti adds, a moment later, "Though, I wlll note, I am not in charge of our people, here, so I may be countermanded. But presuming I am not, are you agreeable?"
Izzy headtilts at that last bit. "You're not? Who is, then? ...how many of us ARE there, anyway? And, um, yes, I'm agreeable to that. The laws for phone thing, I mean. Am I allowed to take notes or is it, like, read this letter and then eat it territory as far as writing stuff down?"
Djehuti hesitates. "Well. That is a complex question. You wouldn't expect it to be, but it is. Because of the secrecy aspect, we do not encourage notes or other written material, but I do know that being able to review things makes life much easier. So what I would say is, feel free to take notes, but then eventually make sure they disappear. And others may disagree with my interpretation and think note-taking is quite verboten, so be aware of that." Then he says, tapping his glass. "Well. OK. As for how many of us there are. That depends on your definitions. The Garou are divided into 13 tribes, groups of us who are affiliated by cultural or philosophical background. Your tribe, and mine, are the Silent Striders. There are --" He stops to think. "Six of us here, in addition to you. There are, and this is only an estimate, probably about 60 Garou in this area, as a whole." Then he takes a breath. "The official leader of our tribe here is a wolf-born, by the name of Two Stripes. There is also Tim, who is a rank above both Two Stripes and I. Two Stripes and I are Fostern, second rank. Tim is Adren, third rank. I am not, honestly, sure why Tim has not taken the leadership role, what we call tribal elder, but... He hasn't." Djehuti shrugs. "Mine is not to reason why, in this case."
"Are there a lot of thirteens involved in all this? 'cause, tribes, laws... I guess two things can still be just coincidence, but, you know. Like the flag has 13 stripes 'cause of the 13 original colonies..." Izzy has the notebook open again with that permission, but thus far has just doodled a curly line in one margin. "Why are we called Silent Striders? Are we like... spies or something like that? And is 60 a lot or kinda small for a group of... Garou?"
"As far as anyone has been able to tell me, it is mere coincidence," Djehuti says. "It does rather please me in an obscure way that a number so charged with unfortunate connotations, to some humans, is our go-to number, but that's mostly just my inner Ragabash coming out." He stops, and exhales a brief gust of almost-laughter. "Oh. /Speaking/ of that. Can I ask you what your birthday is? Because, you see, our ... jobs in the Garou nation, basically ... are determined by what moon you were born under."
"April 14th, 1997," Izzy replies promptly, grinning a bit at the bit about people's triskadekaphobia. "What's a Ragabash? And what language is it? It sounds cool." Another seating adjustment is required; this time legs get stretched out full-length along the cushions of the couch, armrest serving as a backrest instead. "I don't know what moon I was born under, except, y'know, the normal one. But I know it was a Monday. If that helps any."
"Not an issue," Djehuti says with a smile. "There are simple ways of finding out." Instead of going to the bookshelves, though, he fetches his backpack from where it rests along with his coat, and gets out his netbook. After checking something on it, he smiles, and puts it back. "Ah. Well. The language that is from -- Philodox and so on -- is called the Mother's Tongue. Generally, it is spoken in the other forms, but we adapt the words to human tongue fairly easily. As for Ragabash -- That is one born under the new moon. They are scouts, questioners of the way, and, often, tricksters. Hence why the humor would remind me of one. Theurges are born under the crescent moon, and deal with the spirits. I mean, that is their expertise -- we all deal with spirits to some extent." He's pacing a touch, walking slowly around the room. "Philodoxes, which is what both of us are, are born under the half moon. We help keep the balance; we mediate disputes, help others to recover their own internal balance, when it is lost, keep the traditions and the Ways, and we are also the judges of the Garou, meting out punishment when necessary." He seems, from his tone of voice, to like the punishment and judging parts less. "Galliards are born under the gibbous moon; they are the storytellers, artists, and those who help to motivate the Garou via passion and urgings. And those born under the full moon are Ahrouns; they often have more of Gaia's gift of Rage, and are more adept at fighting. They are often our warleaders."
Izzy does make a few notes this time, but at least the chances of anyone accidentally reading them don't look great -- they're in some sort of personal shorthand =and= terrible handwriting. One hopes it's better for proper writing as opposed to just jotting things down. "So we don't get to choose which of those we do, it's set at birth? I guess at least they all sound pretty good, not like, in the full moon you're aristocrats and in the new moon you clean the bathrooms or something. Okay. As Philodoxes, we do all those things you said for us? Or, like, some Philodoxes do judgy things, and others keep the traditions, and others do other parts?"
"Well. It depends on your proclivities," Djehuti says, slowing to a stop in front of the window. "Some are just /better/ at investigating crimes, and some are just better at being counselor-equivalents. But you'll often find that most Garou expect Philodoxen to be judges, and to treat us accordingly. And honestly, I do think that as one grows as a Garou, one should probably be taking on as many roles of one's auspice as one can." He stops talking to think, and then adds, "And yes, they are set at birth. There are ways to renounce your auspice and take on a new one, but most Garou see those who do so as quite wrongheaded, and a ... tankload ... of social opprobrium goes with them."
"...auspice," Izzy echoes softly, scrawling another nigh-illegible mark on the page. "Well... I think I can do that. I mean, I like things to be fair. And make sense, at least as much as they can." A glance at the notebook. "Um, okay. So the second rank is Fostern and the third one is Adren... what's the first one? And is that what I am?"
The man's smile rises again. "People often do fit their auspices. Gaia is not an unkind Mother, after all." Djehuti snorts, softly. "No, that would be logical. You yourself are a cub, which is not, officially, a rank. Those of the first rank are Cliaths. Fourth rank is Athro, Fifth is Elder -- which can get confusing, since we also call those in charge of a tribe at any given Sept, Elders, but it works in context. And there is a Sixth rank, but only those who are truly legends make it there. Most of us never will."
"Gaia? I thought it was the moon that decided the auspice thing?" the cub asks, and another couple notes get made. "So I'm... basically not even a white-belt yet? How does that work?" Izzy murmurs the ranks in order, and the auspices for good measure, fairly quickly and extremely quietly. "...okay."
"One's auspice is determined by the phase of the moon one is born under, yes, but Gaia is often...Well, worshipped, by the Garou. So I was just saying that She would not make your life harder than necessary, and therefore suits your auspice to what will fit you, as a person." Djehuti shrugs. "It is a conceit that makes me feel better about the world, basically. As for how that works--" Djehuti makes a face. "Often annoyingly." He returns to his seat. "As for the question of why we are Silent Striders ... the full explanation for that will come later. But generally, we are keepers of secrets; thus, the silent aspect. And our original home was Egypt, but we were forced out of there by, in fact, vampires, and so we have become travelers. As your mother is."
Izzy nods. "Okay, so Gaia's a god. -Dess. Okay." That seems not to be too bothersome; the nebulousness of the rank issue seems to leave the cub feeling somewhat uneasy, but apparently it can't be helped... "How do I know what rank someone is? Or if they're a Garou? And... and do we all travel as much as my Mom? Even if we've never been to Egypt?"
"Most of us do. It is related somewhat to why we left Egypt originally. But it is not requirement, just what ends up happening." Djehuti laughs, that brief exhalation of air, and says, "Generally, they tell you. But also, generally, if someone is, for example, Adren, they have a certain... weight of their regard, a certain presence that they exert. You can feel it. Just like you know that your, say, teacher is an authority figure. As for knowing if they are Garou, there is a certain dance of politeness we go through, to make sure we are keeping the Veil. You will get used to it."
"Keeping the Veil means not telling people about us, right? There aren't any literal veils involved?" Izzy looks down at the notebook again. "Okay. I kinda... I think I mostly get the stuff you said so far. If I didn't it's gonna come up again, right? Is there a lot more I need to know before the laws'll make sense?"
"Probably. I try and make it organized and yet fit the questions you'll likely ask, but it might just make sense to go through them one by one," Djehuti says. As if that hadn't been his plan anyway. "Would you like the first one?"
[Izzy says yes. Between RP sessions. So the next session picks up...]
Djehuti rises to his feet, and begins pacing again. It seems to give him mental clarity. "The thing you have to remember about the Litany is that while there are 13 main laws, there are elaborations and discussions surrounding them that take up far more mental space than just those 13 laws. Much as in, for example, Judaism and the Tanakh, the basic laws I give you now are simply the tip of the iceberg. So." Djehuti says, in a measured tone that leaves each word clear, but still leaves it a flowing sentence, "Garou Shall Not Mate with Garou." He stops walking to smile, lines creasing the skin around his eyes. "Most Garou say, don't have sex with or mary. This is because, for one thing, the children of a Garou/Garou mating are sterile, and physically, or occasionally mentally, flawed in some way. Deformities such as two heads, or no leg, or scaly skin, or what have you. Those Garou who actually think about the law, rather than just react without consideration, extend it to permanent partnership as well because it is clear that part of the intent here is to make sure that Garou do not stay within their packs and tribes only. Rather, they should live among their Kinfolk, and spread their experiences and, well," Djehuti's smile fades and he sounds tired, at this part, "Their genetic potential, as well."
Djehuti: Marry. Do not marry Mary.
Izzy: But what if she's my soul mate? T_T
Djehuti: Then soul bond. With glowing eyes and intense passsssion.
Izzy: The Ss make it Sssssuper!
"...Garou Shall Not Mate with Garou," Izzy echoes, making more of those scrawled notes, brow furrowed. The cub's sitting on one of the couches, back against the armrest and legs extended along the cushions. The coat's on the armrest, satchel on the ground by the shoes. "Okay. It's like... royal families getting full of hemophilia and stuff? Does it come up a lot? What happens if people break the rules, anyway?"
Djehuti is pacing, a bit, though just now he's paused by the door to the kitchen. "Like that, yes. But it's both magical and genetic, because in normal genetics, the problematic DNA aren't nearly so accurate or consistent as the creation of metis is. Metis -- Sorry, the word for child of two Garou." He snorts in quietly exhaled laughter, but it's not very amused. "Most tribes are quite prejudiced against them. I recommend most cubs simply smile and nod in the background, on /that/ subject. As for what happens to people who break the rules -- In general, it varies from a stern talking to, to death. With the case of a breaking of the first law, it varies from stripping them of rank in lenient cases, to exile (often along with branding), to death."
There's the sound of a motorcycle out on the road leading up to the house, which fades as it goes around and parks in the lee of the garage. Presently, the backdoor opens and shuts, and Tim emerges from the hall. He looks reasonably upbeat, and upon spying Djehuti and his uest, he even smiles. "Hey. I got your message, about our new arrival. This..." He pauses at the threshhold to the living room and peers at Izzy. "Ah, him?" He doesn't look certain in his decision to use 'him' but seems inclined to stick with it.
Izzy winces, making another note, then looks up, head tilted. "Wait, magical? So magic's real too? Is there anything that people talk about that isn't? Like... is there seriously aliens and time travel, too?" Oddly hopeful tone to that question. Tim's entrance is a distraction, though, and the cub looks over with a hint of wariness that dissolves at the implication that he's supposed to be there and knows more or less what's going on and results in a reasonably cheerful, "Hello!"
"Tim, Izzy, Izzy, Tim," Djehuti says. Evidently, it's manners first, /then/ questions. "I mentioned him before. He's the Adren. This is indeed Izzy, Tim. Fine specimen of a cub, all things considered." At her question, Djehuti laughs, a richer sound than before, with much more humor. "What, changing into a werewolf isn't proof there's magic in the world? Tim, perhaps show Izzy your disappearing act? It's more impressive than any of the Gifts I have."
"Time travel? Well there's stories..." Tim abandons the notion of telling one at Djehuti's suggestion, and nods. There's a sense of concentration about him, like he's far more attention to what he's doing--which is nothing, he's just standing there--and then, he's not. Where he was standing, there's just the hallway, and it's almost hard to be sure he was even there seconds ago, like the mind wants to just not worry about it.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tim," Izzy says, and looks somewhat excited about the potential time travel thing. And a little embarrassed at being called a fine specimen. "...Thank you. And I just thought, y'know, caterpillars turn into butterflies and that's not magic. Though I guess they don't usually also turn back very often--" And then Tim's disappeared. The cub's eyes widen, and the hallway gets a very close, suspicious eyeing. "...whoa. Can you do that? Can we all?"
Djehuti is watching Izzy's reaction with some evident eagerness. Her reaction seems to satisfy him, as he subsides into mostly calm-and-even. "Alas, no. He is a Ragabash, you see. The Gifts of the various auspices fit their roles in the community; his Gifts, for the most part, make him a more effective scout and questioner. Our gifts, in general, make us more effective discerners of the truth and, as well, help us to bolster and encourage others."
Tim reappears in much the same way he disappeared: with a suggestion he was actually there, and you'd just not noticed him in all the other things going on (no matter how few they are). "Actually, that's also a Gift from Owl, so I could teach it to either of you, if you're ready to learn it." He asides to Izzy, "You're not," in case that wasn't obvious. "Halfmoon, then?" Though he's watching the cub, the question seems directed at Djehuti.
Izzy looks a bit disappointed at the 'no' answer, though the explanation apperas to make sense. But hey, a possible 'later'! That's good enough. The cub is sitting on one of the couches, back against the armrest and legs extended along the cushions. The coat's on the armrest, satchel on the ground by the shoes. Tim gets a nod, for all that the question was directed to Djehuti.
Djehuti also nods at Tim. "Philodox indeed. I'm going to have an entertaining couple of months." Then he adds, "Love to. I'll come find you sometime, about it." Then he paces over toward the mudroom. "So. Next one, or do we have any questions still on the floor I've missed?"
Owen can be heard stomping the mud off his boots just outside the back door just prior to coming inside via the kitchen. Said boots remain by the back door as he makes his way across the room to the fridge, looking only briefly about at who may be here (a short nod to Tim should he be visible at the time) before going for a beer-dive.
Tim nods a hello to Owen as he comes in, then adds, "Don't worry, there's plenty of others things we'll teach you in the mean time," for Izzy's benefit. He moves into the living room proper and takes a seat on a different couch, relaxing. "The Litany, eh?"
Izzy nods to Tim again. "We've only done one so far, the Garou shall not mate with Garou one. And... yeah, I think I've pretty much got that one. Um. I can ask more questions later if I think of them, right? 'cause if so I think yeah, we can go on." The cub watches Owen sidelong as the huge guy passes through, but doesn't say anything to him as yet.
Djehuti trails toward the door to the kitchen, and brightens somewhat as he sees who it is. Giving him a nod, Djehuti remains there, and looks back to Izzy with a grin that's soon gone. "Believe you me, I do not ever mind questions. Or rather, I will tell you if I am having issues with questions at that current moment, but I cannot think of a time where I would actively deny you the right, either then or later. And, I'm sorry I'm being quite so literal minded, but with most cubs, they're far more confused than you, and making sure to set solid groundrules that I don't break -- and not make promises I can't keep -- is the way to go." He stops to think, murmurs, "Litany, yes," to Tim, and goes on, in that same cadence where he separates each word, but still makes the phrase a sentence, "Combat the Wyrm Where It Dwells and Whenever It Breeds." Relaxing a touch, he says, "Which, as I have said before, does not /only/ mean beating up monsters."
Owen stands up back out of the fridge, victorious. He stares at the beer bottle for a moment even as he closes the fridge's door, eyes the cap, then just pries it open with his fingers with a faint 'pop'. He moves over to join the rest, giving another nod to Djehuti before peering down at the cub, wearing a frown of sort that really hasn't changed since he walked in.
Tim advises Owen, "She's new," making it sound like an explanation. "As in, days new." He adds, to Djehuti's comment on the law, "There's something to be said for picking your fights, though. Sure, some places are pretty bad, but you don't just toss yourself at them because the law says so. That's suicide, and you can't keep the law if you're dead."
"It's okay, you're clear and I like that. Anyway it's better to say what you actually mean about stuff like that than have misunderstandings and stuff." Izzy didn't protest or register any problem with Tim using 'him' earlier, and doesn't about the 'she', either. Owen's frown is a bit unnerving, however. The cub deals with it (more or less) by greeting him with, "Evening, sir," and then looking back to Tim and Djehuti. "So wherever it dwells and breeds, but maybe not immediately? It's more important to be pretty sure you'll win at whatever so you can fight other things later also? 'cause that makes sense to me, but...I mean, =technically= that might not be whenever it breeds."
Djehuti shrugs. "The strictness on that differs. And you'll find, with our tribe in particular, that we have to do a lot of reconnointering and coming back to deal with an issue later. For we are sometimes traveling alone, and unable to address an issue, and come back with others to focus on it years later. And," he adds, that smile creasing the wrinkles around his eyes, "Most commenters consider the 'whenever it breeds' to be an elaborate reinforcement of the first clause."
Owen seems to wait, perhaps, until after Djehuti has spoken, but when he has, all the Get does is suck on a tooth before moving further into the living room, apparently looking to check on the status of the fire in the fireplace.
Tim snorts, looking amused at Djehuti's tie-in to the first law. "Now there's one I've got to use at the next Moot."
Djehuti peers at the time. Well, I have to go. Do you mind if we just fade, or were you going to stick around, Owen?
Tim: I am fine with either, though I need to scoot as well.
Izzy is okay with fading, if you're all heading bedward. I assume we'll pick up the teaching later?
Tim: I am down with whichever. Maybe they all god a case of the tired!
Djehuti: Definitely of definiteness.
Owen: That's cool. Owen was just moving to set up a little spot on the floor to meditate for a while. :P
Owen: Byt the fire.
Djehuti oks. Thank you.