Sweeping branches of evergreen pines form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A separate stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce, protected from the damp by a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. Nestled in among the pines are a few hardy perennials--red alder, quaking aspen, and a big leaf maple or two--that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing.
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
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, today with a blue t-shirt bearing the superman logo, the print very faded and the fabric looking thin enough that it may have genuinely gotten that way through time and not retro-merchandising. The shirt's rather snug in a flattering sort of way. Over it he's wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned, with a scattered pattern of tiny blue and red dolphins; he's also in possession of a pair of white plastic wayfarer-style sunglasses with iridescent indigo lenses. 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.
Val is roughly sixteen years of age, although she could easily be a touch younger, or older. She has an angular face, with high cheekbones, and a particularly prominent nose. The young woman's appearance is influenced by her strong northern Italian ancestry; brown eyes and pale olive-tinted skin that darkens to a deep rich brown during the summer months. Val stands an even five feet in height, with a slender whip-thin build, and only the faintest of curves that identify her as female. Her hair has been cropped short, spiked, and dyed a brilliant shade of lemon yellow. When she speaks, which is often, the stud piercing her tongue can be seen.
Currently, the teen is wearing a form-fitting white shirt, with a lacy v-neck. Over the shirt, she wears an attractively cut leather jacket with metal studs across the shoulders and along the waistline. On her right wrist, she wears a thin charm bracelet, from which dangle a few birds, an old-style sun with a face on it, an egg, and a lippy-mouth. Val's legs are covered by a pair of skinny denim jeans and her feet are shod in a pair of dark brown hiking shoes. On her fingers, she wears a number of thick rings, some with a mirrored surface, others holding the luster of stainless steel. The young woman wears what looks like a custom black leather backpack, with with a web-like design of stainless-steel cording threaded through the heavy material. The bag hangs from her shoulders, always filled with something or another.
Despite Val's youth, small stature, and thin frame, she moves with an easy, sure-footed grace. Her movements are quick, practiced, and at times, a little on the jerky side.
A magnificent bird, covered entirely in a glossy blue-black plumage. Two bright black eyes look out at the world from just above a powerful and heavy beak. Below the beak there is is a well-developed ruff (hackles) of fine feathers that cover the throat. These are fluffed up, or flattened, depending on the bird's mood. From her beak, to her wedge-shaped tail, Memory is over two feet in length, and stands at a hight of just under a foot. Meanwhile, her wingspan is an impressive four and a half feet. The particularly observant may notice a small patch of white feathers, resting neatly between her shoulder blades.
Despite the hints of summer the last few days have shown, the morning is still fairly chilly, and the little cabin still often contains a small collection of heat-sharing werewolves in Lupus overnight. Today one of those has apparently been Felix, as the Gnawer emerges from the structure with a wolfy yawn and stretch that shifts into a human one along with the rest of him.
"Good morning," comes Memory's cheerful voice, as the raven lands in a tree above the Garou.
Felix yelps, taking a step back with his hands immediately moving up into what looks like a fighting position, but the tension subsides as his upward glance catches the raven. "Well, shit, I guess I'm awake now," he greets her back, with a small laugh, "Mornin'. Ain't run into you in a minute."
Memory laughs, an almost disturbingly human sound from her raven throat. "Yea, well, I've been keeping busy. Need to head down to Yakima again at some point and check on the Spirals that I've been keeping tabs on."
"Yeah? What've they been up to?" Felix asks, moving to a fair-sized black duffel bag and beginning to rummage with in it a bit. "They workin' with any of the ones around here?"
Memory clicks her beak together a few times. "With one of the factions, yes," the raven says, before hoping off the branch and descending to earth. Shifting into the form of her birth, she takes a seat on one of the logs. "It's complicated. You hungry?"
"Starvin'," Felix answers, straightening up; what he seems to have ended up with from the bag is a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts and a 20oz plastic Coke bottle. He gestures to her with the former, adding, "Breakfast? Though if you got a better idea, I'm flexible." She gets an admittedly still slightly drowsy grin, and he glances her changed form over curiously. "...didn't you have rainbow hair some ways back?"
Val grins, a flash of bright white teeth. "Yea. Figured a change was on order. Was starting to feel rather stagnant, so I mixed things up a bit." Bringing her bag around, the young girl opens the top and upends it, shaking out the contents. Stuff falls out and just keeps falling out, as if the bag has no bottom. Well, it does, but there is no way that the pile of stuff that emerges could have fit in there. No way at all. Most of it is food, the non-perishable snack variety, and water. But, there is lighter fluid, matches, what looks like a pair of makeup bags, and a few odds and ends that the Corax returns to her bag, leaving the food on the ground.
Felix looks a bit satisfied with that response, and nods. "Thought so. It was pretty kickass, though this ain't half bad neither. Suits you." He heads over to claim a seat on the log as well, and watches the bag-emptying with interest, which only increases as the amount that emerges does as well. "You got an awful lotta shit in there," he observes, "Neat trick." The box of poptarts is set within easy reach of them both; it's been opened, but proves to still contain the majority of its original contents.
Val grins, as she slips that bag's straps over her shoulders. "Yea. Comes in handy. Just toss stuff inside and it shifts with me, no problem. And feel free to help yourself to stuff. Always keep a good supply of food on hand. Never now when you'll end up on your ass watching people for hours on end. Doing that while hungry sucks bigtime," she says, while reaching for one of the offered pop-tarts. "Really not certain what to do about the Spirals, or the Queen. Lotsa people with their fingers in the pie, so to speak, trying to sneak off with the largest slice."
"How much can you fit in it? Could you get a whole pizza box in there?" Felix considers the bag for a moment after it's put back on. "I been doin' a lot of playin' delivery guy lately," he sort-of-explains, and nods while snagging a pair of poptarts himself. "An' yeah, I'd figure. Doin' nearly anythin' while hungry sucks bigtime, but sittin' watchin' folks seems like it'd be hard to get distracted from bein' hungry, too." He manages to demolish half the first tart in about two bites, and sighs. "Wish I knew what to do about any of those assholes, too. Gettin' real sick of their shit. I reckon you prolly know as much as anyone 'bout what-all's goin' on, huh?"
Val runs a hand through her hair and scratches at her scalp. "Probably know a bit more. Went walking through the top floor of Queen's Tower recently. It wasn't pretty. Floor is pretty much one big fancy office, but all the furniture has been moved out and it had been turned into a fucked up ritual space. Lotsa dead desiccated corpses and some poor living sod in to middle, with big-assed pimple-like thing growing out of his back. Using him to grow something, but I'll be damned if I know what."
Felix blinks at that, head tilting slightly. "You got actually =in= there? Niiice," he says, "...even if it don't sound like an ideal holiday destination or nothin'. You think they used the dead folks for sorta powerin' whatever they're growin', or just kinda... wraith-ate 'em, or what?" He pauses, a thought apparently occurring, "So that means =she= ain't there, then? Not that floor, at least?"
Val shakes her head. "Nope. She wasn't on the upper floor. Did see one woman getting hauled towards that room by a couple of Wraiths, saying that she hadn't done anything wrong. No idea if it was a Spiral, one of their kin, or just a human, but they were pissy and saying she'd had contact with Seattle. See, the Queen never got a foothold in Seattle, far as I can tell. And the Spirals in Seattle wanna piss in her wheaties really bad. To the point that they gave us the info we needed to snuff out that Mage."
Felix polishes off the first poptart, washing it down with a drink, and considers this, then nods. "That's kinda what I been hearin', that she tried for Seattle first but they were too strong for her," he says, "though hell, I dunno how much of what I been hearin' mighta came from you in the first place. So it really is them passin' us that, then?" He looks faintly amused. "I think I suggested to Thane once maybe it'd be useful if we had a way to make her think it was them bein' there an' secretly underminin' her, since she knew it got done. I wonder if it'd've been more or less useful bein' actually =true=?" A slight pause, "...well, I s'pose it'd be exactly how it is, come to think." It takes the space of another bite for him to ask, "Seems like they kicked her out fine, though. Why're THEY still so pissed?"
[...scene called on account of baby.]