Meeting Meg
Jun. 15th, 2010 11:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 10:30 Pacific Time on Tue Jun 15 2010.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (23% full).
Edgewood House: Downstairs
The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well. (+view for details)
Obvious exits:
Front Door Upstairs
It's a chilly day in Saint Claire, certainly not June weather in some parts of the country. But inside Edgewood it's almost pleasant. A kettle sits on the stove, a mug beside it, and a packet of teabags waiting at hand. While she waits for the water to boil Shelby's taking care of the sweeping, dancing about to inaudible music. Every so often she grabs the broom's handle and pulls it to her mouth, though her 'singing' is sotto-voce at best, and mostly murmured words and barely-articulated consonants.
The front door swings open and a blocky figure partially obscured by an armful of clothing stops halfway into the mudroom, the door open behind her and letting a chilly, investigative finger of breeze into the house. "Um. Hello?" The voice is gruffly tentative, which is a combination that might take skill to master.
The Silver Fang 'bah-bah-bah' and 'pah-ti-ta's her way through a fervent chorus before she straightens, grinning to herself. Half of a turn sweeps her past the mudroom and the newcomer there; she startles but doesn't drop the broom. Instead color sweeps up her cheeks as the girl pulls herself up. "Hello," she answers, stiff with embarrassment.
The older woman eyes Shelby uncertainly. It's possible some of this has to do with the chorus, but maybe she looks like that all the time. Her hair is a dense thicket of snarls, her clothes shabby but serviceable. "Hi. S'it okay if I bring this stuff in? Marina said to leave it here." If she knows that the house is open to all, she doesn't act like it.
Medium height, thickset body, dirt-brown hair and pale blue eyes, parchment-light skin scattered with freckles - there is nothing to draw the eye in this unsmiling, slow-moving woman. She's probably actually fairly young - in her late twenties, perhaps - but she manages to give the impression of a woman almost twice that age, with a hard-set square jaw and a keen but disinterested eye. Her hands are broad and short-fingered: worker's hands, though oddly lacking in callouses. Her hair, just shy of being completely straight, might come to the middle of her back if loose, but it's been jammed into a bunch tied with a grubby piece of string at the nape of her neck and left there to fend for itself.
Her accent has the flat, hard vowels of the midwestern states. Her scent, where it is not of wolf and human, is entirely of the woods: earth and pine, leaf-mold and fresh water. She wears a dark green flannel shirt which does not flatter her - though it's hard to imagine what, exactly, would - with jeans, both hanging a little loose on her, work boots, and - usually - a scowl. The shoes are battered almost shapeless and have holes in them. The hair is a dense thicket which has not known any combing for a very long time. She often carries a canvas satchel, not bulging but clearly heavy from the line it makes across her shoulder.
"...Yes?" Shelby doesn't sound like she knows either, precisely. Half a second later she straightens again, posture becoming just that much more perfect, and takes a step toward the intruder. "I'm sorry, may I get an introduction, please? My cousin didn't say she was expecting anyone to drop by."
"My name's Meg Reynalds," the woman says. "You want more of an introduction'n that, I sh'd probably close the door. I'm related to a guy named August, if you know him. An' some others."
At 'August' some of the cub's stiffness drains, and her smile to the other woman turns almost pretty. "Yes - or I can get it, if your arms are too full." She leans the broom carefully against the wall and moves for the door, intent on doing just that if needed. "August is one of my teachers, and a friend of the family. It's Shelby. Shelby Zaleski-Leveque," she adds, also giving the abbreviated version.
Meg gives the door a slightly wistful look but moves far enough into the room to let Shelby close it. She moves as though she's ill at ease inside her clothes, or perhaps her skin. "Where do I put these?" she asks. "Couch?" And then something registers. "Teachers?"
Shelby decides, "Um," as she gives the door a little extra bump with her hip. "Yes, that should be fine, I think." She wrinkles her nose at the other woman for just a moment. "Yes, August-rhya is one of my teachers. I'm also called Doesn't Know When to Stop, Ragabash cub of the Silver Fangs and great-great-granddaughter of Valentin Leveque, known as Winter's Snow on Summer's Branches, Adren Galliard. It's very nice to meet you, Ms. Reynalds."
Something - maybe more than one something - about that introduction makes Meg's eyes narrow just a touch. She sets her armload of clothes - the bundle appears to include some t-shirts with logos or designs on the front, and one in pink with a scalloped neck, a pair of sandals, and at least one pair of camo-colored cargo pants. She straightens, hitches her satchel more securely, and then winces sharply and stops adjusting it. "Meg," she says. "Sometimes called Spirit-of-the-Forest, Gaian theurge an' Chosen of Tree. Pleased to meet you," she adds with patent doubt.
The teakettle clears its throat before breaking into atonal whistling; Shelby tears her eyes away from the heap of clothing to look at it, then back at Meg. "What would you like to be called? And would you like some tea? I found some English Breakfast. There's milk in the fridge, too." She heads past Meg into the kitchen as she speaks, keeping the bulk of the furniture between herself and the Gaian.
"I'm all set," Meg says, about the name or the tea or both. "Marina gave me those, said to drop off what I couldn't use here." She looks around the inoffensive room and hunches her shoulders. "I'll get goin'." And then, reluctantly, "You don't know someone called Ila Kubala, do you?"
Shelby says, "I haven't met her. Marina, I mean." She pauses at the counter, looking uncertain. "...No? But I haven't met a lot of people yet. Zosia-rhya had me patrolling with her, at the last Moot. Who is she?"
"Ain't sure yet," Meg says. "That's what I need to find out. Right. S'long." She turns abruptly and heads back toward the door.
"Um," says Shelby, and, "All right," and her lifted voice chases after Meg with a bright, "It was very nice to meet you!" in case Meg wasn't quite sure.
Apparently she wasn't. The door swings open and closed again without any further comment from Meg, and Shelby has the house to herself once more.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (23% full).
Edgewood House: Downstairs
The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well. (+view for details)
Obvious exits:
Front Door Upstairs
It's a chilly day in Saint Claire, certainly not June weather in some parts of the country. But inside Edgewood it's almost pleasant. A kettle sits on the stove, a mug beside it, and a packet of teabags waiting at hand. While she waits for the water to boil Shelby's taking care of the sweeping, dancing about to inaudible music. Every so often she grabs the broom's handle and pulls it to her mouth, though her 'singing' is sotto-voce at best, and mostly murmured words and barely-articulated consonants.
The front door swings open and a blocky figure partially obscured by an armful of clothing stops halfway into the mudroom, the door open behind her and letting a chilly, investigative finger of breeze into the house. "Um. Hello?" The voice is gruffly tentative, which is a combination that might take skill to master.
The Silver Fang 'bah-bah-bah' and 'pah-ti-ta's her way through a fervent chorus before she straightens, grinning to herself. Half of a turn sweeps her past the mudroom and the newcomer there; she startles but doesn't drop the broom. Instead color sweeps up her cheeks as the girl pulls herself up. "Hello," she answers, stiff with embarrassment.
The older woman eyes Shelby uncertainly. It's possible some of this has to do with the chorus, but maybe she looks like that all the time. Her hair is a dense thicket of snarls, her clothes shabby but serviceable. "Hi. S'it okay if I bring this stuff in? Marina said to leave it here." If she knows that the house is open to all, she doesn't act like it.
Medium height, thickset body, dirt-brown hair and pale blue eyes, parchment-light skin scattered with freckles - there is nothing to draw the eye in this unsmiling, slow-moving woman. She's probably actually fairly young - in her late twenties, perhaps - but she manages to give the impression of a woman almost twice that age, with a hard-set square jaw and a keen but disinterested eye. Her hands are broad and short-fingered: worker's hands, though oddly lacking in callouses. Her hair, just shy of being completely straight, might come to the middle of her back if loose, but it's been jammed into a bunch tied with a grubby piece of string at the nape of her neck and left there to fend for itself.
Her accent has the flat, hard vowels of the midwestern states. Her scent, where it is not of wolf and human, is entirely of the woods: earth and pine, leaf-mold and fresh water. She wears a dark green flannel shirt which does not flatter her - though it's hard to imagine what, exactly, would - with jeans, both hanging a little loose on her, work boots, and - usually - a scowl. The shoes are battered almost shapeless and have holes in them. The hair is a dense thicket which has not known any combing for a very long time. She often carries a canvas satchel, not bulging but clearly heavy from the line it makes across her shoulder.
"...Yes?" Shelby doesn't sound like she knows either, precisely. Half a second later she straightens again, posture becoming just that much more perfect, and takes a step toward the intruder. "I'm sorry, may I get an introduction, please? My cousin didn't say she was expecting anyone to drop by."
"My name's Meg Reynalds," the woman says. "You want more of an introduction'n that, I sh'd probably close the door. I'm related to a guy named August, if you know him. An' some others."
At 'August' some of the cub's stiffness drains, and her smile to the other woman turns almost pretty. "Yes - or I can get it, if your arms are too full." She leans the broom carefully against the wall and moves for the door, intent on doing just that if needed. "August is one of my teachers, and a friend of the family. It's Shelby. Shelby Zaleski-Leveque," she adds, also giving the abbreviated version.
Meg gives the door a slightly wistful look but moves far enough into the room to let Shelby close it. She moves as though she's ill at ease inside her clothes, or perhaps her skin. "Where do I put these?" she asks. "Couch?" And then something registers. "Teachers?"
Shelby decides, "Um," as she gives the door a little extra bump with her hip. "Yes, that should be fine, I think." She wrinkles her nose at the other woman for just a moment. "Yes, August-rhya is one of my teachers. I'm also called Doesn't Know When to Stop, Ragabash cub of the Silver Fangs and great-great-granddaughter of Valentin Leveque, known as Winter's Snow on Summer's Branches, Adren Galliard. It's very nice to meet you, Ms. Reynalds."
Something - maybe more than one something - about that introduction makes Meg's eyes narrow just a touch. She sets her armload of clothes - the bundle appears to include some t-shirts with logos or designs on the front, and one in pink with a scalloped neck, a pair of sandals, and at least one pair of camo-colored cargo pants. She straightens, hitches her satchel more securely, and then winces sharply and stops adjusting it. "Meg," she says. "Sometimes called Spirit-of-the-Forest, Gaian theurge an' Chosen of Tree. Pleased to meet you," she adds with patent doubt.
The teakettle clears its throat before breaking into atonal whistling; Shelby tears her eyes away from the heap of clothing to look at it, then back at Meg. "What would you like to be called? And would you like some tea? I found some English Breakfast. There's milk in the fridge, too." She heads past Meg into the kitchen as she speaks, keeping the bulk of the furniture between herself and the Gaian.
"I'm all set," Meg says, about the name or the tea or both. "Marina gave me those, said to drop off what I couldn't use here." She looks around the inoffensive room and hunches her shoulders. "I'll get goin'." And then, reluctantly, "You don't know someone called Ila Kubala, do you?"
Shelby says, "I haven't met her. Marina, I mean." She pauses at the counter, looking uncertain. "...No? But I haven't met a lot of people yet. Zosia-rhya had me patrolling with her, at the last Moot. Who is she?"
"Ain't sure yet," Meg says. "That's what I need to find out. Right. S'long." She turns abruptly and heads back toward the door.
"Um," says Shelby, and, "All right," and her lifted voice chases after Meg with a bright, "It was very nice to meet you!" in case Meg wasn't quite sure.
Apparently she wasn't. The door swings open and closed again without any further comment from Meg, and Shelby has the house to herself once more.