This old and spacious building was once a fairly large carriage barn, but has been converted first as garage, and then into something else entirely. It once had massive two-story front doors, but they've been permanently closed, and a smaller door built into them. The walls appear to have been reinforced in some way, making them stronger and somewhat soundproof. The size of about two large rooms, the first floor is undivided. It's got wooden plank flooring, and has exercise equipment dotting its expanse, with free weights in one area, a punching bag in a corner, and other equipment scattered about. There's a rough ladder up to the second floor, which is carpeted, but has unfinished walls, a few dangling light bulbs, and is apparently serving as a somewhat informal bunk area. The lighting is, understandably, somewhat inadequate. The floor mostly consists of mattresses, innumerable throw pillows and bed pillows, warm bedding, and the occasional glimpse of carpet. There are a few shoes resting against the wall near the ladder; clearly, people are expected to take their footwear off once they get up here. A wooden door on the upper part of the garage leads into the second floor landing of the house.
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 consists of a light blue button-down shirt tucked loosely into old but presentable jeans, accessorized with aged black high-top converse, navy suspenders, and a navy bow tie with little silver polkadots. There's an unbuttoned cardigan over top, dark grey and oversized enough to need pushing up at the wrists, and when it's cold enough an ankle-length tan wool coat is added to the outfit, along 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.
Sue stands about 5'8" in height, with Mediterranean features, light olive skin, dark hair that's cut smartly above his ears, dark green eyes, and a strong nose. He looks to be in his late teens, with shoulders that have gotten broader than they once were. He's dressed for chill and wind, with a grey wool peacoat over a sweater, dark jeans, and awkward-looking shoes of the sort that more than likely orthopedic. He carries a hiking pole of the collapsable variety, strap often looped around his wrist.
A man that looks to be in his early to mid forties, Thomas stands at just a hair under six feet. His features are predominantly Asian (Korean, to those who can tell the difference), with almond shaped eyes dark enough to appear almost black, low eyebrows, and a slightly crooked nose. His skin color speaks mostly toward his mixed heritage; it's darkly bronzed and weather beaten, with laugh lines crinkling near the corners of the eyes. His hair is a silky black, worn long and pulled back into a neat ponytail. He also sports a goatee, kept only long enough to be somewhat bristly to the touch, the black liberally laced with a smattering of grey hairs. The man's build is lean and compact, and he carries himself with a certain athletic grace that's unmistakable.
He appears to favor simple collared shirts of various types (usually black or white), and loose fitting, well worn jeans and hiking boots, but above all, he seems quite attached to a long brown oiled canvas duster. Even in warm weather, he's rarely seen without it. Occasionally, he pairs this with a brown fedora so battered and used that it might actually appear older than the man wearing it. He's wearing what looks like small, hematite beads around his neck, but most of the necklace is tucked under his shirt and out of sight.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (96% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.14 and steady, and the relative humidity is 79 percent. The dewpoint is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)
There's a backpack, familiar to Izzy and Owen, at least, plunked near the ladder. As is a puffy coat. Whoever owns the coat, however, it somewhat hard to see, though it eventually turns out there's a wolf -- jackal, really -- asleep on some of the cushions upstairs. (It's a veritable den-nest.)
Owen, for his own part, has been downstairs in the main part of the garage this evening working out on the available equipment, using it as a distraction it would seem. He's been staying away from any of the machines, though, as there are often folks sleeping here (and besides freeweights are better), but is now currently just sitting on a bench with a glass of water. Currently he's shirtless and barefoot.
The door from the meadow opens, slowly, letting Sue in, and once he's inside, the metis pauses, pulling out a rubber tip that gets slid onto the end of the hiking pole. A glance over at the ladder, and he nods to himself. "Right, s'pose I'll be going around to get between," he murmurs to himself, before noticing Owen. There's a nod of greeting, after that. "Hello."
Something in all that wakes Djehuti up. Probably the cessation of Owen's movements, or perhaps the new movements from Sue. Either way, he raises his head with an interrogative whuffle, and pads -- quietly -- over to the ladder to peer down at the first floor, nose twitching.
Owen looks up towards the Fury with a critical eye for a moment, recognition apparently missing. He sits upa little straighter in his seat, glass still in hands resting on his lap. His head turns only for a moment after hearing movement from upstairs before returning to the metis. His only response, after all this, is a simple grunt.
Sue pauses a few steps inwards from the door, glancing up to where Djehuti has appeared, and then back to Owen with a deep nod of greeting. "Sue Zahakis, Stands-Between," he introduces himself. "Cliath and philodox of the Black Furies, and born afoul of the first law." There is the slightest of expectations in posture that the Fury might appreciate introductions in kind, but very little. Sue's remains politely on the floor somewhere between him and Owen, after he's spoken.
There's a quick, two-knock rap at the door, followed by the door being opened partway. A man of mixed native-asian features is on the other side, wearing a battered old hat and a brown duster. "'Scuse, is this open to--ah." He considers what he can see of the interior for a moment. Sue and Owen are both given a considering look, and a faint, respectful nod.
The Strider melts into homid as he descends the ladder -- before, really. He bows to her, palms together. "I am Djehuti Mesu-Ma'at, known as Wisdom's Long And Twisting Path or the Son of the Ibis. I am Silent Strider, and Philodox, and new member of this Sept. Gaia and I have a mild disagreement as to whether I am cliath, or fostern, though I have asked challenge of someone to rectify the gap. Well met. I take it you are new in these parts?" And then Thomas knocks, and he stops to regard him with interest, eyebrows bobbing a bit.
Owen sets his glass down on the bench before standing up, taking a second to tilt his head, popping his neck. "Owen..." he pauses as yet more people arrive, causing him to peer over at yet another unknown face for a time. "Owen Hollsinger. Wildfire, Gifted of Fenris. Adren Modi of the Fenrir and Jarl of the tribe here. Formerly a child Fenris, Weasel, Black Unicorn, Wyvern, Hrafn, and twice of Wolverine. Rited in the Sept of the Sentinel but once and again full member of the Sept of the Hidden Walk, once the Wheel Renewed, where I stand as guard outside of the Guardian Pack." To those who know him, his introduction has been abbreviated.
Sue inclines his head in greeting to the two Garou. "Well met, then." That said, Sue wraps his hand a little more firmly around the hiking pole before turning to look, for a moment, at Thomas, and then slowly walk over towards Djehuti. "My father was of your tribe," the metis states softly, with a hint of smile.
Thomas's eyes flick to Djehuti, his own eyebrows bobbing upward, but Owen's introduction seems to draw his attention next, and for longer. There are a few moments in which he says nothing, before his chin lifts, and he tips his hat toward the three of them. "Thomas Lee, Uktena kin." He slides the rest of the way into the garage. The workout equipment is given an interested glancing over.
Djehuti shoots Owen a briefly curious look, but then he's diverted by Sue. A mixture of expressions, somewhat hard to divine, cross his face. Irritation and interest may well be among them. Then he inclines his head to the Fury. "While your father's lack of restraint was regrettable, I am glad of brothers in arms, heritage, and will," he eventually says.
Owen doesn't seem to share that opinion right off, though at least being inside he doesn't spit on the ground over it. He files away the kinfolk's tribal information mentally, returning a simple coldly-neutral grunt to him as well before turning to fetch his glass.
"Indeed," Sue responds to Djehuti with a nod, watching the other philodox with a faint hint of curiosity for a long moment. And then, the metis begins looking about for somewhere to sit down. Or at least, that might be what he's looking for.
The door from the house opens, disgorging one cub, carrying a plate with pastries. "Djehuti-rhya, I brought you some bakla--" Izzy declares, stopping both word and movement short as the unexpected population of the garage becomes obvious. "Oh. Um. Hello."
Thomas's eyebrows bob again, and then he moves further into the room, giving the Garou a respectful berth. "This place reserved for any group in particular?" His voice carries a rough, unmistakable western twang. "Or is it first come first serve?" He looks toward Izzy. "Hey."
The Strider gives Sue a neutral look as Sue watches him. But then he can't keep it, at least not completely -- His eyebrows bob and he narrows then widens his eyes a touch, an apparently questioning look in reaction to the curiosity. But he doesn't express it. Instead, he answers Thomas. "I'm told that is welcome to all, Kin or Garou, though owned by a Get of Fenris Kinfolk. That factor has not been evident in my stay here, however. The machines do not seem reserved for anyone, either." Then the remains of that neutrality fall away as he sees the cub. "Izzy," he says. "And your baklava. How was the afternoon?"
Sue eventually moves over and sits down crosslegged not overly far from the ladder, folding the hiking pole and setting it in his lap. "Oh, good, people are enjoying the baklava," Sue voices, looking up towards where the cub is. "I'm glad of that."
Owen drinks a good part of his water before eventually dumping the rest of it over his head. The glass gets set aside as he retrieves a beaten-up towel and a shirt.
"Well, our baklava. And it was good!" the cub replies, "...the afternoon, I mean, not the baklava. Although it's good too. Um. Hello." The last, of course, to the rest of the assembled, particularly Sue and Thomas, who get curious looks. A glance to Djehuti, to make sure there's no reason not to, and then, "Um. I'm Izzy Sparks, Asks the Next Question. Silent Strider cub and Philodox. And it's very nice baklava. Do... would you like some?"
Djehuti's smile grows. "I'd love some." He settles down on the ladder, near his pack. "My sister's partner makes a mean baklava," he says to no one in particular, and then asks Izzy, "Were we going to talk about practical Philodox questions, or more about tribes? And either way, you want to take a walk, or stick here?"
Thomas's lips pinch very briefly. "...Alright." He crosses over to the punching bag and reaches out, fingertips lightly pressing against it.
Sue watches Thomas for a moment, glances at Owen with a very momentary furrow of brow, and then looks up to offer to Izzy. "Sue Zahakis, Stands-Between. Cliath and philodox of the Black Furies, born afoul of the first law." A pause follows the introduction, and he adds. "And I really am glad you're enjoying the baklava."
Owen shrugs on his shirt, soon followed up by socks and boots, before returning to the throng of folks. He simply gives another grunt to folks before retrieving his jacket and making his way to the door.
Izzy blinks once at the name, head tilting slightly, and then brightens a bit. "Oh, you brought it then, right? Thank you. I saw your note on them. And nice to meet you, sir." A slight pause, the cub's brow furrowing slightly, and a look to Djehuti, "Whichever you think's best, but... I =would= like to finish up the tribe stuff, I think."
Thomas continues testing the punching bag, his touch fairly light as he circles around it. A glance proves he's still keeping track of those in the room, but for the most part, he seems content to be less than sociable.
Djehuti inclines his head to Owen in similarly silent farewell, before considering Izzy. "Think we did Furies last, yes? Sue, you maybe want to give Izzy the brief summary version of your tribe, just so the outsider versus insider differences can be highlighted?"
Sue watches as Owen heads for the door, and then nods to Djehuti, setting the hiking pole across his lap carefully. "Of course, Djehuti-rhya," he answers, "though I'd note that my opinions necessarily vary from those of my sisters, at times." A faint grimace and shrug follow, and he glances to the elder of the two Striders before continuing.
Izzy lifts a hand to give Owen the tiniest of farewell waves, and nods -- both to Djehuti, and to Sue. The cub sets the plate of baklava down beside Djehuti, and then sits beside it, as well. "Will you explain why and how they vary, too, please, if you don't mind?"
Thomas shrugs out of his coat and gently sets it aside. With one ear turned toward the discussion, he begins lightly hitting the bag. The impacts are quiet enough that it shouldn't interrupt.
Djehuti finds a handkerchief and a water bottle, in his pack, before he takes the baklava. "I would expect no less," he tells Sue. "And it is one part of why I asked you. I would imagine Izzy, being Izzy, will eventually ask one of your sisters her perspective on the tribe, as well." Taking a nibble of baklava, he nods happily and then takes another (very small) nibble before putting it down on the handkerchief. Apparently a whole piece is too much for him at a time.
"Yes, of course," Sue says to the cub. "So, as I said. I'm metis, born afoul of the first law. And therefore, a male Black Fury. Male children born to only one Garou parent, are given to one of the other tribes. Sometimes the Gaians, sometimes the Glass Walkers, sometimes others. But male metis cubs are kept and raised in the tribe." The metis pauses, then continues. "In any case. Most outsiders see the sisters as a collection of misandristic women garou with a big emphasis on fighting," is said with a faint smile, "and that's not entirely true. For the most part, Pegasus asks we focus on the Wyld, on preserving it, and she asks we focus on protecting and serving the helpless."
Izzy nods, taking this in over a couple bites of baklava. The cub doesn't nibble quite as... nibbleishly as Djehuti, but does eat slowly, peeling off the outer layers of pastry one by one to eat them. "Okay, that explains the first thing I was kinda wondering... Um. If this is rude, I'm sorry, but... if it's supposed to be all women, how come you keep males if they're Metis? It seems like a weird exception."
Thomas continues working at the punching bag. His blows are still light, more warm-up than anything, though it's clear for anyone who knows about such things that the man knows what he's doing.
Djehuti seems interested by the last bit of what Sue said, but he doesn't inquire. He merely uncaps his bottle and takes a sip, before offering it over to Izzy.
Sue nods to Djehuti, but it seems that the metis' attention, for the moment, is on Izzy's question. "It is a weird exception," Sue says, nodding. "And sometimes, female metis cubs *aren't* kept, depending on the sept. But, it has to do with responsibility, for the most part. My sisters keep metis cubs because they are the product of someone's mistake and indiscretion, and that is not a responsibility to shove onto another tribe, and male metis aren't /really/ male, anyway." Nope, he's not bitter. At least, though, Sue does a very good job of masking it, and he turns to Djehuti. "Pegasus asks that we help the helpless--women especially, but not only women--learn to help themselves, and help and protect them in the meantime," he explains. "Serve is not the right word, just the first that came to mind."
Izzy quirks a brow just slightly at 'aren't really male', but actually doesn't press about that. At least not currently. "Okay, I get the responsibility thing... well, except if some of the septs give away the girl metis, then that doesn't hold up either. The rest sounds like good things to do though, helping helpless people learn to help themselves and all." The cub accepts the proffered water, taking a good drink before handing it back with a quiet "thanks."
Djehuti offers it over to Sue, as well, after murmuring his own "you're welcome" to Izzy. "It's not the helpless part -- I understand that, from Pegasus. Most other Furies I have spoken to emphasize that they focus on prioritizing helping the women, you see. It's an important distinction."
Thomas stops, resting one hand lightly against the bag. He looks back over his shoulder toward the others.
Sue chuckles, quietly. "And most of my sisters would," Sue agrees, glancing over towards Thomas. "But as I have learned, those who are helpless are helpless. It does not matter--to me, at the very least--whether they are men, or women, and if they are men, it gives a chance to maybe undo some of the damage of the patriarchy..." Sue trails off, and shakes his head.
Izzy nods, mulling that over. "Okay. And so... yeah, okay. Is there more I should know? Or things people think a lot that're wrong, anything like that?"
"Hm, yes," agrees Djehuti. "It's a perspective that is not shared by your sisters, but still works for the same ends." He smiles, faintly, as he reclaims his water, and looks curious at the response to Izzy's question.
Thomas hooks one arm under his coat. He turns, leaning a little against the wall.
"Some of my sisters, it's true, would rather kill a man than question why his actions happen, and automatically want to see the worst in all men," Sue says to Djehuti, though obviously, the Fury doesn't agree with that point of view. "I think that's it, for now," he tells Izzy, "but I'm staying here currently, and as long as Djehuti-rhya is okay with it, you're welcome to ask me questions whenever you like." The cub gets a brief smile from the metis.
Izzy smiles back a bit shyly. "Thanks. Um. Can you teach me to make baklava? Which I guess is only a tangentially relevant question but it is a thing I'd like to know!" The cub glances to where Thomas is leaning, and then to Djehuti again, checking whether any instructions or further explanations are forthcoming.
Djehuti laughs, quietly and briefly. "Izzy can attest, there is a note to the effect that we do not mind, and in fact encourage, other tribes to teach our cubs, so long as no permanent harm is done to them." Then he rises to his feet. "I'll get to Bone Gnawers in a few minutes -- Have to go get something more solid than baklava to eat." He disappears upstairs and, evidently, into the rest of the house.
Thomas doesn't seem to have anything to add, though he is regarding Izzy with a thoughtful glance.
Sue laughs, briefly, and looks momentarily crestfallen. "Sadly I don't make baklava very well." Sue stretches his hands out in front of him as he speaks, "Or at least, not very neatly. Galene--my grandmother, or at least, the mother of my sister who raised me--made the baklava in the fridge. I'm usually not allowed anywhere near a kitchen."