The sound of water is everywhere here -- not the musical laughter one generally expects from brooks, but a constant white-noise roar that one more typically associates with waterfalls or large crowds.
The forest is opened here by a series of clearings of various sizes; underbrush has claimed most of them, with young trees and the forest proper not far behind. No one makes a home here now, but it's clear that people once did, as the collapsed hulks of clapboard huts poke their chimney bones up through matted creepers, and a curiously sparse meadow is in fact growing through a jigsaw of old tarmac. A roofless log building has fared better than the huts, its thick walls still chinked and stout-looking, but the blank holes of its windows and doors make it look eerily out-of-place amongst the ruins, like something that should have died long ago, but refused. Overall, the noise of the brook is jarringly loud and alive in this dead place.
To the northwest, a reassuringly new-looking plank bridge crosses the brook well above the high water line. Due west, a broadly beaten path strikes out uphill beside the brook's rocky bed. The trail toward town disappears into the trees to the south.
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt hangs untucked above them, long sleeved and fastened with a row of small, black stone buttons. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
Thundersnow is an elegant and sturdy horse with a mix of traits that could be attributed to various breeds, yet which all integrate seamlessly in his compact form. The slight arch to his neck and his clean lines are reminiscent of an Arab, but his chest and forehead are a bit too wide for a pureblood, and he's also larger, with a broad body and less curviture to his back. His markings are just this side of dark for a classic bay: his winter-heavy coat is dark black-brown, with lighter regions of true brown on his fetlocks and face, and his hair is pure black. A cleanly parted forelock offsets his large, expressive eyes and trim ears, and his mane hangs past his neck in lazy, full waves. His tail is similarly full and silky, and just brushes the ground. His trimmed hooves are shod with dark metal shoes that appear to have designs etched into their sides. In contradiction to his well-groomed form, he bears no brand of claiming nor the marks typical of a horse broken to the saddle.
There's something about Justin that marks him as completely human, without a drop of more interesting blood. There's also something that speaks quietly of power held on a tight leash. Physically, he's a perfectly average height with a broad and stocky frame that is not fat (yet) but is made to carry a lot of it. He's probably from a variety of European stock; his face is open and gentle, his nose just large enough to be interesting. He wears a short, neat beard, trimmed close, and gold-wire-rimmed spectacles with expensively slim lenses. Behind the specs, his eyes are a light, tawny brown, almost golden. His hands are a scholar's: large and dexterous, inkstained, callused where his pen rests on his right ring finger. Callused in new places, lately, from rougher work than turning pages. His hair is dark, somewhere between auburn and brown, and almost excessively thick and shiny. It's usually worn in a glossy, waist-length braid. The color is broken by a thick streak of startling, pure-white hair that starts above his left temple. So much white in his hair makes him look older than he might otherwise seem--late thirties or more, as opposed to late twenties.
He's wearing jeans and a white shirt under a dark grey sweater, and leather boots of a rusty color. In the cold of the early year he often wears a heather-gray woolen cloak, as well. Always within reach, if not actually in hand, is a wooden staff as tall as he is.
This is a man in his early thirties, perhaps, to tell from his bearing and the look in his eyes. Though a closer look at his face suggests that he's a good deal younger than that, maybe he's in his mid-twenties. His features are sharp and aquiline, with high cheekbones and a noble profile. His blue eyes are clear and hard and his expression is generally grim. A short, scruffy black beard dusts his jaw, never coming in very thickly, no matter how seldom he shaves. His hair is long and unkempt, falling in blue-black waves to his mid-back. Usually it's tied into a ponytail with a length of scalloped black ribbon, but a few strands are always loose about his face. What skin shows around the edges of his clothing is very fine and very, very pale. His hands bear many small scars but are strong, with long, graceful fingers. He wears a plain band of white gold on the ring finger of his left hand. At first glance, he looks tall. But no, he's only about 5'9" and is quite slim. There's just something about the way he carries himself that makes him /seem/ tall.
He is dressed like a wannabe Victorian goth, though with his stature, he could be a noble fallen on hard times. He wears a ruffly white poet shirt under a sweeping, cinch-waisted black opera coat, which is worn open. Both coat and shirt have been mended numerous times. The shirt is tucked into a pair of somewhat snug black pants, which, though faded with age, are still slightly shiny. A rapier is belted around his waist. The hilt is less than ornate, but it and its leather scabbard shine from care. Oddly, there are a few small feathers tied around the top of the scabbard. They look to be from some small raptor, perhaps a kestrel or merlin.
Tobin is kneeling by the edge of the brook, his coat, shirt and sword set neatly to one side while he washes his face and hands in the icey water. The water immediately near him is stained red with blood, but it is quickly carried away. The cutting wind and cold water certainly makes bathing a chilly endeavor, but if he's cold, he's not giving any outward sign of it.
The voice of the thaw-fed brook hides many of the forest's sounds, but the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the ground resolves quickly none-the-less. If the clustered nature of the gait is any indication, the approaching horse is moving at speeds generally reserved for open terrain.
Tobin looks up at the sound of the hoofbeats, then in one motion he takes up his sword, rises to his feet and turns to face the direction of the approaching horse. He doesn't hurry, but the motion is still completed quickly. He stands there, waiting, gripping the hilt of the sword but not drawing it. "Who goes there?" he calls.
There's no question about it now, the horse is absolutely going too fast. It's also having no trouble with the uneven forest floor, or the hap-hazard growth pattern of the trees. Whenever there seems to be a collision imminent, the horse's course adjusts just enough to compensate for the obstacle. As the distance between it and Tobin diminishes, it's possible to make out the presense of a rider as well.
Said rider is bent over the horse's neck like a jockey, and....apparently, the fool is riding bareback. How the hell is he staying on at that insane speed?
Tobin's eyes track the horse and the rider unerringly. If anyone has seen him at this point, they might see him relax a little as he, perhaps, recognizes the rider at least. He releases his grip on the sword's hilt and waits for this very skilled steed to come closer before stepping out and calling, "Hail, master alchemist!"
The horse clears the trees, and upon spying Tobin he pulls up short and skids to an effortless but unexpected halt, digging up furrows of dirt and rocks with his hooves. His eyes roll white and he tosses his head up in agitation, and Justin's seat is suddenly far less certain than it was moments earlier. The stallion dances away from Tobin, nickering and snorting, and Justin is hauled back into place as if he were an errant sack of grain.
Justin lets out an undignified yelp as he's lurched. He's not thrown, as would be the logical conclusion; instead he regains his seat, grinning ferociously, and lightly slaps the stallion's neck. "It's okay, it's only Tobin! My lord," he calls to Tobin, with a slight bow.
Tobin bows in return, not exactly smiling but still somehow looking pleased to see the wizard. "Out for a ride? It's a poor day for it."
The horse's definition of okay must differ radically from Justin's, because he flicks his ears and paws at the ground. There is no snow, a day without snow is a good day for the running. He sniffs at Tobin cautiously as he shifts his weight, trying to calm down after the small attack of excitement.
"It's above freezing and it's not raining, it's an /excellent/ day for a ride," Justin replies, still grinning like a madman. He rubs Thundersnow's neck and withers to reassure him, looking down at the horse. When he looks back up at Tobin he blinks, only now registering that Tobin is barechested, and suddenly looks rather ruddier than he did a second ago. From the cold, of course!
Tobin looks a little wistful, looking over the horse and Justin. "Of all the many things I have done in my many lives, riding is not one of them. It must be exhilerating."
Thundersnow turns a dark eye on Tobin and his ears flatten out. Not to ride, that sounds like a strange thing. The ones not of Perun might smell Her Rage on you. They might run away then, they always run away, all the time running away.
"Unlike you," Justin says to the stallion, teasing. He dismounts with a slide, landing well. "Rude of me to talk to you from horseback," he says to Tobin. "How does the day find you?"
Tobin blinks at Justin talking to the horse like it said something, but he doesn't ask about it. Some form of wizardry, no doubt. Instead he stoops to pick up his shirt, laying aside his sword at the same time. "My belly is full, though the meal was less than civilized, I'm afraid. The storm has been quite exciting, and I spent the morning listening to the wind rush and laugh along the mountain and feeling the rain joyfully trying to beat down the rocks. It will never give up."
Thundersnow whickers and reaches out with his head to nip at Justin's hair. Away is the wrong direction. I run towards. He steps aside and turns in a small circle, observing with a light neigh, You smell like a gawking colt.
Justin listens to Tobin with a small and delighted smile. Which abruptly vanishes as he blushes and turns to wave Thundersnow's muzzle away. "/Danny/," he mutters in a reproving tone.
Tobin blinks again at Justin, then looks at the horse-- /Danny/, more closely. "Master Wentworth," he says with a bow. "My apologies. I did not realize that you were...you."
Now you smell like an embarrassed gawking colt, Thundersnow amends, swishing his tail. If it's possible for a horse to look shameless, he certainly does at the moment, and the effect is only increased as he bows his head until his mane is almost on the ground. With that small bit of ceremony over, he returns to sniffing at Tobin in the age-old manner of a horse that expects all two-legs to carry treats for any horses they might meet, as is only proper.
Tobin looks a little out of his depth with a horse snuffling at him, an event that is clearly outside of his experience. Wide-eyed, he looks to Justin for some cue as to what to do here.
Justin grins at Tobin, meeting his eyes. "The greedy creature is shaking you down for treats. Here." He steps forward, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a chunk of carrot wrapped in a cloth. This he presses into Tobin's hand. "Just unwrap it first, or he might eat it all, and then I'll have to listen to him bellyaching."
Gradually, a joyful voice is audible over the rushing of the water -- warm and masculine and with the kind of enthusiasm generally found most often in taverns for bawdy tunes. ♫At sixteen months as fine a lad as ever could be seen, the girls all liked to follow me right down to the green. They'd make a chain of buttercups and drop it on my brow, then they'd roll me in the clover, well, I wish they'd do it now...♫ Serendipity wanders into view, apparently intent on the ground surrounding him. The reason for that might have something to do with the small bundle of early spring flowers he seems to have collected so far.
Thundersnow takes a number of deep breaths, trying to track the movement of the carrot through smell, since in these close quarters his large head proves to be a nuisance. Carrotcarrotcarrot. He makes a low sort of squealing sound in anticipation, a half-whinney of impatience.
Tobin takes the carrot with a grateful smile. "Ahh yes," he says, unwrapping the treat. "I'm familiar with creatures wanting treats from me. However, they're usually spirits who want my energies, and usually as a bribe or part of a bargain." He eyes Danny shrewdly then, keeping the carrot just out of reach. "What wisdom would you trade for this morsel, master horse?" he asks, the flicker of a grin playing about his lips. "Could you, for instance, tell me why yon coyote is gathering flowers?"
Justin laughs quietly at both Danny's reaction to the carrot and at Tobin's teasing. He half-turns to see Ren, and grins at him, sketching a salute. "Good morrow, master Coyotekin. Going courting this evening?"
Serendipity glances up, briefly startled, at the hail, and breaks off the song, grinning at the trio and adjusting his trajectory slightly to meet up with them. "Yup," he confirms cheerfully, "...so don't go down t' the diner for a few hours, I'm borrowin' it. What'm I interuptin' here?"
Thundersnow's ears flatten out. He doesn't make a grab for the carrot, although the look in his eyes says it's merely out of some small spec of courtesy. Coyote tells you already. Here I will shift, that is wisdom yes? You have not see us before, we are new. As if being torn from a great treasure, he reluctantly steps away from Tobin and Justin (and the carrot), and once there's room he shifts into his Stormrunner form. His height rises to that of a draft horse's at the shoulder, although his build is not so bulky as those breeds, and he turns to one side so the precious carrot is in view again. Seesee? Carrot.
Tobin looks impressed at Danny's display of shifting and he offers up the carrot as due payment for wisdom granted. "Many thanks, child of Epona," he says with a small bow, then glances at Ren. "Nothing but a theurge bargaining for wisdom," he says, that grin playing about his face again but never really coming through.
"Danny and I were out for a ride," Justin explains to Ren, "as it is /not cold and icy/." He looks back to see Tobin giving Danny his prize, and his expression is, for a moment, all too clearly readable to anybody who can recognize infatuation. It doesn't linger, though, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. "I think we can leave you the Diner for tonight."
Serendipity may well have an acquaintance with that emotion, if the half-amused, half-speculative look Justin briefly gets is any indication. "Much 'preciated, handsome," he replies, and greets the horse with a small wave before focusing on the accidental time-traveler again. "Findin' much?" he inquires, friendly.
The large Stormrunner shape blurs and reforms back into the smaller stallion of before, and Thundersnow lips up the carrot immediately, leaving Tobin's hand no worse for wear. Thankyouthankyou. He shows his gratitude properly by bumping his head against Tobin and blowing out a breath, and whickers a greeting to Ren. Carrot.
Tobin oofs at Danny's bump and chuckles under his breath, giving the stallion a somewhat awkward pat on the forehead. "You're welcome," he says, managing to interperet the gesture despite not speaking Horse. He turns to regard Ren with a long, thoughtful look, and it's a good while before he answers simply, "Yes, yes I am."
"What have you discovered?" Justin asks Tobin, leaning on Thundersnow's shoulder as if he was a horse himself. "If a nosy alchemist may ask." He's trying not to meet Tobin's eyes too obviously. Garou, and all.
Serendipity grins. "Yeah, share the wealth," he agrees, "We could use s'more wisdom 'round here." Almost as if by illustration, he lifts a finger, wanders off about fifteen feet, plucks five or so flowers from a patch of perhaps twelve, and returns.
Thundersnow rests one foot and in turn leans a small bit of his weight against Justin, listening to the conversation placidly now that he's had his carrot.
Tobin shrugs and resumes buttoning up his shirt. "I don't really think it's anything you didn't already know, being natives of this realm as you are," he says, then pauses to glance at Justin with a slightly worried look. "That the mountain is a great spiritual and dimensional nexus, and that a great spirit sleeps beneath it. That there is a great deal of history to this place, and that there are now guardians besides the townsfolk and the sept. I know vaguely what the Warder looks like, that she is Garou, but I know not her name."
"Eos," Justin supplies. He registers the worry, and furrows his brow in response. "Is something amiss? Aside from your behind here in the first place, of course."
Serendipity blinks at Justin, stifles a grin, and leans over oh so very solemnly to study Tobin's rear end closely for a couple moments. "Mm," he says thoughtfully, reaching out and giving one cheek a clinical -- really -- squeeze with his free hand. "Doesn't look t' =me= like there's anything wrong with it," he decided innocently. "'fact, I'd say it's a pretty nice specimen."
Doom, Thundersnow whickers as he hears Tobin's theurgey description of the mountain. He snorts at Justin's unintentional mistake and noses his kumimate's hair, and turns a dark, measuring eye on Ren.
Tobin whirls as Ren lays a hand on his Fangly buttock, slapping the Coyote kin's hand away sharply and shifting, instinctively it seems, into Glabro. He manages to check himself in mid-reach from grabbing Ren by the throat, however, and merely points a sharp-nailed finger at him. "You are too bold, child of Coyote," he rumbles, lips curled back in a half-snarl to show pointed teeth. "I will make exception for your /uncouth/ behaviour, since you are what you are, but pray, do not lay hands on me again without my permission."
Justin looks blank at first, then, as he realizes what he said, blushes a truly magnificent blush. The ensuing actions of both Ren and Tobin lead him to simply bury his face in Thundersnow's mane and mumble something inaudible to any but the stallion.
Garou are fast. Serendipity is no slowpoke himself, especially when he's perfectly aware he's groping an unsuspecting werewolf and gets a good smack on the hand to signal the reaction. He's behind Danny and Justin almost instantaneously, peering around the mage's side. "A'ight, a'ight," he laughs, "no touchy without asky. Promise."
Thundersnow's head flinches away from Tobin in surprise, although it's Ren that he snorts at, with his ears flattened along his head. Justin's thorough embarrassment takes precedence, however, and he consoles the mage in a low nicker, Gawking mortified colt.
Tobin seems satisfied by Ren's response, though he gives him a final glare for good measure before stuffing himself back down into his human form. He scoops up his coat and sword and occupies himself with putting them on. "Would any of you gentlemen know the Warder's Garou name? I wish to announce myself and meet her properly. The mountain calls to me and I desire to visit the caern, if I may." His manner is very curt now.
"Eos," Justin says again, lifting his (very red) face out of Thundersnow's thick mane. "I ought to come with you to meet her, or Julen, our alpha, and vouch for you. Or, somebody ought to," he amends. He can't turn any redder.
Serendipity can't help still grinning, glare or no glare. It was =funny=, dammit! "Oh, I think =you= oughta, Justin," Serendipity opines, giving the mage a companionable pat on the back. "I mean, you know 'em all, an' know the way, and everyone knows you're a dependable and trustworthy kinda guy, yeah? Makes you a perfect whatsit. Emissary." He nods firmly, "so I say you take him. G'luck on your emission." He salutes the group with his bouquet, determinedly Not Smirking (it only twitches around the edges...) and starts off toward the little scattered clumps of wildflowers again. "Later, all."
Spins-Dreams-in-the-Morning's-Light, Thundersnow adds, then nudges Justin to translate if he can. We will go together. You do not need to be embarrassed, he does not mind it, see? It is fine. He grunts at Ren as the Coyote-Kin departs, and swishes his tail.
Tobin summarily ignores Ren. A cat couldn't ignore someone more obviously than this arrogant relic. "I would be in your debt, master alchemist, if you could show me the way."
Justin shakes his head, presumably at the entire scene, and mounts Thundersnow again. He does this quite well for having no saddle or stirrups or mounting block; just a brace and a heave and he's up. "All right. Let's go find her."