This is why Al shoots her
Apr. 15th, 2010 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouCurrently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (10% full).
The Sept Compound
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center of the clearing is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under 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. The meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number of bees and butterflies. (+view works here)
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
Obvious exits:
Forest
"A good name. From a good gibbous, to a good gibbous." Tim looks thoughtful, rubbing his chin, then moves towards the fire. "She'd be a good person to learn some things from, if Cole's willing to let her show you." He has a hand-made tambourine in one hand, and is moving over to the firepit. Setting the instrument aside, he starts refreshing the fire, adding tinder and then slightly larger sticks.
"Jason-rhya gave her permission," Jacey explains, "He has ..or had the go-ahead from Cole-rhya to assign us teachers. Javen-rhya has pretty much taken over my training and is teaching me the ways of the Fenrir Blood." She pauses, watching the flames for a moment before adding, "Not like Oskar, though."
Tim pauses in adding sticks to the fire and looks up at Jacey. "Teaching you the ways of Fenrir," he repeats, probably for the cub's benefit more than his own. With a bob of his eyebrows, he goes back to his task. "Well, it's good you're getting taught. That's what matters." His heart's not completely behind that statement, though.
The sound of something moving through the forest can be heard long before a white shape is seen. Whoever it is isn't particularly skilled at woodscraft. It's not a wolf, though, but a Shelby who steps into the clearing, smoothing down the jacket of her tracksuit. "Thought I heard voices," she says with an apologetic smile. "Afternoon Tim-rhya, Jacey. Am I interrupting?"
"Well, not exactly like..." Jacey pauses, trying to put into words better what she means. Her head swivels toward the sounds of approach, a brow raising as it turns out to be Shelby coming into the clearing. "Hello, Shelby." The Fianna sounds slightly distracted, her eyes flicking back to Tim and then settling on the fire. "Sorry, Tim-rhya. It's not easy to explain what I mean. I'm not learning the psycho-ness that some of the Get of Fenris have, but... I'm learning things the way Javen-rhya was taught. To help bridge the gap between Tribes. That's why.. Rift-Mender."
Tim makes a low sound at Jacey. He nods at Shelby and waves her in. "You're not interrupting, we're just discussing teaching people. And respect." He flicks an amused look at Jacey that fades to seriousness. "As long as you remember, she might be your teacher, but you belong to Stag."
Shelby looks around the clearing, her attention caught by the slab, but it's to the fire she goes, holding her hands out to the heat. "Is there really a problem with the Get of Fenris and the Fianna here?" she asks Tim, offering Jacey another apologetic frown. "I know they don't get along, but neither do the Get and the Black Furies."
"Yes, Tim-rhya," Jacey replies. "It's not easy to forget." Her tone implies there might be something else there, but to answer Shelby she drops that thread. "Not really a problem so much as a lack of understanding." The Fianna cub looks toward the Fang, head tilting slightly. "Single people who can't see past their own dillusions of grandure on both sides is my guess."
"Actually," Tim says, gesturing with a small stick, "the Get of Fenris Elder and the Black Fury Elder are in a Pack. And Charlene from the Furies and the same Get of Fenris Elder are friends, last I knew." He gives Jacey a sly look, then pitches the stick into the fire and gets up. "The strife probably is between individuals and not the entire Tribes."
"There are quite a few of both tribe here, aren't there?" Shelby asks, waving a hand in front of her eyes in a vain attempt to keep the smoke away. "More than the Silver Fangs, anyway." If Tim's going to stop poking things with sticks it's practically Shelby's duty to take over from him, right? Not that she has any idea what to do with a fire, a fact which is quickly made obvious.
Jacey grins after a moment of watching Shelby, head shaking slightly. Yet she makes no move to help the older girl. "I like Viv-rhya," she replies, looking toward Tim. "She tussled with me and said she'd help if ever I needed it. And Charlene-rhya and I are talking about packing together after I Rite."
Tim arches an eyebrow at Jacey. "Yeah? Planning a pack already?" He turns towards the structure and ducks inside it briefly, re-emerging with his shoulderbag. He digs around inside it and pulls out some beef jerky a bunch of purple grapes, which he offers to the cubs in turn after getting a seat by the fire. The jerky appears to be home-made, not store-bought, and the grapes are large and juicy.
Shelby manages to knock one of the burning sticks out of the conflagration while Tim's back is turned, kicking up a shower of sparks. She quickly drops her poking stick and leans back to wrap her arms about her knees, only to relax and take some grapes with a murmur of thanks. "Zosia's in a pack," she informs the others. "Unicorn. With August, Cole, Leila, and someone named Greg. He's the only one I haven't met." She's about to pop a grape into her mouth when she realizes, "He's a Fianna too, isn't he?"
With a sigh, Jacey moves to take over the fire tending. She picks up the stick Shelby had abandoned and gently nudges the logs back into place. "Greg-rhya, yeah. He's a Philodox in my Tribe, but I almost never see him."
"He takes care of Edgewood," Tim supplies from his own knowledge. He chews on a grape with deliberation. "And given how rough that's been lately I suspect he's pretty busy with it." He glances across the fire at Shelby, then regards a piece of jerky, turning it over in his hands much like he did the tambourine earlier. "Sounds like a good pack. I think they'll do well."
Shelby echoes without any real understanding, "Edgewood," and promptly follows it up with, "What's that? --I'm not thinking about packs yet," in case they were wondering. "I think I can count the number of garou I know on both hands."
"Edgewood is a house not far from here that we cubs aren't suppose to be going to." Jacey pokes idly at the fire, nudging another log into a better position. "It got attacked about two months ago and the Warder then declared no cubs or Kin. There's been one or two more attacks there since; one of the best warriors I met died there during an attack."
"Just no cubs," Tim corrects Jacey, but his tone turns wry as he adds, "Though if cubs aren't safe there, Kin really aren't either. Not that this stops some of them from showing up." There's the ghost of good humor in his expression when he says that, which is summarily chased off by Jacey's mention of Mariya. He clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, she was," he looks away into the fire, "good people."
Shelby says wryly, "If it's not on the bawn, I don't think I could go there anyway." She pulls one knee close and loops an arm around it, wrinkles her nose at Jacey and across the fire at Tim. Hesitantly, "Was she... part of your pack?" and glances at Jacey again with a what's-up-with-him jerk of her head at the Strider.
A slouchy figure shuffles into the compound, a black Red Wings hat pulled low over her forehead. She heads toward the small group at the fire but keeps just a bit of space. She isn't uncomfortable precisely; there's the air of someone just used to being apart. "'lo."
Jacey frowns at Shelby, poking the stick deeper into the embers of the fire. "She was a member of the Sept and an awesome fighter. She died protecting this place." The Fianna leaves the stick burried in the fire as she stands abruptly. She turns to walk from the fire, get into the cooler, and comes more or less face to face with the newcomer.
Tim uses Camille's approach as a distraction from really getting broody. "Hey, what's up," he says, and pulls a cluster of grapes off the main bunch. He holds them out as an extension to his hello. Looking askance at Jacey and then Shelby, he explains, "I knew her. And no, we weren't in a pack." His eyes go back to the Galliard cub and he nods his approval for her brief description..
Camille
It takes a moment for most to see beyond the surface of this woman. It may take a moment, as a matter of fact, to see that this -is- a woman. Standing around five foot six, she seems bulkier than she is as she is swathed in layers of clothes. With a dusky, freckled complexion and slightly tilted dark brown eyes beneath a mop of roughly braided dark brown hair (that is generously streaked with a silvery gray), it is difficult to tell just what heritage Camille originates from--from some angles she seems asian but from others seems african, european, or even arabic. There's nothing particularly remarkable about her features other than a rather nasty scar that spans the front of her throat, looking as though someone once tried to rip her trachea out and that she seems to be in her mid to late thirties. She has a very raspy deep voice with a distinct Michigan accent.
Shelby rolls her eyes behind Jacey's back, not bothering to hide the expression from anyone else. "Well excuse me for asking. I'm just supposed to know these things?" She doesn't rise, but studies Camille from where she sits, taking in the hat and the layers upon layers with faint horror. What she says, though, is a perfectly polite (if a little chill), "Good afternoon."
"Well." Camille studies Jacey for a very long minute before edging to the side and heading toward Tim. "Oh, that Fang who died? Sad. But. Hon'rble." She speaks with the mildly regretful voice people use when speaking of strangers. Taking the grapes, she pops one in her mouth, grinning at Shelby with amusement. "'fternoon."
The Fianna cub immediately drops her gaze during the Gnawer's scrutiny. "Excuse me please," she offers quietly. "I.. um..." She clears her throat, posture straightening but remaining submissive. "I'm sorry. I'm Jacey Cox," the girl tries again. "Sometimes called Rift-Mender, and a Story-moon cub of Stag's tribe."
Tim's look for Shelby, on the other hand, is narrow-eyed. "That's what a gibbous is for--to fill you in. And she was a member of your Tribe, so you might want to ask Zosia what else you need to know about the history around here." He's distracted from mounting irritation by Shelby's reaction to Camille, and hides a small smile behind looking over at his tambourine with renewed interest. He flicks one glance at the Silver Fang cub that looks to be a prod for her to follow suit with Jacey.
"You didn't say it was Mariya," Shelby points out, pressing her lips together into a line that stretches from Jacey to Tim. "Zosia told me about her already." She frowns at Tim: what? before reluctantly turning her attention back to the bag lady. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, 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."
"Izzat so?" Camille pops another grape in her mouth. Her eyes move from Jacey to Shelby. "There's a big difference in these two," she comments to Tim, her voice pitched in a lazy tone. "One's got the right idea. Other one would get smacked most places." She doesn't indicate which cub is which! "'m called Eight Mile or Judge Bitch or Ballbreaker or Cold as Ice. 'm also called Camille Booker. 'm a fostern an' a philodox an' oh yeah a Bone Gnawer." She smirks then, eating another grape.
"Nice to meet you," Jacey replies quietly, perhaps a little on the tense end. She takes a step back and then turns 'round to the fire again. Her feet carry her around the pit to take up a place near Tim but as much opposite where Shelby sits as she can get.
"You're a Questioner," Tim reminds Shelby. "That means people occasionally expect you to ask questions." He shrugs at Camille in a 'what-can-you-do' manner, and nibbles on some beef jerky while watching Jacey relocate. A brief look of 'oh boy' crosses his features, and he takes a moment to put his tambourine somewhere a little safer.
"Very nice to meet you, Ms. Booker," Shelby agrees in her Virginian accent, though she looks away from Camille as soon as the words are out of her mouth, off to the trees and flashing a little throat. "I did ask," she reminds them quietly (though the trees don't care), "and got snapped at for doing it."
"It's all in how ya ask," Camille offers without being asked. "In fact, difference between an average Ragabash and a great one is that the great one asks questions and pushes ya ta think without ya realizing it." She eyes Tim thoughtfully and adds, "My opinion, a'course."
Jacey draws her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins as her gaze settles on the fire. She doesn't add anything, or offer anything more, choosing silence for her course of action.
Tim accepts Camille's look with a sly grin, and turns to watch Shelby with obvious curioisty. "You said we didn't tell you it was Mariya." He has a grape. "Now, maybe you didn't intend that to be an accusation, but it sure sounded like one. When really, we might've just been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, and assumed you knew we'd mean her, since she's from your Tribe and all." He raises his eyebrows, waiting to see if Shelby follows his reasoning.
"All you said - you both said," Shelby says, still keeping things quiet while her eyes drift back to look at the fire, "is that someone died at Edgewood. And that she was a Sept member. Zosia told me a couple of weeks ago that Mariya'd died. How was I supposed to know that you were talking about her?" She rises and dusts off her tush, not looking at anyone but keeping her back straight. "I apologize if I've caused offense. I believe I ought to get back to my practicing, if you all will excuse me?"
Camille doesn't try to stop the Ragabash cub from leaving. Glancing toward Tim, she raises a brow. "Mouthy little thing, ain't she?" Just loud enough to be heard as she goes.
Jacey glances toward Camille and then Tim, brow furrowing. Her eyes return to the fire as she asks rather quietly, "Was I like that, Tim-rhya?"
"Practicing sounds capital," Tim says. He gives Camille an amused wink, and nudges Jacey while watching the Silver Fang go. "No, but you're a gibbous. Rage and stories and lore are your thing. Being a new moon's pretty different. And she wasn't raised to it like most of her people were, so there's a large pallet of expectations hanging over her head that she's got no knowledge to match."
Shelby, without giving sign that she heard the smelly Gnawer, heads back into the trees, her back straight as a plank. So there. Ignore the sudden rustling and startled birds where about fifty yards off someone just tried to run through a sapling.
The Sept Compound
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center of the clearing is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under 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. The meadowlike profusion of grasses and other plants has an unusually high concentration of brilliant flowers, which attract a number of bees and butterflies. (+view works here)
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.
Obvious exits:
Forest
"A good name. From a good gibbous, to a good gibbous." Tim looks thoughtful, rubbing his chin, then moves towards the fire. "She'd be a good person to learn some things from, if Cole's willing to let her show you." He has a hand-made tambourine in one hand, and is moving over to the firepit. Setting the instrument aside, he starts refreshing the fire, adding tinder and then slightly larger sticks.
"Jason-rhya gave her permission," Jacey explains, "He has ..or had the go-ahead from Cole-rhya to assign us teachers. Javen-rhya has pretty much taken over my training and is teaching me the ways of the Fenrir Blood." She pauses, watching the flames for a moment before adding, "Not like Oskar, though."
Tim pauses in adding sticks to the fire and looks up at Jacey. "Teaching you the ways of Fenrir," he repeats, probably for the cub's benefit more than his own. With a bob of his eyebrows, he goes back to his task. "Well, it's good you're getting taught. That's what matters." His heart's not completely behind that statement, though.
The sound of something moving through the forest can be heard long before a white shape is seen. Whoever it is isn't particularly skilled at woodscraft. It's not a wolf, though, but a Shelby who steps into the clearing, smoothing down the jacket of her tracksuit. "Thought I heard voices," she says with an apologetic smile. "Afternoon Tim-rhya, Jacey. Am I interrupting?"
"Well, not exactly like..." Jacey pauses, trying to put into words better what she means. Her head swivels toward the sounds of approach, a brow raising as it turns out to be Shelby coming into the clearing. "Hello, Shelby." The Fianna sounds slightly distracted, her eyes flicking back to Tim and then settling on the fire. "Sorry, Tim-rhya. It's not easy to explain what I mean. I'm not learning the psycho-ness that some of the Get of Fenris have, but... I'm learning things the way Javen-rhya was taught. To help bridge the gap between Tribes. That's why.. Rift-Mender."
Tim makes a low sound at Jacey. He nods at Shelby and waves her in. "You're not interrupting, we're just discussing teaching people. And respect." He flicks an amused look at Jacey that fades to seriousness. "As long as you remember, she might be your teacher, but you belong to Stag."
Shelby looks around the clearing, her attention caught by the slab, but it's to the fire she goes, holding her hands out to the heat. "Is there really a problem with the Get of Fenris and the Fianna here?" she asks Tim, offering Jacey another apologetic frown. "I know they don't get along, but neither do the Get and the Black Furies."
"Yes, Tim-rhya," Jacey replies. "It's not easy to forget." Her tone implies there might be something else there, but to answer Shelby she drops that thread. "Not really a problem so much as a lack of understanding." The Fianna cub looks toward the Fang, head tilting slightly. "Single people who can't see past their own dillusions of grandure on both sides is my guess."
"Actually," Tim says, gesturing with a small stick, "the Get of Fenris Elder and the Black Fury Elder are in a Pack. And Charlene from the Furies and the same Get of Fenris Elder are friends, last I knew." He gives Jacey a sly look, then pitches the stick into the fire and gets up. "The strife probably is between individuals and not the entire Tribes."
"There are quite a few of both tribe here, aren't there?" Shelby asks, waving a hand in front of her eyes in a vain attempt to keep the smoke away. "More than the Silver Fangs, anyway." If Tim's going to stop poking things with sticks it's practically Shelby's duty to take over from him, right? Not that she has any idea what to do with a fire, a fact which is quickly made obvious.
Jacey grins after a moment of watching Shelby, head shaking slightly. Yet she makes no move to help the older girl. "I like Viv-rhya," she replies, looking toward Tim. "She tussled with me and said she'd help if ever I needed it. And Charlene-rhya and I are talking about packing together after I Rite."
Tim arches an eyebrow at Jacey. "Yeah? Planning a pack already?" He turns towards the structure and ducks inside it briefly, re-emerging with his shoulderbag. He digs around inside it and pulls out some beef jerky a bunch of purple grapes, which he offers to the cubs in turn after getting a seat by the fire. The jerky appears to be home-made, not store-bought, and the grapes are large and juicy.
Shelby manages to knock one of the burning sticks out of the conflagration while Tim's back is turned, kicking up a shower of sparks. She quickly drops her poking stick and leans back to wrap her arms about her knees, only to relax and take some grapes with a murmur of thanks. "Zosia's in a pack," she informs the others. "Unicorn. With August, Cole, Leila, and someone named Greg. He's the only one I haven't met." She's about to pop a grape into her mouth when she realizes, "He's a Fianna too, isn't he?"
With a sigh, Jacey moves to take over the fire tending. She picks up the stick Shelby had abandoned and gently nudges the logs back into place. "Greg-rhya, yeah. He's a Philodox in my Tribe, but I almost never see him."
"He takes care of Edgewood," Tim supplies from his own knowledge. He chews on a grape with deliberation. "And given how rough that's been lately I suspect he's pretty busy with it." He glances across the fire at Shelby, then regards a piece of jerky, turning it over in his hands much like he did the tambourine earlier. "Sounds like a good pack. I think they'll do well."
Shelby echoes without any real understanding, "Edgewood," and promptly follows it up with, "What's that? --I'm not thinking about packs yet," in case they were wondering. "I think I can count the number of garou I know on both hands."
"Edgewood is a house not far from here that we cubs aren't suppose to be going to." Jacey pokes idly at the fire, nudging another log into a better position. "It got attacked about two months ago and the Warder then declared no cubs or Kin. There's been one or two more attacks there since; one of the best warriors I met died there during an attack."
"Just no cubs," Tim corrects Jacey, but his tone turns wry as he adds, "Though if cubs aren't safe there, Kin really aren't either. Not that this stops some of them from showing up." There's the ghost of good humor in his expression when he says that, which is summarily chased off by Jacey's mention of Mariya. He clears his throat and nods. "Yeah, she was," he looks away into the fire, "good people."
Shelby says wryly, "If it's not on the bawn, I don't think I could go there anyway." She pulls one knee close and loops an arm around it, wrinkles her nose at Jacey and across the fire at Tim. Hesitantly, "Was she... part of your pack?" and glances at Jacey again with a what's-up-with-him jerk of her head at the Strider.
A slouchy figure shuffles into the compound, a black Red Wings hat pulled low over her forehead. She heads toward the small group at the fire but keeps just a bit of space. She isn't uncomfortable precisely; there's the air of someone just used to being apart. "'lo."
Jacey frowns at Shelby, poking the stick deeper into the embers of the fire. "She was a member of the Sept and an awesome fighter. She died protecting this place." The Fianna leaves the stick burried in the fire as she stands abruptly. She turns to walk from the fire, get into the cooler, and comes more or less face to face with the newcomer.
Tim uses Camille's approach as a distraction from really getting broody. "Hey, what's up," he says, and pulls a cluster of grapes off the main bunch. He holds them out as an extension to his hello. Looking askance at Jacey and then Shelby, he explains, "I knew her. And no, we weren't in a pack." His eyes go back to the Galliard cub and he nods his approval for her brief description..
Camille
It takes a moment for most to see beyond the surface of this woman. It may take a moment, as a matter of fact, to see that this -is- a woman. Standing around five foot six, she seems bulkier than she is as she is swathed in layers of clothes. With a dusky, freckled complexion and slightly tilted dark brown eyes beneath a mop of roughly braided dark brown hair (that is generously streaked with a silvery gray), it is difficult to tell just what heritage Camille originates from--from some angles she seems asian but from others seems african, european, or even arabic. There's nothing particularly remarkable about her features other than a rather nasty scar that spans the front of her throat, looking as though someone once tried to rip her trachea out and that she seems to be in her mid to late thirties. She has a very raspy deep voice with a distinct Michigan accent.
Shelby rolls her eyes behind Jacey's back, not bothering to hide the expression from anyone else. "Well excuse me for asking. I'm just supposed to know these things?" She doesn't rise, but studies Camille from where she sits, taking in the hat and the layers upon layers with faint horror. What she says, though, is a perfectly polite (if a little chill), "Good afternoon."
"Well." Camille studies Jacey for a very long minute before edging to the side and heading toward Tim. "Oh, that Fang who died? Sad. But. Hon'rble." She speaks with the mildly regretful voice people use when speaking of strangers. Taking the grapes, she pops one in her mouth, grinning at Shelby with amusement. "'fternoon."
The Fianna cub immediately drops her gaze during the Gnawer's scrutiny. "Excuse me please," she offers quietly. "I.. um..." She clears her throat, posture straightening but remaining submissive. "I'm sorry. I'm Jacey Cox," the girl tries again. "Sometimes called Rift-Mender, and a Story-moon cub of Stag's tribe."
Tim's look for Shelby, on the other hand, is narrow-eyed. "That's what a gibbous is for--to fill you in. And she was a member of your Tribe, so you might want to ask Zosia what else you need to know about the history around here." He's distracted from mounting irritation by Shelby's reaction to Camille, and hides a small smile behind looking over at his tambourine with renewed interest. He flicks one glance at the Silver Fang cub that looks to be a prod for her to follow suit with Jacey.
"You didn't say it was Mariya," Shelby points out, pressing her lips together into a line that stretches from Jacey to Tim. "Zosia told me about her already." She frowns at Tim: what? before reluctantly turning her attention back to the bag lady. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, 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."
"Izzat so?" Camille pops another grape in her mouth. Her eyes move from Jacey to Shelby. "There's a big difference in these two," she comments to Tim, her voice pitched in a lazy tone. "One's got the right idea. Other one would get smacked most places." She doesn't indicate which cub is which! "'m called Eight Mile or Judge Bitch or Ballbreaker or Cold as Ice. 'm also called Camille Booker. 'm a fostern an' a philodox an' oh yeah a Bone Gnawer." She smirks then, eating another grape.
"Nice to meet you," Jacey replies quietly, perhaps a little on the tense end. She takes a step back and then turns 'round to the fire again. Her feet carry her around the pit to take up a place near Tim but as much opposite where Shelby sits as she can get.
"You're a Questioner," Tim reminds Shelby. "That means people occasionally expect you to ask questions." He shrugs at Camille in a 'what-can-you-do' manner, and nibbles on some beef jerky while watching Jacey relocate. A brief look of 'oh boy' crosses his features, and he takes a moment to put his tambourine somewhere a little safer.
"Very nice to meet you, Ms. Booker," Shelby agrees in her Virginian accent, though she looks away from Camille as soon as the words are out of her mouth, off to the trees and flashing a little throat. "I did ask," she reminds them quietly (though the trees don't care), "and got snapped at for doing it."
"It's all in how ya ask," Camille offers without being asked. "In fact, difference between an average Ragabash and a great one is that the great one asks questions and pushes ya ta think without ya realizing it." She eyes Tim thoughtfully and adds, "My opinion, a'course."
Jacey draws her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins as her gaze settles on the fire. She doesn't add anything, or offer anything more, choosing silence for her course of action.
Tim accepts Camille's look with a sly grin, and turns to watch Shelby with obvious curioisty. "You said we didn't tell you it was Mariya." He has a grape. "Now, maybe you didn't intend that to be an accusation, but it sure sounded like one. When really, we might've just been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, and assumed you knew we'd mean her, since she's from your Tribe and all." He raises his eyebrows, waiting to see if Shelby follows his reasoning.
"All you said - you both said," Shelby says, still keeping things quiet while her eyes drift back to look at the fire, "is that someone died at Edgewood. And that she was a Sept member. Zosia told me a couple of weeks ago that Mariya'd died. How was I supposed to know that you were talking about her?" She rises and dusts off her tush, not looking at anyone but keeping her back straight. "I apologize if I've caused offense. I believe I ought to get back to my practicing, if you all will excuse me?"
Camille doesn't try to stop the Ragabash cub from leaving. Glancing toward Tim, she raises a brow. "Mouthy little thing, ain't she?" Just loud enough to be heard as she goes.
Jacey glances toward Camille and then Tim, brow furrowing. Her eyes return to the fire as she asks rather quietly, "Was I like that, Tim-rhya?"
"Practicing sounds capital," Tim says. He gives Camille an amused wink, and nudges Jacey while watching the Silver Fang go. "No, but you're a gibbous. Rage and stories and lore are your thing. Being a new moon's pretty different. And she wasn't raised to it like most of her people were, so there's a large pallet of expectations hanging over her head that she's got no knowledge to match."
Shelby, without giving sign that she heard the smelly Gnawer, heads back into the trees, her back straight as a plank. So there. Ignore the sudden rustling and startled birds where about fifty yards off someone just tried to run through a sapling.