A subtle undulation of the land forms an curious, natural spiral in the open ground. One side of the formation rises to create a half-circle or crescent of earth surrounding and encompassing the spiral. The ground is littered with rock and flagstones, both large and small. Someone has carefully gathered up a trove of these and erected a clear fire pit. Flagstones with smooth surfaces have been laid along the upper lip of half circle of earth around the fire pit, turning it into a nice seating area. All debris and flammable material's been removed from within the spiral, and a fire has been laid. Just beyond the spiral's edge, wood has been collected and piled for future use. Surrounding this, the rugged walls of the canyon have been half buried by the Wyld surge, making the upper slope of the valley more gentle than it was before. Stands of Douglas fir and white pines mix with hemlock, lodgepole pines, and western larch trees to fill much of the open space, but the trees here are not nearly as dense as they are in the surrounding forests of the bawn. The sparse woods allows a partial view of the sky, and both sun and moonlight filter down to create enigmatic and beautiful shadow patterns on the forest floor. That floor is blanketed with a thick, soft rug of shed pine needles, lichen and leaf debris. The moss-covered relics of old, dead trees occasionally mark a place where once great sentinels loomed above.
The caern expands in two directions from here. The escarpment wall and raised dais form one point of the new triangle, while the center of the caern and its gigantic, Wyld-influenced tree marks the other. The only obvious way out of the caern is the valley slope that leads to the central bawn.
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.
The above are probably the first things people notice on nights during which he is not also wearing a fluffy, thigh-length caramel-coloured probably-faux fur coat. This not one of those nights. Under it, he's more reasonably clad, in nicely-fitting dark indigo jeans with a plain white tank, its ribbed cotton skimming close enough to hint at the musculature beneath. Over that, he's wearing a long-sleeved, navy blue shirt, unbuttoned; judging by the white-on-red number patches on the left arm, the flag patch on the right shoulder, and the round fleur-de-lis patch to the left of the collar, it was once part of someone's Scout uniform... probably not his. Okay, the 'Boy Scouts of the USA' patch over the right pocket's a hint, too. 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.
This man is somewhere around six inches above six feet and looking to have about three hundred or so pounds of muscle on him. His beard is thick and long, bound by three iron rings down the length of it, worn on a face which is a haunted mask of concentration. His eyes, dark enough to seem black, are full of shadows and have a habit of quickly dancing in random directions. Hair that has turned a silvery grey, cascades down the Godi's back, hanging to just about mid-waist.
Jamethon currently wears a light green linen shirt under a pristine brown leather jacket and a pair of black, well-fitted and heavy canvas jeans. On his feet are what appears to be some kind of thickly bound, sheep skin boot.
Scars on his forehead, just below his bangs, are the tips of a set of three jagged scars that travel up and back, the rest covered by the Fenrir's hair. A large myriad collection of scars adorn his visage at other various points as well.
<OOC> To the caern, Felix says "This is probably a couple-few nights ago, I'm gonna guess?"
<OOC> To the caern, Jamethon nods.
Jamethon stands by the firepit, currently regarding a low flame within it with a strong sense of curiousity about him. His jacket and shirt are currently set aside, folded carefully and placed on the ground a few feet away.
Saturday night, one of the best times for having fun in the city -- at least for certain definitions of fun -- which may have something to do with the irritation in Felix's stride and the way he pokes restlessly at a couple bushes on the way toward the caern. Or it could just be the moon. Either way, when he sees the current occupancy of the firepit, he brightens right up, heading that direction. "Hey!" he greets as he gets a bit nearer, "Just the guy I was hopin' to see..." As he steps closer, the curious regard the flame is getting gets a rather curious regard from him as well, a glance from Theurge to fire and back: "'m I interrupting somethin'?"
Jamethon looks up well before Felix arrives properly near, clearly not so lost in thought as to be snuck up on. His curious expression does carry over to Felix though, and the Gatekeeper crosses his arms. His voice is deep and clear, and there is a certain spirited energy that the Fenrir inherently possesses that carries with it, "What can I assist you with, young Felix?"
Felix flashes Jamethon a grin, coming to a stop beside him. "Well, been hopin' to catch you for my challenge, you bein' a Sept elder an' all -- do you have any news you'd like me takin' to the Nation outside our borders for you? An' also, I'm hopin' you might be able to help me out with settlin' just where I need to take it to."
Jamethon raises an eyebrow at the latter part, though he was thoughtful for a moment at the former question. The Fenrir lowers his arms and crouches low by the fire, regarding it intently. "We need allies. We need people to know we are willing to open moon bridges and engage in trade and shared defense." A moment passes and then his expression darkens. "Fire consumes what it destroys and transforms what it does not," he offers cryptically. "Each version of ourselves that makes that choice is passing through the flame, to much the same fate." A pause, then Jamethon looks back up to Felix from down near the pit. "I remember your challenge. You seek knowledge of moon bridges. Just tell me where you are thinking to begin and where you seek to become and I will offer you the flame to pass through."
Even with the Fenrir crouching, it's probably not that far up to look. Felix blinks at the reply, brow furrowing a bit; it seems safe to say that cryptic's a good description from his point of view. "Thanks," he says, which seems safe enough for at least the last portion. "I'll pass on the need for allies. D'you want the fire part included too? An' you're right, I do. 'cause I dunno yet where Uncle Bob's mostly hangin' out, but I got a few clues. It oughta be somewhere over on this coast, but it'll have connections to the East, 'cause he's been out there a lot. I know Hand of Gaia an' Three Rivers, specifically. D'you know where over here's maybe got connections with both of 'em?"
Jamethon nods to the question but then shakes his head a moment later. "The fire is for you alone. The rest, please pass on. Do you know what area the Caern on this coast is to be found in?"
Felix thinks about it for a second or two, then shakes his head. "Not really. Just 'the West coast', 'this coast'. An' might be it's only connected with one of the ones over there, an' he just gets himself between that one an' the others some other way. Hitchin'. Walkin'. Bus pass." Another quick grin, and a shrug. "Are there a lot it'd maybe be?"
Jamethon considers for a time and brushes his hand over the flames for a good half a minute before standing once more and looks towards the center of the Caern. "Well, the west is about right... but I don't think you're looking for the coast. Head to Dry Thunder in Arizona... you might have heard of it refered to as the Sept of the Shattered Soul. I recommend never calling it that in person. Go to Tucson. Howl at the edge between there and Ironwood National Forest."
Felix doesn't stay still the whole time; after a few seconds he moves toward the fire, holding his hands over a different part of the flames, and after a few more, moves just about back to where he was, except this time he sits himself down on the closest log. "Arizona?" he echoes, "Huh. Well, okay, I reckon I can get there. I dunno if we got a more direct route to anywhere nearby," which is sort of but not precisely a question, "but if not we went through there on the way here an' it ain't that bad a drive. Thanks! An' I'll stick with 'Dry Thunder'. ...d'you know the story there, though? 'cause I'm thinkin' most likely they ain't gonna want me askin' THEM about it." He rises as well, and gives the fire a considering look.
Jamethon listens and considers the question, not needing to think about the information but rather seeming to mull over which answer to give. "This is not a Sept to be called dishonorable by. They performed the Rite of the Shattered Soul some years back. If you're not familiar with the rite, it erradicates one's soul entirely and forever. No being sent to Gaia, no returning for another circle of the wheel. Gone. Destroyed. The sept is run by the Uktena. Led by Eagle. They are welcoming of Gnawers. They," he scowls with a pause and adds, "Do not welcome my people."
Whether Felix's heard of the rite before or not, the description makes the Galliard wince a bit. "What'd someone do to get THAT level of judgement?" he asks, "...goin' out an' destroyin' caerns?" The bit about not welcoming Get gets a small nod of understanding; no need to elabourate on that part.
Jamethon shrugs, either he isn't telling the story or he doesn't know it. Instead, he kneels at the fireside and looks deeply into it. "Remember that all fires burn."