The center of the caern is devoid of the thick vegetation that inhabits the rest of the forest. The ground is flat and well trodden, its rich, dark soil nonetheless still carrying the scent of the woods--moss and peat mixed with pine needles, detritus, and the dampness brought from life-giving rain. The wide, empty clearing is dominated by one living exception to the absence of vegetation: an impossibly gigantic and ancient tree growing out of the ground near the very center. The tree defies logic. Grown in the span of a single year, it nevertheless has the size, apparent age, and character of the greatest and most ancient of forest sentinels. It looms over everything, silent and watchful. The backdrop to this commanding presence is almost as remarkable. Spanning the entire length of the old caern's chasm and completely encompassing the southern half is a colossal remnant of the wasp nest built during the Wyld surge. The towering walls of the nest are as strong as the earth into which they're built, their surface smooth to the touch and colored in shaded swirls of beiges, browns, yellows, and reds in a hypnotizing, pleasing way. Oval shapes bulge from the wall in places, while others sinks inward, giving the whole thing a haphazard air.
The caern's triangle extends out from here in two directions. On one side, the escarpment wall with its natural dais can be seen. The opposite side holds the stone firepit.
Compact is the word for him: wiry, maybe 5'6" in his beat-up black combat boots, with a sense of compressed energy and imminence like a coiled spring -- or a cocked gun. Never quite still for long, balance flowing through the balls of his feet. There's a striking intensity to his narrow blue-green eyes, the colour contrasting with his fair skin and spiky copper hair; just below the left is what at first appears to be a faint mole, but closer inspection reveals as a small, long-healed scar. His features are appealing, with high cheekbones and a good jawline, but it's the confident mien and roguish smile that most often seem to draw people in.
He's in a well-worn biker jacket of the traditional sort, all fairly closely fit black leather and silvery zippers and snaps. Beneath it, he's got old black jeans with a rip in one knee and the cuffs half walked off and a faded plain black t-shirt which fits rather snugly, in a flattering sort of way. There's a couple leather-and-bead bracelets on one wrist and a length of ball-chain disappearing beneath his collar; his nails were apparently painted black some time ago, since they're starting to show chips. Late teens, most likely, and when he speaks it's in a mellifluous, southern-accented baritone voice.
A big wolf-looking dog -- or could it be a small actual wolf? It seems to have that kind of cheerful doggy enthusiasm, but the colouring is right and it does seem a bit wild, as if some of that energy is coiled deeply within it, ready to strike. Its eyes sparkle with life, and it sometimes seems to smile, displaying rows of sharp, even, shiny white teeth.
Standing tall about six foot five, Brom has the body of a brick wall. He obviously works out on an obsessive basis. His arms are thick and his chest broad, giving off the look of perhaps a well in shape football player. He has a pair of intense blue eyes that always seem to border on anger, and a well developed scowl.
Brom has long hair to about his shoulders, a dirty dark blonde that is typically tied up into a tight pony tail, pulled back from his head. He has a jagged looking scar along his neck that dips down into his shirt, and a few more along his arms that appear to have been made by claw marks. He tends to dress very plainly, a pair of beat up blue jeans with slashes and holes in them, a tight fitted black muscle shirt and a beat up looking leather jacket. Shit kicker boots adorn his feet and a large belt buckle with the picture of an axe on it.
This is a North American cougar (Puma concolor couguar), which is not an uncommon animal in Washington State, although they are rarely seen by humans. Typical of the species, it has a slender, muscled body with a round head and pointed ears. Like most cougars, this particular specimen is substantially longer, taller, and heavier than the average wolf. He likely tips the scales at about 160lbs and measures nearly 8' from nose to tail: Much of that is certainly tail. This cougar's pelt is slightly more redish-orange than usual, although not unusually so. Lithe, powerful, sinuous musculature is readily visible beneath the cat's short fur, giving some indication as to the power and speed available to this apex predator should it choose to use it. The black "moustache" marking around his nose and mouth is more pronounced than usual, giving the feline's already-handsome face an even more suave--almost debonaire--appearance.
As Memory
Brings-the-Pack is seated on his haunches by the fire pit, seemingly staring through the flames and towards the tree in the center of the caern. The slightly above freezing weather doesn't seem to bother him in the least. And to those with a more lupine-nose, he seems to give off no scent, either.
Lets-Them-Eat-Cake comes padding into the caern proper, heading for the firepit fairly directly. There's a hint of slowing as he notices the other current occupant, and said occupants weird lack of scent, a that-just-ain't-right clear enough to those who understand lupus. One who doesn't might well attribute the brief change in speed to the fact that he starts shifting upward toward his human shape right around then.
"Hello," the cougar-mage offers by way of that electronically masked Kylo Ren voice he'd used earlier at the new moon moot. It's after the greeting is said before the cat turns its head to look in Felix's direction. "I believe I saw you at the last moot, although I understand that was not a true or traditional moot."
"Mornin'," Felix replies, eyeing the cat curiously as he settles onto one of the logs by the fire. "Well, I know I saw you there, 'cause world-warper cats ain't the kinda thing you forget all that quick. Least, I don't. How's it goin'?" He pulls an Altoids tin out of his pocket, withdrawing a cigarette and lighter from that, with most of his attention still on the feline.
"Exceedingly busy," the mage-cougar replies in response to Felix's question. He pushes gingerly to all fours and repositions himself opposite the garou, putting the fire--and some extra distance--between them. Seems he's wary of the garou, perhaps especially on a full moon. "I don't believe I know who you are?" he observes. "Although, frankly, the irony is not lost on me."
Felix and Brings-the-Pack are seated at opposite sides of the fire, just now. The Gnawer finishes lighting his cigarette, popping the tin back into his jacket pocket and coming back out with about half a bag of beef jerky. Mm, breakfast. He flashes the cougar a grin. "Yeah, I reckon you ain't called Brings-the-Pack when your ma calls," he agrees, "but seein' as everyone oughta know who I am: Felix T. Sinclair, Lets-Them-Eat-Cake, Cliath Bone Gnawer Galliard. An' part of the Coyote pack, but you mighta picked that part up before. Which, COULD you turn into the Luck Dragon from the Neverending Story? Or do you just do cougar? Not that that ain't pretty good itself. ...jerky?" He lifts a piece in offering, though of course it couldn't be reached from there the other sits.
"Thank you, but no thank you," the cougar seated opposite from Felix replies to his offer of shared jerky. "I've never tried to be a Luck Dragon before. I imagine it's possible, but it's a little on the brash side, which I prefer to avoid," he offers by way of saying he's not going to turn into a Luck Dragon anytime in the foreseeable future. "Felix. Of the Bone Gnawers. And a galliard. And in a Coyote pack. What nefarious deeds have you and your pack been up to recently?"
Heading through the woods is one of the newest guardians, Brom. The large viking is bare chested despite cold, and wearing a snug pair of jeans tucked into large black boots. The thick blonde hair of the warrior is tied back into a thick pony tail, and he is sprouting a few days worth of growth on his face. As he spies the pair, his face tips down into a visible frown, glancing from the Gnawer, to the puma.
Memory's arrival may have been noticed, or not. Having alighted in the upper branches of the great tree and slowly making her way down by hopping from branch to branch.
Felix shrugs easily enough and eats the pieces of jerky himself, settling back comfortably on the log. "Still, even probably-could's pretty cool," he decides, and studies the cat a bit more. "We ain't been all that nefarious lately, really. Lullin' the world into a false sense of security. Don't tell it, though. Don't work so well if it knows." The tromping of another person nearing draws his attention, and he glances over to see Brom, giving him a cheerful enough, "Mornin'," as if that frown weren't there.
"Lulling them into a sense of complacency. A tactic that should amplify the impact when the Coyotes do choose to do something," the cougar-mage replies to Felix, and then he pivots his head to eye the approaching Brom, who he offers a simple greeting to. "Hello."
"Morning," Memory says, having reached a low enough branch that she can speak to those gathered without resorting to shouting.
Opening his mouth to reply to the pair of them, Brom gives a start as Val sneaks her salutations in from out of no where, then bares his teeth. "Fuck sake, they'll let anyone in here now." He growls with displeasure as he eyes the cougar a bit more intensely before he shifts his eyes to Felix. "I know you." He says as if to jog his memory. "You're one of those asshole coyote guys, huh? Let me set something straight with you fuckers. You touch my tooth paste and I will end you. I know you guys fucked with the toilet seat already, but if you guys touch my shit, I will cut your throat and yank your tongue out it." Well now. Good morning to you too.
Felix gives the Get a bright smile. "Yeah, I'm one of them asshole Coyote guys. But I wouldn't worry. Toilet seats is one thing, but shit's takin' things a bit far. An' I got no particular designs on your toothpaste, neither. ...anyway, ain't y'all livin' out here now? Not a while lotta toilet seats or toothpaste to worry about regardless." He takes a drag off his cigarette, studying Brom a moment, then looks up toward the raven. "Mornin' to you, too."
Brings-the-Pack slowly pushes to all fours to stand and reposition himself, as needed, to continue putting ample space between both Felix (which he's done so already prior to Brom's arrival) and Brom (who seems to be a new variable in the mix. He'll likely settle down once Brom has done so. "Hello," the cougar offers as a greeting to Val, though he does not seem startled at the corax's appearance in the caern.
Memory cocks her head to one side and surveys the gathered Garou, then turns her head towards the cougar. "Heard that Thane wanted to have a chat with you."
"We do not shit in the woods. We still use the Edgewood house for the simple things. Also, you put that fucking cigarette out /right now/. The fuck is wrong with you? You are in the middle of the god damn caern! Show some fucking respect!" The Get flares to anger as the muscles bulge along his tanned skin, voice growling out dangerously towards the cliath as he takes a long step forwards him. "You fucking kids need your ass beat more. Put. It. Out." Duuun Dun. Duuun Dun. The Shark smells blood in the water and that moon is thick.
Rage: >>> You rolled 4 dice at 4 diff (1 4 8 1): 0 successes - failure. <<<
The moon is thick, but maybe the Galliard isn't feeling it quite as much as he might right at the moment. The smile's gone, though, and Felix eyes Brom expressionlessly while exhaling the smoke and pinching the burning end of the cigarette out with his fingers. It's the sort of look more than one school principal has probably dealt with repeatedly at some point. "Tobacco's natural," he says, "...like wolves shittin' in the woods. Reckon the spirits know I ain't disrespectin' nothin'." Still, he drops the rest of the cig into his jacket pocket, and goes back to eating a piece of the jerky.
Or perhaps the cougar will just stay on all fours and casually put a liiiittle more distance between him and the shouting Get. Just in case. "Regarding the warper that is working to shield the Queen's Tower from scrying? I spoke with him the day before about that, and I offered advice and what assistance I can provide in shielding the garou who participate in that warper's assassination attempt--when and if the time comes." It's clear from his tone that he does not particularly relish nor look forward to this task.
Memory bobs up and down. "Yea. That. Kinda sucky situation, all around."
"And I wouldn't fucking SHIT IN THE CAERN EITHER." Brom barks at the Gnawer with a flash of his teeth at him. "Once you assholes start smoking out here, then you start dropping the butts on the ground because /someone/ will forget, or it will fall out of their pocket. Next, everyone thinks it will be okay to smoke out here and drop their shit on the ground. The only good thing that will come of it is the ass beating that I will put on whoever does it." Rolling his shoulders back and forth to loosen them up, the angry viking simmers down a bit, then tilts his head over to listen to the pair of bete.
Felix's expression doesn't change, though as the Get seems to simmer down a bit, the Gnawer's position on the log gets more comfortable and relaxed; the descriptors would have been reasonable enough to use before, but the change drains a certain defiant edge out of it. "Well, you ain't got much faith in folks," he observes, "...but if someone DID accidentally drop a butt, either they or someone else'd pick it up. I been out here pickin' shit up plenty the last few months, personally. Ain't many of us droppin' much of anythin' anywhere 'round here though..." He offers a bit of the jerky upward toward the raven, giving it a curious look.
"It is an unpleasant task," the cougar-mage agrees with the corax. "But necessary. Hopefully there will be few or no casualties. And hopefully it is not an elaborate trap." He stays on all fours, keeping his distance primarily from Brom and Felix near the fire pit.
Memory smooths out some of the feathers on her chest, then clicks her beak together a few times. "I'm going to head off. Talk with you later, fuzzies." And with that, the raven takes off and exits the Caern.
"Yeah, well - expect me to be a lot more vigilant about this type of shit. I plan on putting a foot up Charlene's ass also since she is the Groundskeeper." Brom says with a scowl in regards to the Fury, then squints his eyes at Val and the puma. At the topic of the mage in the tower, he rumbles out deeply. "I hope you guys do him good. We're all counting on whoever is going to be involved in that. Probably the most fucking important thing we have on our plate." He does not seem happy being stuck out here when there is war to be had.
It's about then Thane appears, the alpha making his way into the caern from the east. His eye is turned towards the sound of voices and takes in those present as he arrives on the scene. "Good afternoon, everyone." A pause. "And safe flying, Val." He passes up to the departing Corax whom he's just missing. "So what's this grumbling about I hear?"
Felix nods to the cougar, agreeing, "An' hopefully those Spirals ain't plannin' on usin' it as a time they know some of us can't defend the caern an' comin' by to try an' take it, since we know that's the basic revolution plan they all been runnin' on lately." The grin reappears for the moment, directed to Thane, "Mornin'... or afternoon, now, I guess. Jerky?" He offers a piece of it toward the Alpha, though he keeps lounging where he is on the log while doing it. An indication of Brom via a tilt of the head, "He's got a bug up his ass over me havin' a smoke. An' apparently about how Charlene's doin' her job, I guess."
Brings-the-Pack nods briefly in Thane's direction as the sept's Alpha/Warder arrives. "Thane. I have some additional information for you. I was recently in Hanford," like mage-cougars apparently do, "and established contact with a very potent warper. He claims to have been studying the ooze and looking for a means of defeating it for quite some time now, and it would appear that those efforts tie in with Ghost and--specifically--her blood. It would appear the warper exposed a Black Spiral Dancer to some aspect of the Nothing. I believe the Dancer was pregnant at the time, and Ghost appears to be the fruition of this particular experiment. Her blood is essentially an experimental vaccine of some sort, but it would seem that that blood needs to be further empowered with Gnosis to make it more potent. It appears the sept may have a weapon--or at least a defense--against The Nothing. I've informed Ghost about this development, and I've suggested that perhaps a dreamwalking might help to better reveal some of these hidden aspects from the past, as perhaps Ghost has a strong connection with some of her ancestors."
"I got a bug up my ass about people smoking in the fucking Caern. We don't do that." Brom says with a growl towards the Gnawer in warning. "I am fine with how Charlene does her job, but if you are telling me you are picking shit off the ground all the time, then I got a problem with who is out here visiting and leaving garbage all about. This isn't a place to camp at. This is our sacred ground. That means someone needs to jump on Charlene and make sure she is being an asshole about this." He grumps again. "But, the cat has more important shit to talk about. We'll worry about this later."
"We can speak with Charlene later." Thane says to Brom with a glance aside to Felix. "Ensuring we're all on the same page is necessary, at any rate, to avoid any accidental clashes. But that can wait." He adds befoee looking up to the mage as he speaks. "So, Ghost is an accidental, or less so, science experiment. That explains some things. Alicia has the ability, so I can see about sending her to visit the Walkers and see about setting that up. Of course, the question being: If Ghost's blood is a vaccine, how much is needed to put the Nothing back to slumber? Or, can it be further synthesized should it prove a lethal amount. Given there's a spiritual aspect to this, the latter might be difficult but worth investigating if we have those skilled enough."
"Nah, I specifically said there =ain't= much bein' dropped," Felix says toward Brom, "but we been out here makin' sure everything's tidy anyhow. At her request. That's kinda the point: you ain't got much faith in folks." He eats the piece of jerky himself, and goes quiet, for the moment, to listen.
Brings-the-Pack stays on all fours, perhaps not feeling entirely at ease in the caern on a full moon and with so many garou present. "The vaccine may not work on the Nothing. Or it might be a defense to be used by the Garou. Or any other number of possibilities--some of which might work better than others or not at all, as even the warper who came up with the idea does not know fully how it works and has never done this before." He then advises, "A gentle hand may be required with Ghost. She was willing to be dreamwalked, but was not excited by the prospect. I offered to assist, but only if she consented to it of her own free will, and only if I woke her when she felt she needed to be woken."
"Like everything else, all we have are possibilities and an unfortunate lack of absolutes." Thane utters with a weary sounding sigh. "Well, the Children of Gaia are best when it comes to being gentle and I'm not aware of too many other Galliards we have with the ability. Charlene possibly, but I've never asked her. But at least we have a better potential angle than we did before. Thank you, Brings-the-Pack."
"I'm startin' to think I better try an' pick that one up when I get a chance," Felix says, about half to himself. Otherwise he sticks with eating Jerky and listening, for the moment. Excitingly enough.
Brings-the-Pack offers a garou outsider's advice to Felix, "It seems a useful ritual for your kind to know. Not violent. Not flashy and impressive. But effective in sometimes gaining insights towards hurting an enemy or aiding a hurting friend." The cougar seems to be taking his leave as he gives the garou a wide berth on his way back towards the treeline, having ventured out of the tree and onto the ground on this particular trip. He offers to Thane in passing, "Difficult to see. Always in motion is the future." Yoda quotes using a Kylo Ren modulated voice. It doesn't mesh terribly well.
Thane watches the cat depart from the caern before turning his attention back to the other Garou. "So, smoking in the caern. Clean tobacco and the stuff the Wendigo and Uktena may use is one thing. Modern cigarettes? Adding toxins to the air of the caern is a no. The bawn is more questionable but I am less inclined to harp on it as long as things remain clean."
"I don't even like tobacco. Means you can spit it on the ground if people are chewing it." Brom says with a wrinkle of his nose. "I see this as our church, where our purest of spirit lies. You would not go to a human church and smoke and spit, unless you're an asshole." Brom says as he gives a look to the Gnawer for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders upwards. "I just don't want anyone to take what we have here for granted. Neither of you were here when the spirals last took over." He says with frustration welling up suddenly in his gut. "They toilet papered the entire Caern. Chopped trees down. They .. defecated everywhere. Shit, cum, blood. Splattered everywhere. They made the place into a trash dump and it took months to clean out and cleanse the lands. It was embarrassing. We need to treat this place like a classy lady."
Rage: >>> You rolled 4 dice at 4 diff (6 5 8 8): 4 successes. <<<
WP: >>> You rolled 7 dice at 6 diff (3 5 8 5 2 5 2): 1 success. <<<
You spend 1 willpower and are now at 6 out of 7.
"When you say clean, an' modern cigarettes -- I ain't tryin' to be dense, just wanna make sure I ain't confused. Are we talkin' just additive-free, or organic, or you also gotta roll your own?" Felix asks. There's a decided crack in his casual at the Get's description of that previous time, a upswell of fury of his own, although it doesn't seem directed at the larger man. He pushes up to his feet and paces back and forth beside the log he was sitting on, burning some of the angry energy off. No comment for now, probably because his teeth are currently clenched.
Thane utters a low, decidedly lupine growl from a human throat. "We are not them. There are plants required for rites. I'm no Theurge but I understand that much. Natural, Felix. That is what I am saying. No additives, no tar, no silly flavorings. Clean, simple, natural. Respect the spirits, not fumigate them."
<OOC> To the caern, Brom says "I am going to head home from work now."
<OOC> To the caern, Brom says "Brom will just wander off a bit all grumpy like."
Felix nods rather more curtly than usual, and his hand goes into his pocket, pulling out the partially-smoked one from earlier. "This one'd be okay, then," he says, gesturing with it, and puts it back into his mouth, hand returning to his pocket for the tin that holds the lighter. Along with the rage, there's an impression of extremely determined control being exercised. He doesn't stop moving while he relights it, and that first drag is aggressive enough that one'd think it was the cigarette that pissed him off. "I gotta take a walk. 'scuse me." But hey, that should even make the grumpy Get happier, since it means most of the actual smoking will probably end up happening outside the caern proper.