shelbyrou: (homid)
[personal profile] shelbyrou
It is currently 09:57 Pacific Time on Wed Apr 11 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (67% full).

Tenement Building - Basement Apartment
The basement apartment is roomy but windowless. The wooden steps come down near one wall, against which is the boiler and a large washer/dryer. The area underneath the steps is used for storage, though the boxes tend to get quite dusty and cobwebby down there.

The rest of the area is set up as living space, albeit rather unlived-in at the moment. The battered rust-orange couch and heavy, scarred wooden coffee table still hold court in the main room, and a scattering of rugs soften the hard concrete floor. But the bookshelf is mostly empty, and there's a pale spot where the entertainment center used to be. Instead, hanging on that wall is a framed painting, two and a half feet by a foot and a half; the landscape merges a dark, brooding city into a primeval forest, in an Escher-like transformation that moves from left to right. There's a subterranean aspect to it -- not a simple cutaway view, just a hint of energy and movement around the roots of the towering trees.

Everywhere there are cockroaches, oval brown forms often seen scuttling from point A to point B or hanging quietly on the ceiling with their antennae waving.

Doorways lead to a narrow kitchen (colored in dull yellows and browns) and a small bedroom that contains an empty bed and an equally empty desk.

Obvious exits:
Out


News travels quickly in a Sept, even considering the distances it need must travel. Around mid-morning the door creaks open and Shelby descends the stairs bearing a paper bag from which the rich scents of fresh bread and coffee waft. Despite her obvious familiarity with the surroundings she isn't oblivious to any dangers, her eyes attentive. Today she's wearing a cute little dress cut just above the knee and kicky wedges - if she had a jacket she left it above. Like her target audience she bears all the hallmarks of exquisite Silver Fang breeding.

This man is obviously athletic, solid, and confident in his body. He stands at above six feet, his features generally pleasing and of a strong northern european, caucasian aesthetic; his skin has seen a fair amount of sun (App 4/PB 5). Aside from a few wild bangs, his brown hair is short-cropped and relatively ordered, trimmed beard slightly lighter. His eyes are blue, stark, sometimes piercing, brows often furrowed in thought, jaw squared and set. However, when his mind is not so laden, the man's expression is lighter, welcoming, and quite handsome.

He is currently wearing an anachronistic set of full plate and chain armor, sans a helmet, which does not seem to be on his person, and may be presumed lost. The metal is likely some kind of alloy, likely steel, currently worn and nicked in many places, though it appears to have once been polished and well-cared for. Still visible are a number of embellishments, including a coat of arms across the breastplate, lion motif about the arms and legs, and thistles at the joints. The phases of the moon have been stiched into and adorn the man's leather belt. A sheathed sword hangs from said belt.


The other Fang is awake, though his normally handsome features are pensive, and perhaps somewhat dark. A pile of clothes, neatly folded lay on chair next to the bed--they're sweats, a t-shirt, likely cub clothes. The man hasn't bothered with them. Instead he's still wearing his leather breeches and tailored undershit from with the 1600s, tied up only to his mid-chest, sleeves a bit poofy, though tied tight about the wrists. There's a sheathed sword at his side, and the man is in the process of slipping on his leather boots, worn from use. At the interruption and clap-clap of feet on the stairs, he looks up, brows furrowed. The site of another who is obviously a cousin, however, lightens the weight upon his shoulders immensely. "Ye be one a' the King's Blood from this country?" he asks, voice thickly Scottish.

Shelby finishes her descent while, perhaps, considering his question (or processing through his accent). "I am," she says finally, and crosses to the coffee table to deposit the bag and withdraw two cups, both steaming. "Is French easier for you?" she adds in that language, glancing over her shoulder to judge his reaction. The further contents of the bag turn out to be a pair of fresh bagels, a small tub of cream cheese, and a plastic knife.

Dirk shakes his head slightly, though he does seem to understand. "A' cannae speak French, but I know the words," he says gesturing to an ear. "Y'kin? Same truth be for Latin. Gaelic was spake as the leid of my fathers." But, obviously aware he's getting a bit ahead of himself, the man takes a slow breath, trying to speak a precise, London English. At least of his time. It's only partially successful. "The... language you speak. It be English, but not the King's English. Is this how the colonists of the New World have come to speak?"

Shelby ahs, a touch disappointed, at his lack of French, but gathers up one of the mugs before perching on the edge of the couch. A poor throne indeed, though she sits as though it were carved marble and gold. "Eat," she offers-cum-commands, waving him toward the bread and drink. And, "It is. I would have your introduction." Her own words are likely closer to the accent he recognizes - at least, an English accent - than he's yet encountered, but she's careful to speak slowly and clearly. Then, wryly, "I suppose you have no Polish either?"

Dirk apparently decides it's more important and courteous to begin with the formalities before he even makes a pretense at going for the food. "I... am," he tries to assume the correct verbiage, "Theodoric of clan Duncan, son of Mary the Even-Handed, grandson of Glynn the First-Wielder. I am known as he who cries glory above the din of battle, born of Falcon under the war-caller's moon... Galliard," he supplies, after a brief moment of thought, "in the year of our Lord sixteen and seventy. I have sworn my oaths to the Kings of Scotland and the Sept of the Thistle an' Spear." Then, with something of a heavy heart and a solemn expression, he also places a hand on the sword. "Also wielder of the Aegis Radiant, as my brother did before me."

"Shelby Zaleski-Leveque," the white-haired woman responds, "Fostern Ragabash and acting elder of the Silver Fangs here in the Hidden Walk. I am a daughter of Dragonfly in the pack Equinox. I am also called Bright Eye Sees to the Heart of the Ambush, once known as Falcon's Gambit Accepted. I am the great-great-granddaughter of Valentin Leveque, Adren Galliard, Winter's Snow on Summer's Branches, who was the son of Alexandrie Duvernay, Athro Ragabash, Peregrine Hunts the Quarry. She was the granddaughter of Dorothee Simonet, Elder Theurge Chained to Lightning with Silver, She Burns with Helios' Fire." A pause, her lips twitch, and she adds, "I was born in the year 1992. Be welcome to St. Claire, Theodoric."

At first, Shelby's introduction is taken in stride, though, naturally, the man hasn't heard of any of these names. He does seem to take great pains to not appear completely blank, however. But. But! As soon as she speaks the year, the man blanches. "Nineteen and ninety-two?" the man asks, slowly, disbelieving.

"Coffee," she says firmly, pointing at the other cup. "And eat something. I brought you bread and cheese." She sips at her own coffee then, reminded, pries open the lid of the plastic container and removes the clear film.

Suddenly not very hungry, Dirk makes a mostly token attempt at the food. The coffee, however, momentarily fascinates him. Maybe because it's coffee. Or maybe it's the cup. Regardless, he takes a few moments to investigate, sipping the liquid cautiously only after Shelby does the same. "The taste is different than I remember," he says, lowering the cup. "A' heard the spirit moons spin tales once a' the Umbra takin' people to far off countries." Clearly, however, he did not expect this.

Shelby continues to act as though three hundred year old Scottish men were an everyday occurrence - or maybe she just really likes coffee. "It's got soy milk," she says of his. "They aren't lying. The Umbra gave me this." She tosses her head, likely indicating her hair. "It used to be black. Plus I lost a few months, just last year, and ended up in France. Not quite as impressive as -your- little trip, mind. Speaking of - I'd like to hear your story."

"France," says Dirk, reiterating the word, as if doing so makes it real. He grasps the coffee cup tightly, finding some comfort in Shelby's short story--something of a sympathetic soul. "So if this be the colonies, then Scotland still exists? England? A true King still sits on the throne? The Dancers of the Black Spiral have nae destroyed our kin?" Then, realizing he's aggressively inquisitive, he lifts the coffee again and adds, "A' was with my pack-brothers, deep in the Umbra. We were attacked."

Shelby says, "Yes, yes, sort of - it's Queen Elizabeth the second, not a king - and no," ticking off the answers on her fingers. "Attacked by what?" She seems a perfectly willing and attentive audience."

Dirk rubs gently at his forehead. "A child of the Wyrm. A bane. Aka Mainyu. We had a history, us and he. He came at us when we were alone, vulnerable. 'is claws took many a' my pack brothers, but he is dead." The man looks up, shaking his head. "But by then, the country had changed. It was somewhere new, an' we were lost. One by one my brothers fell or changed or disappeared, until the Wyld came an' swept us up, bearing us away. It took me many places, many I have no words for, and then it brought me here."

The Ragabash continues attentive, occasionally mouthing words where his are unclear. "The Wyld," she repeats much as he'd done, and once he seems finished. "I'm sorry for your loss. What are your plans now? We have Theurges, who may - may - be able to send you home. Provided you can offer Chiminage, you may stay here. Or we can return you to Scotland, if that's your wish."

What will he do now? The man seems to think, laughing dryly and with some bitterness. "Ye are verry kin'," he says, "But if the year is as ye say, a dinna ken. A' could go back an' live in a place the same but different. Judge me as ye will, but I think t'woud be harder to go than stay. I would talk to your theurges. If they can send me back, more the better. If'n I be stuck..." he seems at a loss. "My family may live yet," he offers. "But've nowhere t'go. Y'kin? Where would I go an' be prepared for this world?"

Shelby continues sipping at her coffee, ignoring both the bagels and his essential neglect of same. "You may not want to stay, once you've seen it," she says finally. "The end times are near. At the very least, there are packs, both Garou and wolf, in the woods. You might choose to stay there. But first we should stop pressing on the Walker's hospitality."

Dirk smiles thingly, but its something of an improvement. "E'ry day t'was 'the end is nigh' at the edge a' the Highlands. The dancers of the black spiral lived in great hives to the north, an' we were at the fore; e'ry day was a battle. Mayhap God an' Gaia wished this, to prepare me; I cannae say." He glances around once more. "The Warders a' Men don't seem well suited to hostin' a Lord's son. Though I appreciate what they've done. If you be my cousin an' Elder, then I will follow what you say. Be it not for me to continue livin' with such luxury," he jokes, gesturing to the dusty boxes.

Shelby responds dryly, "And this is the last Gaian Sept in the Pacific Northwest. I'll see your End Times and raise you a Prophecy of the Phoenix. Get your clothes," she gestures to the unwanted pile with her chin, "and the food and meet me upstairs. I'll leave a note that I've collected you." Plan made, she rises and heads for the steps, leaving him to follow.

The bulk of Dirk's plate armor is collected into a duffel bag. (He's figured out zippers by this point. Fascinating!) Though he carries his breastplate underneath one arm, sword in his free hand, duffel strap over his shoulder. He's also in the provided sweats and tee, all of which are far too small for the tall, fit 20-something. When he arrives at Shelby's car, having seen several of the machines by this point, he simply wonders, "Where be--are all the horses?"

Shelby left her car a block or so from the Tenement - not that it fits in any better on this street than near the Walkers' safehouse. "No horses," she says wryly. "Or rather, they're only for those with money to waste, and the only ones in the city are with the police. Bag back here," she adds, opening the two passenger side doors and gesturing at the back seat. "You, up front. I'll show you how to work everything once we're out of here."

Still perplexed, Dirk places the bag in the back as indicated, his sword as well. Though he seems loathe to detach from it. "How does a hackney coach move without horses? Or any carriage, for that matter." His thick Scots English lightens somewhat as they take to the street, though it's obvious he's having to take some thought to do it. Very unnatural. As indicated, he tentatively takes to the front seat, trusting in Shelby's promise."

Shelby closes the doors firmly rather than answer his query. Only after she herself is seated and buckled in (and Dirk's walked through how to do it himself) does she lift wry eyebrows at him. "Short answer: it'll take too long to explain. Shorter answer: the Weaver. Long answer...," she pauses to check mirrors and navigate into traffic, maneuvering neatly down the road, "An internal combustion engine and petroleum by-products."

The man is a fairly quick study, but even so, he's not quite prepared for the sudden turning over of the engine, the shake, the noise. One hand is immediately on the door, the other on the dash with loud smacks. "What Weaver devilry have ye got in this thing?" he says, roughly. And rather loud, too. The surprise is written in clear detail on his face. "A what? Is it safe?"

Shelby is, not that Dirk can reasonably be expected to tell, a safe driver, using her turn signals and checking to be sure space is open before moving into it. "Short answer and long answer," she repeats, turning at the park to head for the bridge. "And yes, it's safe, for whatever definition of 'safe' you want to use today. Keep your eyes open and look around. It'll help you decide if you really want to stay here after all."

Not exactly shaken, but certainly still nervous, Dirk retrieves his hand from the dash, though his other continues to firmly grip the door. Slowly, his eyes adjust to the speed of the vehicle, examining the buildings, the people, the tehcnology. "This city," he says, without turning around. "I don't remember hearin' about it. Not from the literature out of the New World. Ye said 'Pacific Northwest'. I dinnae kin. Of the New World? Last I read it ne'er ended to west. Only more land."

"I'll have to show you," Shelby starts, and laughs shortly. "I'll have to show you a map. St. Claire has something like... a million people in it? Maybe closer to million and a half." The Columbia River, as they drive over, has to be something of an eye-opener for the Galliard, not to mention the bridge itself. "We're over two thousand miles from Virginia, where I was born." Traffic and buildings diminish as they enter Kent's Crossing, though there are still plenty of both.

It is... certainly a new angle on seeing a large river, certainly. It demands his attention for a few, very long moments. "Virginia," he says, his reverie diminished. "I know Virginia. The country of Jamestown. Your birthplace? Is it like this? Or filled with the natural inhabitants?"

"Like this?" she repeats, glancing over. "Sunlit Water's a Lion Sept, so it's nothing like this. But if you're asking if it's all built up vs. filled with Native Americans and trees?" She pauses at a stop sign, then turns left. "Virginia's closer to this." The drive lasts only a few minutes more before she's pulling into the driveway of a secluded house. "Here we are." True to her word she demonstrates lock, window, and door handle before turning off the ignition and heading inside (waiting politely for Dirk to retrieve his things).

"Thistle an' Spear is... was a Lion Sept as well," Dirk explains, the energy of his voice dipping as he remembers. "You call them Native Americans?" Something about this seems to amuse him, slightly, but he doesn't elaborate. "I only saw pictures of Virginia in books." He becomes quiet, perhaps meditative, as they arrive, though the diversion of learning about new machines distracts him well enough. Then there's the collecting of his things, and all said, he seems of about the same mind as he was before they left. "This is... your house?"

From far up the driveway, there's the distant rumble of a car; it's approaching slowly, but steadily. This may remind the Fang elder that there someone did say something about swinging by earlier... (the car's also pretty fancy. And expensive. And a Porsche, albiet not one of the super-slick sports car ones.)

Shelby glances over but doesn't answer the question about terminology, merely smiles, faintly. "No, but close enough. That is, I live here. --Oh, damn," she adds, distracted, as her head cocks toward the sound of that engine. "Looks like we'll have company. There's a new kin in town. So. Looks like we'll be doing all sorts of meetings today." She waves Dirk absently toward the door before moving past him to unlock it.

Country House

His armor's breastplate once again held beneath his arm, duffel bag strap upon his shoulder, and sheathed sword in his right hand, Dirk's stuff is gathered, and nods towards Shelby in a half-understanding sort of way. The addition of a second car, however, causes him to not quite stare, but it certainly has his attention. Not entirely certain there's anything else more to be said, he remains quiet, and simply follows Shelby therein.

Shortly, the car parks, and the aforementioned Fang kin steps out. All business casual, today; black pants, long-sleeved shirt. No tie today, though. A smartphone is checked for the time, then then he heads on up for the door. Knock knock, who's there.

This young man is average height - around 5'8" - and is lean, at least moderately fit, and has been blessed with good genes that supply attractive features. Eyes are blue, and blond hair is usually a bit longer than some might prefer, but it's well-cut. The small amount of facial hair he does have is close-shaven but kept to supply age to young features. He's perhaps in his early-to-mid twenties. However, he has a certain way about him that stands out just a bit more than should be normal; one can just /tell/ this one has money. His clothes range from the businessy side of things - casual suits, ties - to shirts and jeans, but whatever he's in is cut well and isn't cheap.

Despite this, however, more often than not he's almost always -trying- to remain inconspicuous in the manner of people who don't really know how to be. For those of Garou persuasion, one can tell he is born of the Silver Fangs, and that breeding is very obvious.


Shelby has enough time to direct Dirk to the living room - "Put your bag down anywhere," - and give the lower level an appraising look before the knock comes; she opens the door almost before Charley's hand has dropped and gives the kin a welcoming smile. "Mr. Townsend? Come in, please. I'm Shelby. Your timing is excellent; we just arrived, ourselves."

Dirk, meanwhile, busies himself with putting his stuff down, and so is not immediately visible.

Charley offers the girl a bit of a crooked grin, friendly yet a bit reserved. "Afternoon," he replies, waiting until he's gestured in before stepping in himself and giving the place a glance around; his accent is distinctly British, and of the posher side of things. "And Charley, please. Good to meet you. Is it --ah, safe to talk, here?"

"Safe as... houses," Shelby agrees with a quirk of a smile, closing the door. "I was just fetching a new Galliard. Dirk's only just arrived." She doesn't - precisely - herd Charley into the living room, but she definitely allows him to precede her. "Why don't you start with your introduction?" (Sense Wyrm: everyone’s OK)

It just so happens that Dirk is in the process of inspecting his sword's blade as Charley begins to walk into the room. There's also a breastplate on the couch beside him, and a duffel next to that. He's currently in... a sad affair of post-change cub attire, provided by Flint. Which he appears none-to-pleased about. A nod is offered towards the kinsman, as he enters.

Charley hesitates at that, and perhaps even looks a little uncomfortable; it turns into discomfitted and mild confusion once he actually spots Dirk. "A --new new Galliard?" he asks, a bit uncertainly - apparently unsure whether this is an old cub or ...who knows what. Ahem. However, the question brings him back around, and that smile returns. "Charles Alexander Townsend, Jr, kin to the Silver Fangs. My family's bloodline goes back a long ways, but there are no garou in my immediate family. I'm from London, came here to work for one of my father's business friends."

"New to us," Shelby clarifies with one of her brilliant smiles as moves past Charley to settle into one of the arm chairs. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, current acting Elder of the Silver Fangs, and a Fostern Ragabash. I'm also called Bright Eye Sees to the Heart of the Ambush. I'm the great-great-granddaughter of the Adren Galliard Falcon's Cry Turns Tears to Blood."

"London?" The Scottish Galliard sits up a little straighter. There's a city he's immeasureably more familiar with. In his slight excitement, trying to speak clearly is forgotten, and his thick Scots English picks right back up: "I lived t' the north and west of Glasgow. Loch Lomond, Sept a' the Thistle an' Spear. Theodoric of Clan Duncan son of--plenty a' people I'm sure haven't heard of," the man grumps, be he says them anyways, with pride: "Mary the Even-Handed, half-moon who brokered parley and peace between clans, grandson of Glynn the First-Wielder, klaive-warrior and guardian of the faith." Sheathing the sword, he adds, "I am he who cries glory above the din of battle, named a' the second rank, born a' Falcon under the war-caller's moon in the year of our lord sixteen and seventy. Wielder of the Aegis Radiant, sworn defender a' the Kings of Scotland."

"A pleasure, Shelby. If I'd have thought about it, I would have brought over a bottle of wine or something, but. Bit of a rush, these past few days." Charley grins a fraction, resting an arm on the back of one of the armchairs, but not seeming inclined to sit just yet. Too much driving! Flying! Argh. And then, at Dirk's introduction, he smiles a little tensely as the Scotsman becomes a bit harder to understand, but at least he grew up in the land of a million accents. He relaxes a little toward the end as he begins to get the flow of the thick accent, and then nods. "Thistle and Spear. I'm familiar with it; rumor has it's been around for years and years. Never visited, though. --good to meet you, too."

Shelby listens politely, though without much comprehension to Dirk's speech - thankfully, she's heard most of it already. She politely brushes off Charley's offer with a, "Not at all," and adds, once they've finished, "I may enlist you to help Theodoric with suitable clothing. Most of what's easily available is suitable for cubs," she nods to the t-shirt and sweats, "and I'm not sure about braving a mall, not with the moon this big. --Do you have any colors you prefer?" she adds to the Galliard.

With even that faintest glimmer of something familiar, Dirk's somewhat dour expression blossoms into a soft grin--what seems far more natural for his features. "Truly? Be there any way to send a message? Some clan cousin may still be there... distant cousin," he adds, with something of a lament. Oh, but clothes, yes, please, clothes. "Blue is a color of my clan an' my country," he offers.

Charley considers what Shelby asks, and then eyes Dirk a little. "I imagine I could manage something," he says, though he's apparently unsure as to exactly what's going on. "--And I'm sure there is. I have family over there, so I could make some calls." The word "family" has something a bit wry in it, though.

"Fabulous," Shelby avers, gifting Charley with another one of those smiles. "Speaking of family... I should give you the contact information for everyone in town. There aren't many of us that are Garou; I estimate we've twice as many kin, if not more. Would you like me to put them into your phone, or write them down? And where are you staying? Todd can probably help you find a place to live, if you're looking."

Charley gives Shelby a bit of an odd look at that; not disbelieving or judgmental, but maybe a bit surprised. "--really? Huh. My father told me there were quite a few here, but he may've been going on old info." He actually ponders that for a second, and then brings out his phone, unlocking it. Not an iPhone user, this one. Android! "--if you wouldn't mind?" And, a positively charming grin; seems like Fangs are good at that. "And I've got an apartment uptown for now. Thanks, though. I'll be looking for something a bit more permanent soon enough, I figure."

"Must've been," she agrees blandly, with a little what-can-you-do grimace. "Thanks." It takes her a few moments to figure out the interface, but really, one smart phone is very similar to another. "Todd's a property manager, Angela's an accountant," she says absently as she types. "Tristan Steele - maybe you've heard of him? - is Zosia's husband and owns a bit of property in town." Glancing up she adds, "How much other information would you like? If you plan on spending lots of time in St. Claire I can hook you up with some of the Walkers."

There's a log of language in there Dirk fails to immediately grasp, but Charley's promise mollifies him enough where he seems content letting the back-and-forth progress for a few minutes while he checks in the duffel to make sure he didn't leave any equipment behind. "Does everyone call them 'Glass Walkers' now?" he says, slowly. "I know them as the Warders a' Men."

"Steele Industries?" Charley does look a bit surprised at that. "Well. He could've told me that. We didn't have dealings with them, but they're hard to miss in the business world." Wry, that. He considers. "Well. The business that my father hooked me into is Walker-run, but any contacts are good."

Charley also glances aside to Dirk, and blinks. "They haven't been known as that for... god, since the 1800s? Ish?"

Shelby glances over at Dirk but keeps tapping at Charley's phone. "Something like that. Now they're the Glass Walkers. We've got...," she pauses, blinks, then laughs quietly. "We've got all thirteen tribes here." Another moment and she hands the phone back to the kin. "There you are. Elder and acting elder of the Walkers, plus the only Walker kin I know. He only recently learned he was kin, so he might have questions. I've been teaching him, a little, while trying not to step on toes."

"Aye," says Dirk, with a light shrug. "'Tis the way it was where--when I come from. Many a' your words are not familiar t'me. An' many a' the tribes I've yet t'meet. Bein' near the north a' the known world, there be only so many willin' t' join our fight." He has no comment on the rest, unsurprisingly. "Am I t'stay here, then? Or will there be others a' can go an' speak to? Theurges? I'm also gointa need t'know where ye get trainin'."

Charley gives Shelby a questioning glance, but then apparently decides not to question it for now. "Thanks," he says, taking his phone back and looking through it breifly before putting it up. "All thirteen is impressive. I'm surprised you all keep sane." A wry smile, there.

Shelby returns Charley's glance with a small shrug-and-smile. "Well," she says lightly, "the Sept Alpha's an Uktena and the Warder is Wendigo. Mostly I stay away from them, which only leaves eleven." So much easier to deal with. Dirk, however... "That depends on what you want to do. We claim territory in those woods I mentioned, if you want to go there for a few days. Zosia, our only theurge, is currently indisposed, and the Ritemaster's away. I'll have to ask around to find others. You could spend a few days on Equinox' territory - not quite as isolated, and you'd have others to talk to. Or I could take you to Edgewood, which is a sort of meeting place for everyone. It's on the edge of the bawn. --Which reminds me," she adds, looking between them both. "The Caern's currently asleep, and for the love of Gaia, do not go on the Bawn, or eat anything you find there. It's overrun by the Wyld."

Charley holds up his hands. "Frankly, I'm not one for the woods, anyway. Especially when there's things that might eat me out there." Indeed, he looks like a night out in the woods might be so foreign a notion as going skiing in the Sahara.

"That's nae a' borra," says Dirk, referring to the forest. "Ranged plenty with the full-moon warriors a' the sept. But if I'm t'be here for a time, I should be gettin' t'know the others." He pauses, thinking back to something. "Though seems they nae be all leapin' o'er bushels t'come see me. A' can stay here an' be no use t' anyone, or out makin' m'self known." But then, he turns to Charley. "If ye be need'n help with anythin', cousin, ye need but ask." The same as obviously true for Shelby, as he tips his head in her direction.

Shelby considers them both for a few minutes. "I think," she tells Dirk slowly, "I'll show you where Edgewood is - both of you," with a glance to Charley. "It's within walking distance of here. I'll give you a key, Theodoric, until you find someplace else to stay. Equinox' territory is about twenty miles from here, so that can wait for another day. --Charley," she adds, struck by a thought, "while you're out would you mind picking up one of those basic phones - you know, the ones they give to children? We can put in a few numbers for emergencies." To Dirk, "You don't need to use it, but I'd feel more comfortable if you had a way to reach me."

"Sure thing. Same goes to you. I'll go pick up some clothes." The kin eyes Dirk critically, as though appraising size, and then glances back toward Shelby with that request. "--right. Sure," he says, considering. "That won't be a problem."

Dirk catches the word 'children' in the appropriate enough context, and shifts his weight uncomfortably. Being at such a disadvantage does not sit well with the Scotsman. "Thank ye," he tells them both, regardless. "It's true as they say: we'd be lost without family."

"It's only for a little while," Shelby tells the Galliard reassuringly, having caught that fidget. "You've got enough else to catch up on that dealing with telephone technology is pretty far down on the list." She stands and smooths her skirt. "Ready for Edgewood? We can take my car."

"I'll follow you," Charley replies, removing keys from his pockets; he gives the girl a smile which transfers over to the Galliard as well. "So I won't have to walk back."
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May 2012

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