The forest gives way to a vast, open clearing, devoid of trees or heavy underbrush. Low, thick and lush grass thrives here in a way it simply cannot in the canopied forest. It forms a soft, pale green carpet underfoot, innumerable thin blades swaying in waves when the wind stirs. Occasionally, a darker shoot or dandelion breaks the monotone blanket. Sitting uncannily at dead center of the expanse, as if perched there alone since the dawn of time, is a ponderous old stone, grey-brown in color and large enough for several people to climb upon at the same time, should they be inclined. Its roughly flat top offers a good place to observe the sudden panorama offered by the wide open space. The sky, though often grey, becomes a dominant presence, arcing like a dome over the surrounding trees.
Woodland tracks lead off into the forest to the north and south, while the boulder itself stands at the center of the clearing.
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 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.
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.
Trace stands six feet in height, with a confidence and certainty to his bearing that makes him seem a little taller, but still the last vestiges of the awkward gangliness of teenagerhood as well. A hint of five o'clock shadow frames a tanned face, hazel-green eyes under perpetually messy hair that reaches just past his ears. The man is dressed neatly, but the clothing is designed to give him ease of movement-- jeans, black leather converse shoes, and a worn leather bomber jacket that's never far from his person over a plain dark blue button-down shirt with a button-down collar worn with enough buttons open to see the white a-shirt underneath and the hint of a tattoo on one shoulder. Today the sleeves are rolled up, nearly to his elbows.
Six-Shooter is broad-chested and broad-shouldered. Green-hazel lupine eyes peer out from behind a slightly darker mask on his muzzle, and his fur fades from dark grey on his back and head to lighter grey on his chest and limbs. He is on the larger side for a wolf, and there's no mistaking the strength throughout his frame, nor the tightly controlled single-purposed anger buried behind his composure. There are scars on his right foreleg and shoulder where fur no longer grows.
The bawn is expansive, with no shortage of forest to get to know, and that is precisely what the new Guardian has been doing. Right now, though, Six-Shooter is in the clearing around the lone boulder, a little bit of his attention on the stone itself even as he rests in the grass. Even resting, however, the Glass Walker ahroun is far from relaxed.
There's some general... noise, from the forest in the general direction of the caern. Sort of a cross between rustling and thumps, something galumphing through the underbrush, and then a small wolf shoots out from the tree cover into the clearing, directly toward the boulder. He attempts to hop up one of the boulder's irregular protrusions to continue upward, but misjudges, bouncing off with a scrabble and a small yelp, more startled than hurt. He lands on his paws, but not elegantly enough to try to play it off as for some reason intentional. Instead, the rock gets a glare as if it did it on purpose.
Six-Shooter has pushed to his feet by the time that the Gnawer arrives, and then the tension eases and turns into an amused lupine chuckle as he trots over to nose at the other's shoulder. Good job, Six-Shooter notes, though there's a distinct lack of trying to climb the boulder from the ahroun.
Chugs-Mystery-Brew gives the boulder a dismissive sniff, and turns his attention to the Walker, still looking a touch dark. Uncooperative boulders ruin everything. He gives his head a shake, and brightens back up a bit, returning the nosing. How's it going out here?
Maybe you just did not ask the boulder correctly, Six-Shooter suggests, before somewhat more playfully nose-shoving at the other's shoulder. It goes okay. Big bawn, a lot of ground to cover, a lot of ground to get to know. Not bored yet, he adds, so for that measure, better than I first thought. Very green. There's a long pause and the Glass Walker moves over to sniff at the boulder once, then twice, before he slowly adds. Still the right thing to do.
A LOT of bawn, Chugs agrees, and glances around again, taking in the clearing. Takes a long time to cover. More fun with friends... but maybe not so stealthy. He pads around the circumference of the boulder, head poking out from the other side when he gets there. Brought you things.
Six-Shooter perks his ears and wags his tail once in excitement and glances up at the boulder once more, before returning to his birth form. "Thanks," Trace continues, grinning and sitting on a slight outcropping of the boulder. "Means a helluva lot to me, and I appreciate it. I mean, I don't mind being out here so much, but the ability to have a change of clothes and such makes it way better."
Chugs-Mystery-Brew gives an oddly human grin at the tail wag, which gets swiftly less odd as he shifts up as well, and starts circling the boulder again. This time when he decides to head up it, it goes MUCH more smoothly; he clambers up with some actual grace, and sits at the top, legs over the side, where he can easily talk to Trace. "An' cigs," Felix says, "...and a beer. But yeah, it was annoyin' bein' stuck out here some with nothin' else to wear, an' that was when Edgewood's washin' machine was an option." A slight pause before he thinks to add, "An' no problem."
Trace grins and tilts his head up. "When I first brought it up, Thane somewhat tried to talk me out of it, a bit," he says, with a shrug. "Given everything else that is going on. But that everything else is exactly why I need to be doing this right now." He grins. "It'll take me the whole time before I feel like I know the Bawn adequately, if things are... uneventful. And if they aren't, then well." One more shrug and Trace turns, climbing up the side of the boulder where he was sitting relatively easily to join Felix at the top, though the ahroun doesn't sit down yet.
Felix has to tilt his head up this time. "Hey, if it works for you!" he replies easily enough, with a small shrug back. "I reckon I'll be out here most of the time, 'cause it prolly ain't gonna stay uneventful. I'd start climbin' the lack of walls if I HAD to stay all the time, though. Someone's gotta at least check in on the city anyhow."
Trace walks over to the edge of the boulder to look north out over the clearing and the Bawn beyond it. "If we stay on top of things, seems like a pretty good overall thing that's going, here," he says, thoughtfully quiet. "And I dunno, if you do choose to climb the trees try not to fall out of them like Justin did."
Felix laughs. "I climb the trees all the fuckin' time," he says, flopping backward onto the boulder, one arm behind his head to keep from cracking it on the stone. He studies the sky, adding, "Ain't fallen out yet. Jumped plenty, though. ...that cloud looks like it's flippin' us off."
Trace grins and glances up at the clouds. "It kinda does," he agrees, and then there's a pause. "But! That one across from it really looks like a dick." If they're going to play name the shape of the clouds, apparently the Glass Walker is determined to not be outdone during it.
"Man, even blank pieces of sky end up with someone doodlin' a cock on 'em," Felix says, and grins as well, stretching out a bit more. "If I were doin' that in cloud graffiti I'd start it out soft an' let the breeze get it up. Prolly blow someone's mind. ...think seein' cloud porn'd make someone more or less religious?"
There's a thoughtful pause. "And that one over there," Trace points up at another cloud, "looks like a rabbit." A minute longer, and Trace says. "Maybe the cloud spirits are implying something about fucking like rabbits?" He chews on his lower lip. "Guess it depends on what their religion was to begin with. Catholicism like I grew up with, even the thought of cloud porn would be sacrilegious."
"I'm good with that implication," Felix drawls, "...how d'you reckon that rubber duck over there fits in?" He slides a hand into his pocket, coming out with the Altoids tin that houses his smokes, and glances to Trace. "Yeah, church I useta go to was Baptist, pretty sure there'd be a buncha sudden heart attacks in that congregation at least."
Trace takes a minute to think about that, coming over to sit down next to Felix. "Well, the rabbits could be doing it in the shower," Trace says. "/Porque/ you know. Some people like it wet." He points to another cloud. "Or maybe that one, whatever that one is, is gonna eat the rabbits."
"...or the bath. One of them big jacuzzi ones, with the jets," Felix says, closing his eyes for a moment, "Ain't nothin' wrong with that." He opens his eyes and then the tin, lighting up and offering a cigarette to the Ahroun as well. "Maybe," he agrees, considering the indicated cloud. "Maybe it wants to join in."
"Maybe," Trace agrees. "Maybe whatever safehouse gets set up next will have one of the jacuzzis. Soak away the stress and all that. That would be pretty damn cool," he says. "I'd even chip in for it. And heaven knows we could use something like that."
"Sold," Felix says, putting the tin away again once Trace has accepted the ofer or not, and he adds his own smaller but much closer cloud to the array above them. "Lilah'd like that, also." He considers for a moment, "Might be there's one or two at the junkyard. Wonder if J could frankenstein 'em into working, if there was." He turns his head to look at the Walker, and grins. "'fore I changed, sometimes when we got bored my crew used to sneak into rich folks' backyards when they were away and borrow their pools an' spas an' shit, have ourselves a pool party. Miss shit like that, somedays."
Trace takes a cigarette, though for the moment it's used to fidget with rather than lit up. "Yeah," he agrees. "Bet he probably could. It would be a great contribution to the livability of places." The Walker watches the clouds, and how they change by the wind or other forces at work, for a few minutes, then says. "And that's the little shit that I do miss when I'm out here. Luxuries, niceties of life and stuff." He grins. "Flush toilets."
"Hot showers," Felix agrees, dryly. "...yeah, plumbin' is pretty fuckin' nice, all in all. Refrigerators an' microwaves, too. Spoilt since I got here, I guess, Library's actually got all that shit. It's pretty fuckin' luxe for an abandoned buildin'."
Trace grins briefly, lighting the cigarette after that and shoving the lighter back into a pocket. "Well," Trace points out, "if you guys are occupying it then it's only theoretically abandoned, really. You um... un-abandoned it." Trace makes the last point with all the lack of grace of making up words of a non-native speaker, but the point is made well enough anyway.
Felix hehs, lifting his boots to rest the heels against the edge of the boulder, knees bent. It doesn't quite look as though it ought to be as comfortable as he appears to be. "Reclaimed, I guess? Possibly stole, dependin' what kinda assholes you ask. Technically we're squattin'. Point stands, though: it's nice." Of course, he seems to think the motel is perfectly nice, too, but on the other hand, there's plumbing and electricity there also.
"Aren't there some states where if you occupy somewhere long enough you can claim it's yours?" Trace asks, after a minute's pause. "I think I read in the paper about someone doing that in an abandoned house in Arizona or something."
"Yeah, I've heard some places you can do that," Felix says, "I dunno how long it takes, or if there's other rules. Seems unlikely you really only gotta live there a while, 'cause we can do =that=, an' laws're mostly pretty shitty to poor folks. Folks who own the buildin's mostly also own the law." There's an irritated edge to the remark, but he still seems pretty relaxed, taking another drag.
Trace nods, and lifts a shoulder. "There are always other rules, no matter what it is," Trace offers, and the lifted shoulder turns into a full shrug. "Washington probably isn't one of those states anyway."
Felix nods. "Shitloads of rules," he agrees, "...an' I dunno. Might be worth someone lookin', I s'pose. Upside of it bein' us livin' there, ain't a lotta folks really wanna drop by an' ask us to leave. Get hassled more when it's just a bunch of humans." A slight pause. "More or less." He curls up to sitting, moving his arm from behind his head to across his knees. "So what kinda shit'd you mostly do that kept you too busy to ever go to the beach, growin' up?"
Trace makes a hmm noise for a moment, then answers. "Aside from ditching school. Tagging stuff, making money, running from cops," he says, with a bit of a grin and a tone that suggests that he doesn't regret these activities in the slightest. "Before that, before I was old enough to go on my own or anything, it was mostly just that my mother was always working two or three jobs, and she never had a car."
Felix grins back, broadly. "So, same shit as me, more'r less. Kinda thought as much," he says, sounding faintly satisfied with this. "Wasn't any beaches near me. We used to fuck around by the river an' lakes, though. Summer, 'specially."
"You know," Trace says, as he gets up, and then slides down the boulder to stand at the base, "it's a bit too cold right now if we were to go find them, but I could have sworn I passed at least a few streams while I was walking around." He grins. "Yeah. They did catch me tagging just the once, had to do community service for months. That was the last time I got caught."
"Lake, too," Felix says, "'Couple, at least, though one of 'em I think's in more or less Wendigo territory an' they can get pretty touchy 'bout us droppin' by. 'least, Jacinta could, but she's left... hm. Windy maybe wouldn't mind so much. Anyway, we got Lake Arthur. Got an island in the middle." Another glance at the sky, this time gauging the amount of sun left in the day. "C'mon," he offers, uncurling his feet back off the boulder and dropping down as well, "we got time, I'll show you before we find dinner."
Trace stubs out the last of his cigarette against the base of his boots and nods, before he shifts back to lupus, tongue lolling for a moment. Race you part of the way after, the Glass Walker adds.