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shelbyrouIt is currently 12:51 Pacific Time on Sun Jan 8 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (98% full).
Great Oak Grove
An enormous oak tree, apparently ancient but unblemished, dominates this grove, awe-inspiring and completely anomalous. Around it, in a forest full of scarred trees, there's a stand of perhaps fifty which are a little less scarred than the rest, only a couple miles north of I-90. Naturally occurring thickets of tangled briars and undergrowth have been encouraged to define the perimeter of the grove, to such an extent that it's only really feasible to enter it at a few points now, and for the most part, since the grove itself is not large, it is - from the outside - simply a dense bit of forest it's easier to circle around than go through, although a deer path and stray tracks of other animals lead inside.
Within that perimeter, there is a strong sense of a defined space which the brambled edges and even the central tree are insufficient to explain: for unclear reasons, although the density of trees is just the same here as in the rest of the forest, this spot is a coherent place in its own right. There is more sun, more scent - although only the small woodland scents. The trees are taller and healthier, the soil is richer, and the air itself seems alert to what occurs within. This is not remotely the center of the northern forest, but it is nevertheless its heart.
Food for the animals is scattered on the ground and hung in tree branches - nuts and berries from the rest of the forest, half-cleaned bones, and more. In the west there is a small pool, and in the south a disused fire-pit with tiny glittering things hung from the tree branches above it.
Obvious exits:
Forest
Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.35 and falling, and the relative humidity is 82 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)
The cold, sunny, winter day finds Tim in the Great Oak Grove, sitting lotus style on his prayer rug and looking intensely distressed. His eyes are red (with lack of sleep or something else?), and he seems overall exhausted. There's a fresh bite-mark on his left wrist, and he's toying with his mala in a way that's uncharacteristic for him.
It's on four feet that Shelby tracks the Strider to his current resting spot, but shifts to two as she settles down beside the older man, just out of arm's reach. "There are bees," she says, vexed, with an equally irritated nose-wrinkle. "It's too early for bees, even back home, and are you having trouble sleeping?"
Tim hardly indicates he's noticed Shelby's arrival, until he blinks, swallows, and smiles. It's a bitter, rueful smile. "No." His voice is rough, and he has to clear his throat. "Ah, no...no trouble sleeping." He rubs at his eyes. "You saw them too? The bee swarm?"
Although his black-brown eyes are bright and full of amusement, Tim's appearance is otherwise average. A touch over six feet in height, he has the lean, wirey-muscled body of a man in his early 30s who has lived neither easily nor poorly. His looks follow suit, offering nothing striking in a homely or handsome way to recommend them: his face is gently rounded and a little long, with trim, black eyebrows framing clear eyes. His chin is present but not remarkable, and largely hidden behind a well-maintained, salt-and-pepper circle beard. Hints of an ethnic mix that's not easy to pinpoint abound, and his European ancestry can't obscure subtle, Eastern influences: a darker tint to his skin, narrowed eyes, and a slender nose that flattens out. His black hair might be wavey if it were allowed to get beyond the close, side-clipped cut he prefers, and it has a tendency to stick up in numerous directions until smoothed back. Belying the modesty of his looks are his movements: remarkable grace and deftness marking almost everything he does. The scent of sandalwood lingers around him.
His clothes are travel worn but clean. He wears a much-loved, black, bomber-style, leather jacket that is covered with patches for numerous music bands, most of whose prime ended in the 1980s. A few slogans are apparent as well (one shoulder declares, "Question Authority!" in bold blue and white), and on the back, a large and sloppy Anarchy A has been sewn in with crimson thread. His dark blue, denim pants are frayed at the ankles and almost completely hide scuffed but solid, brown, combat boots. A grey woven hoodie of Corona extraction keeps him warm under the jacket, and beneath that the edges of a dark red shirt are barely visible.
Shelby's eyes flick to the mark on the Strider's wrist and back to his face. "Hard not to, really. Which is so out of season... of course," she continues in nearly the same breath, "all this growing plants are out of season, too." She might, perhaps, add something else, but releases the breath unused.
Tim runs his free hand through his hair, seeming to shake himself further out of whatever funk he's in. "Yeah, everything's a fucking mess. And--" His jaw clenches for a second, then he looks at her. "Did you have a weird dream last night? About...mirrors?"
The Fang studies him for a moment before her head shakes. "No, but I've been sleeping inside. Think I've been making up for all those nights as a Guardian." It's a weak joke, marked by the faintest of smiles. "Tell me about it? Before I left everyone was having all these weird dreams too."
"That's...the problem." Tim tucks his mala back into the gray shoulderbag resting off to one side. "I tried explaining it to Chu'mana, and I can remember it. I can remember it really well." He absently rubs at a spot on his chest, like he's itching an injury concealed by shirt and hoodie. "But when I try to say anything about it, it's like trying to hold sand, or water, in your fist." He gives her a helpless look.
"Write it down?" she suggests. "Or maybe try it in lupus? Or," she adds, taking pity on that look, "just tell me. Don't try to make sense of it, or anything. It's a dream, right? Weird things happen in dreams. It's like trying to explain the Umbra." As if reminded, her eyes flick to the sky, but it remains stubbornly daytime.
Tim makes a low sound. "Writing it down, I should try that. Maybe I can find someone to show me calligraphy, that might make it more, symbolic." All of that aside, he makes an attempt. "There was a mirror. The reflection in it was changing." His eyes move around the grove, settling on this and that as he tries to piece things together. "And a piece of it cut me."
Shelby draws up her knees to wrap her arms about them, eyes half-closing as she listens. She might as well be alone, for all the attention she's paying Tim.
Tim puts a hand over his chest for a moment, grimacing, and then shakes his head. "Yeah. It's hard for me to find the right way--any way--to describe it. Like I'm trying to describe green to a blind person." He sighs and pulls a tumbler out of his bag. It's not his usual, but a newer one. He screws it open and has a drink of what smells to be a fragrant tea. "I figure I need to talk to some of the crescents, at least."
Now she does glance over. "Oh, probably," she agrees, voice light. "What about the reflection? How was it changing? Was it flipping from image to image, or was it blurry, like looking through a river or something?"
Tim shakes his head. "Something like..." His voice fades, and he sighs. "Chu'mana and I tried to work through it, but all I could tell her was bits and pieces like this." He toys with one corner of the rug, and his demeanor begins to become more focused. "Something's coming. Something big. I don't think it's--it doesn't feel like it's the usual thing. Dancers or banes or fomori."
"Your bits and pieces are more than I have right now," Shelby points out, offering over a bit of her usual smile. "I don't care that it's all jumbled, if that matters. --I had a thought, yesterday, before I ran into the bees. It all made sense for one second, but then it was gone. Something about the dreams, I think. But I don't remember." Which means another nose wrinkle.
"That, is exactly what this feels like," Tim says, pointing at Shelby. "Like I have a way to explain it and then it's gone the second I open my mouth." He's quiet for a second. "There's one really fucking weird part. I woke up with a new scar."
Shelby straightens. "Oh?" and gestures to her chest. "You've been collecting new ones since summer, haven't you."
Tim snorts, though he seems genuinely amused. "The other two are your normal kind. Neither of them are battle scars, just, stuff that didn't heal up right. It happens." He taps a spot on his chest. "This one's different. I didn't--I mean, as far as I know, I didn't go out and get in any fights or anything last night. It just was there this morning."
"Sleep-fighting," quoth she, all big eyes, a disappointed head shake, and a face so bland she has to be laughing. "Challenging people in your sleep." For shame. A moment, though, and the Fang asks, "Does it... look like anything? Or is it just a scar?"
"Not like, a shape or anything. Pretty normal 'you got cut real good' sort." Tim puts his hand just over his heart, spreading his thumb and index finger to almost the length of his palm. "Right about here."
Shelby asks, face screwing up, "Do you think there's anything in there?" Not that she's leaping up to volunteer to do surgery, or anything. No, she's staying right where she is. "I suppose where you got cut is right where the mirror got you, in your dream?" Her eyes narrow after the fact, but she doesn't elaborate.
"I--that could be. Maybe." Tim squints, trying to think, then gives up. "It left an impression, though, that's hard to describe. Something's coming, but it's hard to say what."
She shrugs and re-wraps her legs. "Well, if you do want someone to see if one of the spirits was trying to send you something across the Umbra, I'm sure Norman-rhya or Zosia would help you out." She, on the other hand, turns to a different, less potentially gory topic: "Did Xander find you? Or you find him?"
Tim shakes his head. "No, haven't seen him--though I've been pretty tied up with things. He's a Shadow Lord, right?"
"Shadow Lord Theurge," she agrees, with another bright flash of grin. "I phoned him the other day after I talked to you, and it turns out everyone else in the pack we wanted has left." She shrugs: so. "If you two get along, he could be a third."
Tim considers that. "Sorry about the others disappearing," he says. "But if it works with us, well, there's that." He takes his mala back up, fiddling with them. "Anyone else in mind?"
Shelby wriggles one foot forward as far as it can go within the bounds of her arms. "Maybe," is noncommittal, and she studies a bit of bramble on the other side of the grove. "I was talking to Morgan-rhya -- have you met her? -- and she said she's in a new pack. Her old one, Kaz-rhya's pack, broke up."
"Yeah, I remember one of the Furies said she had Packed with Morgan." Tim bites his lip at that. "I guess with Kaz and Chandini not around..." He shrugs. "Well if you get along with Chandini well enough and she comes back, there's another option."
"I would love to pack with Chandini," she assures him with another quick look and quick grin. "There's another option from that pack, though, who is still around."
Tim tilts his head, looking uncertain, then blinks. "Salem? Certainly a possibility. You don't mind that he's a city-type, do you?" What he may really be asking is, 'Do you think others are going to mind you're packing with an Urrah.'
Shelby shrugs as though it were no matter to her. "We were thinking of claiming Harbor Park, right? Anyway, Xander and I were thinking about a pack that either had territory near the city, or something that could go into the city. And even if we decide on here," she glances around the grove as if seeing it for the first time, "we can still always ask. The worst he'll do is say no. Plus we could use some heavier lifting. Right now it's two Ragabash and a Theurge, and nobody," she affects a put-upon moue, "to stand in front and look threatening."
"Mmm, true. Well, how about we ask him--and Xander--and see if he's even interested. Guy like him..." Tim gives Shelby a wry look. "Sometimes they like their alone-time, to brood over the Pack which was a while."
Shelby shrugs again, but looks pleased. "You aren't living out here, are you? I mean, you have somewhere with four walls and running water to crash, right?"
"Edgewood, sometimes here, sometimes places in the city." Tim doesn't sound put out by this. "Mostly I keep the bike at Edgewood. Unless I wind up with something more permanent, it's about the safest place for it."
"Good," the Fang says with a firm nod, as if she personally were responsible for his housing arrangements. "Because I recommend you go get a shower, at least, and a nap if you don't spend the night. You look," a wrinkle of her nose is dismayed, this time, not teasing, "like you were on a bender, or something."
There is a flash of black now and again, among the trees further away. Soon enough, this clarifies into a lean black jackal, evidently following a scent. (That is, he's following the scent sometimes, and breaking off to explore other interesting scents, and then re-finding the original scent, and so on.) He's not bothering to keep himself hidden.
Tim sniffs, sitting up straighter and looking indignant. "Hey, if you want to buy up a parcel and build a nice little cabin out here with running water, be my guest," he says, all faux haughtiness. The act fades as his eyes catch movement in the distance. "I think there's a visitor out here."
"Me and what trust fund," she counters, catching sight of the visitor about the same time as Tim. "--Think you're right. Black, so probably not one of mine. Want me to shift?" All asked casually, and though she unwraps her arms, she doesn't stand.
As the two notice him, Djehuti notices them. Tail and ears going up, he lets out a whurf of greeting, and lopes towards them, using one of the deer paths. He's not particularly speedy, but he does cover ground, even if he's limping just a touch. He doesn't appear particularly threatening, all things considered. Grizzled, but not threatening.
"No, I think we're good. If I had to guess, this is one of mine." Tim surveys the wolf, then asks, "You anyone we know?"
What's a jackal doing here? On closer inspection, this wolf really does look like a jackal, black furred and elegant, with brown eyes, and a perhaps unnerving amount of attention directed your way. The two smallest toes on his fore-paws are missing.
"Or a horrible Sharpie accident," Shelby murmurs back, amused. She resettles onto one hip, tucking her legs to the side, for all the world like a queen out a'Maying. Her eyes study the visitor, one side of her mouth twitching up, but lets Tim take the lead.
Long-Path's ears splay. I have not had anything to do with human ways of writing things down, he tells Shelby, and adds, ~I am one Golden knows a little but you don't know at all. Wisdom's Long And Twisting Path, I am. Golden's tribe, but half moon.~ He takes a pace toward her, but then pauses, one paw upraised in question, clearly asking if without words if she minds him snuffling at her.
"Oh, hey, Djehuti." Tim gestures at him, explaining to Shelby, "We ran into each other at Western Eye a ways back. He's good people."
Shelby arches an eyebrow at Tim in a silent Oh? and extends a hand to the newcomer. "Shelby Zalesky-Leveque, Fostern Ragabash of the Silver Fangs. Also called Bright Eye Sees to the Heart of the Ambush." The hand is all she offers, however.
Long-Path sniffs at it with interest, and drifts minorly closer just for a better overall impression, but does not impinge in major ways. ~Glad to meet you.~ Now that he's investigated her, he takes a look around the general area. ~Who died and made this a Glade,~ he asks, surprised.
Tim sucks in a breath at the question. "Spirits," he says, eyes moving up to the great oak. "The forest was sick was some kind of, fungus formor. One of Sept's theurges, she made a pact with Tree to heal it, but all the spirits of the forest died to make it work." He sighs, and his eyes move one to other parts of their surroundings: the water, the bushes, the other trees.
"I'd pack with Meg," the Fang offers out of the blue, "though that would put the kibosh on gathering Salem, probably." She adds to Long-Path, politely, "Would you prefer we shift?"
Long-Path's ears slew back at the tale, and he whines softly, almost too softly to be heard. ~My apologies for the disrespect,~ he says, clearly more to the area than to the people, and then blinks at Shelby. ~No,~ he says, and then, posture becoming uncertain, he asks, ~Would you rather I shifted?~
Tim grins sidelong at Shelby. "It's less who'd pack with her, and more who would she Pack with, I think." He shrugs at Djehuti, and says, "I don't mind either way. And it's not disrespectful; I mean, this kind of thing doesn't happen every day. But hey, now you know."
Shelby wides her eyes at the other Ragabash, probably to indicate disbelief that anyone wouldn't want to pack with her, Shelby, before turning back to Long-Path. "Not at all. I just didn't want you to be uncomfortable, or feel you were missing out on anything. So what brings you to the Hidden Walk?"
Long-Path watches their by-play with interest, as he settles down stiffly on his haunches nearby. ~No, no, I understand -- and speak -- your tongue. I'm just staying in this form because it's colder than I've been used to, for awhile, here. And -- Me?~ He flicks his ears in a lupine shrug. ~It was suggested I come to help. So I did.~ (This clearly is leaving a considerable amount of information out.)
"Sounds familiar," Tim drawls. "We're not really made for around here--but just wait, in the summer, when they're all complaining about the heat, then we get to laugh at them."
Shelby pfts. "Please." Her own drawl is honey-sweet, and straight out of the American south. "Y'all don't get hot up here." "--It's very nice to have you here," she adds to the Philodox before glancing again to Tim. "Do you have tribal things to talk about?"
Long-Path lolls his tongue. ~I was actually whelped about four hours' travel from here. But in the general sense of how we as a tribe were made, yes indeed.~ Then his ears splay at Shelby. ~I've been to where that accent is from. I like deserts better.~ At her question, he sits up. ~Well, yes,~ he says, honestly. ~But it's not like we don't have more time to do it in, and you, after all, are talking of packing together. So the point being is, don't leave on my account.~
Tim nods at Djehuti's response to Shelby, and for his own part admits, "We do, but I'm not gonna run you off for that. There's time, and all."
"Unless one of you gets bitten by the travel bug," Shelby points out, "in which case Chiminage becomes a moot point." She glances at Tim for no apparent reason before looking more closely at Long-Path.
[OOC] Shelby Senses Wyrm! (Djehuti is clean)
~I do plan to be traveling around the area -- down south to Gaia's Bones and so on -- but this is sort of going to be my center of operations, so to speak, for awhile. So the whole gift giving thing still applies,~ Djehuti says. His left ear flickers a bit at Shelby's sudden scrutiny, but he doesn't otherwise seem to notice it. Or ask.
"Well I was brought here by a higher power, and she might not be thrilled if I decided to," Tim gestures grandly, "run off into the sunset. I'll be around for a spell, gods willing." He gets a look of filing tidbits of information away as he listens to Djehuti, and adds, "Might be nice to get some word back from those areas, find out if they're dealing with the same things we are."
"Good," the Fang tells Tim firmly, with a separate nod for Long-Path. "I'm not a Guardian any more, but I can let them know that you're in the area. Has Tim told you where anything is, around here? Or are you that newly arrived?" Her accent's faded back to where it was before, still obvious but not prominent.
Djehuti tilts his head in question at Tim's statement -- Which power is that? -- but all he says out loud is, ~That was part of what I was thinking, yes. Useful information for putting puzzle pieces together.~ He settles back down onto his haunches, and indicates to Shelby, ~I have met a Guardian. Or, anyway, someone in the Warder's pack. So I am free to wander the Bawn, though not yet, alas, the Caern. As for where things are...I know the house open to all, on the edge of the woods, but I don't yet know where the Glass Walkers den. Might I trouble you for an address?~
"I freely admit that I've been remiss in explaining things." Tim begins an attempt to make up for it. "The Walkers have a Tenement--" He stops, eyes distant, then gets up and starts rolling his prayer rug. "I just remembered, I have to do something in the city. Djehuti, give a howl for me later? We can chat then." Once his shoulderbag's in place, he shifts to his wolf shape and chuffs at Shelby. I will seek the Night's Shadow, that he and I may meet and discuss being Pack brothers.
Shelby ahs? at Long-Path. "Who was it? No point in me spreading the word if they already have," she explains. She's about to add more when Tim interrupts himself; her smile turns rueful. "One of these days I'm going to see what duct tape does to a Strider. But all right - if I see Xander I'll remind him to come find you. I'm sure I've given him your number, and I'll text you with his."
Long-Path's ears swivel as Tim starts to leave, and there is mild disappointment in his posture, but only that of a tribemate saying goodbye to a tribemate, and not that of someone with urgency in his heart. ~Run well with the Mother,~ he tells Tim, and then informs Shelby, ~Carries the Tale Back From the Land of Fire. The metis with many legs.~
Golden licks his nose in apology to Djehuti, then shakes himself out and sets off to the east.
The Fang lifts a hand after Tim, remembering, "Galliard," and nods. "I haven't heard that Heartwood is a Guardian pack, but maybe they are. I'm sure the Warder knows you're here by now, at least." She extends first one arm, then the other to stretch, rolls onto her knees and likewise shifts into lupus. I will show you the denning place, she decides, where you may find warmth. She shakes out her coat, fixes Long-Path with one eye, and heads off at a trot toward the south.
Long-Path, who admittedly does look slightly cold, brightens, clambers to his feet, and follows her. He's none too speedy, but he covers ground well.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (98% full).
Great Oak Grove
An enormous oak tree, apparently ancient but unblemished, dominates this grove, awe-inspiring and completely anomalous. Around it, in a forest full of scarred trees, there's a stand of perhaps fifty which are a little less scarred than the rest, only a couple miles north of I-90. Naturally occurring thickets of tangled briars and undergrowth have been encouraged to define the perimeter of the grove, to such an extent that it's only really feasible to enter it at a few points now, and for the most part, since the grove itself is not large, it is - from the outside - simply a dense bit of forest it's easier to circle around than go through, although a deer path and stray tracks of other animals lead inside.
Within that perimeter, there is a strong sense of a defined space which the brambled edges and even the central tree are insufficient to explain: for unclear reasons, although the density of trees is just the same here as in the rest of the forest, this spot is a coherent place in its own right. There is more sun, more scent - although only the small woodland scents. The trees are taller and healthier, the soil is richer, and the air itself seems alert to what occurs within. This is not remotely the center of the northern forest, but it is nevertheless its heart.
Food for the animals is scattered on the ground and hung in tree branches - nuts and berries from the rest of the forest, half-cleaned bones, and more. In the west there is a small pool, and in the south a disused fire-pit with tiny glittering things hung from the tree branches above it.
Obvious exits:
Forest
Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.35 and falling, and the relative humidity is 82 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)
The cold, sunny, winter day finds Tim in the Great Oak Grove, sitting lotus style on his prayer rug and looking intensely distressed. His eyes are red (with lack of sleep or something else?), and he seems overall exhausted. There's a fresh bite-mark on his left wrist, and he's toying with his mala in a way that's uncharacteristic for him.
It's on four feet that Shelby tracks the Strider to his current resting spot, but shifts to two as she settles down beside the older man, just out of arm's reach. "There are bees," she says, vexed, with an equally irritated nose-wrinkle. "It's too early for bees, even back home, and are you having trouble sleeping?"
Tim hardly indicates he's noticed Shelby's arrival, until he blinks, swallows, and smiles. It's a bitter, rueful smile. "No." His voice is rough, and he has to clear his throat. "Ah, no...no trouble sleeping." He rubs at his eyes. "You saw them too? The bee swarm?"
Although his black-brown eyes are bright and full of amusement, Tim's appearance is otherwise average. A touch over six feet in height, he has the lean, wirey-muscled body of a man in his early 30s who has lived neither easily nor poorly. His looks follow suit, offering nothing striking in a homely or handsome way to recommend them: his face is gently rounded and a little long, with trim, black eyebrows framing clear eyes. His chin is present but not remarkable, and largely hidden behind a well-maintained, salt-and-pepper circle beard. Hints of an ethnic mix that's not easy to pinpoint abound, and his European ancestry can't obscure subtle, Eastern influences: a darker tint to his skin, narrowed eyes, and a slender nose that flattens out. His black hair might be wavey if it were allowed to get beyond the close, side-clipped cut he prefers, and it has a tendency to stick up in numerous directions until smoothed back. Belying the modesty of his looks are his movements: remarkable grace and deftness marking almost everything he does. The scent of sandalwood lingers around him.
His clothes are travel worn but clean. He wears a much-loved, black, bomber-style, leather jacket that is covered with patches for numerous music bands, most of whose prime ended in the 1980s. A few slogans are apparent as well (one shoulder declares, "Question Authority!" in bold blue and white), and on the back, a large and sloppy Anarchy A has been sewn in with crimson thread. His dark blue, denim pants are frayed at the ankles and almost completely hide scuffed but solid, brown, combat boots. A grey woven hoodie of Corona extraction keeps him warm under the jacket, and beneath that the edges of a dark red shirt are barely visible.
Shelby's eyes flick to the mark on the Strider's wrist and back to his face. "Hard not to, really. Which is so out of season... of course," she continues in nearly the same breath, "all this growing plants are out of season, too." She might, perhaps, add something else, but releases the breath unused.
Tim runs his free hand through his hair, seeming to shake himself further out of whatever funk he's in. "Yeah, everything's a fucking mess. And--" His jaw clenches for a second, then he looks at her. "Did you have a weird dream last night? About...mirrors?"
The Fang studies him for a moment before her head shakes. "No, but I've been sleeping inside. Think I've been making up for all those nights as a Guardian." It's a weak joke, marked by the faintest of smiles. "Tell me about it? Before I left everyone was having all these weird dreams too."
"That's...the problem." Tim tucks his mala back into the gray shoulderbag resting off to one side. "I tried explaining it to Chu'mana, and I can remember it. I can remember it really well." He absently rubs at a spot on his chest, like he's itching an injury concealed by shirt and hoodie. "But when I try to say anything about it, it's like trying to hold sand, or water, in your fist." He gives her a helpless look.
"Write it down?" she suggests. "Or maybe try it in lupus? Or," she adds, taking pity on that look, "just tell me. Don't try to make sense of it, or anything. It's a dream, right? Weird things happen in dreams. It's like trying to explain the Umbra." As if reminded, her eyes flick to the sky, but it remains stubbornly daytime.
Tim makes a low sound. "Writing it down, I should try that. Maybe I can find someone to show me calligraphy, that might make it more, symbolic." All of that aside, he makes an attempt. "There was a mirror. The reflection in it was changing." His eyes move around the grove, settling on this and that as he tries to piece things together. "And a piece of it cut me."
Shelby draws up her knees to wrap her arms about them, eyes half-closing as she listens. She might as well be alone, for all the attention she's paying Tim.
Tim puts a hand over his chest for a moment, grimacing, and then shakes his head. "Yeah. It's hard for me to find the right way--any way--to describe it. Like I'm trying to describe green to a blind person." He sighs and pulls a tumbler out of his bag. It's not his usual, but a newer one. He screws it open and has a drink of what smells to be a fragrant tea. "I figure I need to talk to some of the crescents, at least."
Now she does glance over. "Oh, probably," she agrees, voice light. "What about the reflection? How was it changing? Was it flipping from image to image, or was it blurry, like looking through a river or something?"
Tim shakes his head. "Something like..." His voice fades, and he sighs. "Chu'mana and I tried to work through it, but all I could tell her was bits and pieces like this." He toys with one corner of the rug, and his demeanor begins to become more focused. "Something's coming. Something big. I don't think it's--it doesn't feel like it's the usual thing. Dancers or banes or fomori."
"Your bits and pieces are more than I have right now," Shelby points out, offering over a bit of her usual smile. "I don't care that it's all jumbled, if that matters. --I had a thought, yesterday, before I ran into the bees. It all made sense for one second, but then it was gone. Something about the dreams, I think. But I don't remember." Which means another nose wrinkle.
"That, is exactly what this feels like," Tim says, pointing at Shelby. "Like I have a way to explain it and then it's gone the second I open my mouth." He's quiet for a second. "There's one really fucking weird part. I woke up with a new scar."
Shelby straightens. "Oh?" and gestures to her chest. "You've been collecting new ones since summer, haven't you."
Tim snorts, though he seems genuinely amused. "The other two are your normal kind. Neither of them are battle scars, just, stuff that didn't heal up right. It happens." He taps a spot on his chest. "This one's different. I didn't--I mean, as far as I know, I didn't go out and get in any fights or anything last night. It just was there this morning."
"Sleep-fighting," quoth she, all big eyes, a disappointed head shake, and a face so bland she has to be laughing. "Challenging people in your sleep." For shame. A moment, though, and the Fang asks, "Does it... look like anything? Or is it just a scar?"
"Not like, a shape or anything. Pretty normal 'you got cut real good' sort." Tim puts his hand just over his heart, spreading his thumb and index finger to almost the length of his palm. "Right about here."
Shelby asks, face screwing up, "Do you think there's anything in there?" Not that she's leaping up to volunteer to do surgery, or anything. No, she's staying right where she is. "I suppose where you got cut is right where the mirror got you, in your dream?" Her eyes narrow after the fact, but she doesn't elaborate.
"I--that could be. Maybe." Tim squints, trying to think, then gives up. "It left an impression, though, that's hard to describe. Something's coming, but it's hard to say what."
She shrugs and re-wraps her legs. "Well, if you do want someone to see if one of the spirits was trying to send you something across the Umbra, I'm sure Norman-rhya or Zosia would help you out." She, on the other hand, turns to a different, less potentially gory topic: "Did Xander find you? Or you find him?"
Tim shakes his head. "No, haven't seen him--though I've been pretty tied up with things. He's a Shadow Lord, right?"
"Shadow Lord Theurge," she agrees, with another bright flash of grin. "I phoned him the other day after I talked to you, and it turns out everyone else in the pack we wanted has left." She shrugs: so. "If you two get along, he could be a third."
Tim considers that. "Sorry about the others disappearing," he says. "But if it works with us, well, there's that." He takes his mala back up, fiddling with them. "Anyone else in mind?"
Shelby wriggles one foot forward as far as it can go within the bounds of her arms. "Maybe," is noncommittal, and she studies a bit of bramble on the other side of the grove. "I was talking to Morgan-rhya -- have you met her? -- and she said she's in a new pack. Her old one, Kaz-rhya's pack, broke up."
"Yeah, I remember one of the Furies said she had Packed with Morgan." Tim bites his lip at that. "I guess with Kaz and Chandini not around..." He shrugs. "Well if you get along with Chandini well enough and she comes back, there's another option."
"I would love to pack with Chandini," she assures him with another quick look and quick grin. "There's another option from that pack, though, who is still around."
Tim tilts his head, looking uncertain, then blinks. "Salem? Certainly a possibility. You don't mind that he's a city-type, do you?" What he may really be asking is, 'Do you think others are going to mind you're packing with an Urrah.'
Shelby shrugs as though it were no matter to her. "We were thinking of claiming Harbor Park, right? Anyway, Xander and I were thinking about a pack that either had territory near the city, or something that could go into the city. And even if we decide on here," she glances around the grove as if seeing it for the first time, "we can still always ask. The worst he'll do is say no. Plus we could use some heavier lifting. Right now it's two Ragabash and a Theurge, and nobody," she affects a put-upon moue, "to stand in front and look threatening."
"Mmm, true. Well, how about we ask him--and Xander--and see if he's even interested. Guy like him..." Tim gives Shelby a wry look. "Sometimes they like their alone-time, to brood over the Pack which was a while."
Shelby shrugs again, but looks pleased. "You aren't living out here, are you? I mean, you have somewhere with four walls and running water to crash, right?"
"Edgewood, sometimes here, sometimes places in the city." Tim doesn't sound put out by this. "Mostly I keep the bike at Edgewood. Unless I wind up with something more permanent, it's about the safest place for it."
"Good," the Fang says with a firm nod, as if she personally were responsible for his housing arrangements. "Because I recommend you go get a shower, at least, and a nap if you don't spend the night. You look," a wrinkle of her nose is dismayed, this time, not teasing, "like you were on a bender, or something."
There is a flash of black now and again, among the trees further away. Soon enough, this clarifies into a lean black jackal, evidently following a scent. (That is, he's following the scent sometimes, and breaking off to explore other interesting scents, and then re-finding the original scent, and so on.) He's not bothering to keep himself hidden.
Tim sniffs, sitting up straighter and looking indignant. "Hey, if you want to buy up a parcel and build a nice little cabin out here with running water, be my guest," he says, all faux haughtiness. The act fades as his eyes catch movement in the distance. "I think there's a visitor out here."
"Me and what trust fund," she counters, catching sight of the visitor about the same time as Tim. "--Think you're right. Black, so probably not one of mine. Want me to shift?" All asked casually, and though she unwraps her arms, she doesn't stand.
As the two notice him, Djehuti notices them. Tail and ears going up, he lets out a whurf of greeting, and lopes towards them, using one of the deer paths. He's not particularly speedy, but he does cover ground, even if he's limping just a touch. He doesn't appear particularly threatening, all things considered. Grizzled, but not threatening.
"No, I think we're good. If I had to guess, this is one of mine." Tim surveys the wolf, then asks, "You anyone we know?"
What's a jackal doing here? On closer inspection, this wolf really does look like a jackal, black furred and elegant, with brown eyes, and a perhaps unnerving amount of attention directed your way. The two smallest toes on his fore-paws are missing.
"Or a horrible Sharpie accident," Shelby murmurs back, amused. She resettles onto one hip, tucking her legs to the side, for all the world like a queen out a'Maying. Her eyes study the visitor, one side of her mouth twitching up, but lets Tim take the lead.
Long-Path's ears splay. I have not had anything to do with human ways of writing things down, he tells Shelby, and adds, ~I am one Golden knows a little but you don't know at all. Wisdom's Long And Twisting Path, I am. Golden's tribe, but half moon.~ He takes a pace toward her, but then pauses, one paw upraised in question, clearly asking if without words if she minds him snuffling at her.
"Oh, hey, Djehuti." Tim gestures at him, explaining to Shelby, "We ran into each other at Western Eye a ways back. He's good people."
Shelby arches an eyebrow at Tim in a silent Oh? and extends a hand to the newcomer. "Shelby Zalesky-Leveque, Fostern Ragabash of the Silver Fangs. Also called Bright Eye Sees to the Heart of the Ambush." The hand is all she offers, however.
Long-Path sniffs at it with interest, and drifts minorly closer just for a better overall impression, but does not impinge in major ways. ~Glad to meet you.~ Now that he's investigated her, he takes a look around the general area. ~Who died and made this a Glade,~ he asks, surprised.
Tim sucks in a breath at the question. "Spirits," he says, eyes moving up to the great oak. "The forest was sick was some kind of, fungus formor. One of Sept's theurges, she made a pact with Tree to heal it, but all the spirits of the forest died to make it work." He sighs, and his eyes move one to other parts of their surroundings: the water, the bushes, the other trees.
"I'd pack with Meg," the Fang offers out of the blue, "though that would put the kibosh on gathering Salem, probably." She adds to Long-Path, politely, "Would you prefer we shift?"
Long-Path's ears slew back at the tale, and he whines softly, almost too softly to be heard. ~My apologies for the disrespect,~ he says, clearly more to the area than to the people, and then blinks at Shelby. ~No,~ he says, and then, posture becoming uncertain, he asks, ~Would you rather I shifted?~
Tim grins sidelong at Shelby. "It's less who'd pack with her, and more who would she Pack with, I think." He shrugs at Djehuti, and says, "I don't mind either way. And it's not disrespectful; I mean, this kind of thing doesn't happen every day. But hey, now you know."
Shelby wides her eyes at the other Ragabash, probably to indicate disbelief that anyone wouldn't want to pack with her, Shelby, before turning back to Long-Path. "Not at all. I just didn't want you to be uncomfortable, or feel you were missing out on anything. So what brings you to the Hidden Walk?"
Long-Path watches their by-play with interest, as he settles down stiffly on his haunches nearby. ~No, no, I understand -- and speak -- your tongue. I'm just staying in this form because it's colder than I've been used to, for awhile, here. And -- Me?~ He flicks his ears in a lupine shrug. ~It was suggested I come to help. So I did.~ (This clearly is leaving a considerable amount of information out.)
"Sounds familiar," Tim drawls. "We're not really made for around here--but just wait, in the summer, when they're all complaining about the heat, then we get to laugh at them."
Shelby pfts. "Please." Her own drawl is honey-sweet, and straight out of the American south. "Y'all don't get hot up here." "--It's very nice to have you here," she adds to the Philodox before glancing again to Tim. "Do you have tribal things to talk about?"
Long-Path lolls his tongue. ~I was actually whelped about four hours' travel from here. But in the general sense of how we as a tribe were made, yes indeed.~ Then his ears splay at Shelby. ~I've been to where that accent is from. I like deserts better.~ At her question, he sits up. ~Well, yes,~ he says, honestly. ~But it's not like we don't have more time to do it in, and you, after all, are talking of packing together. So the point being is, don't leave on my account.~
Tim nods at Djehuti's response to Shelby, and for his own part admits, "We do, but I'm not gonna run you off for that. There's time, and all."
"Unless one of you gets bitten by the travel bug," Shelby points out, "in which case Chiminage becomes a moot point." She glances at Tim for no apparent reason before looking more closely at Long-Path.
[OOC] Shelby Senses Wyrm! (Djehuti is clean)
~I do plan to be traveling around the area -- down south to Gaia's Bones and so on -- but this is sort of going to be my center of operations, so to speak, for awhile. So the whole gift giving thing still applies,~ Djehuti says. His left ear flickers a bit at Shelby's sudden scrutiny, but he doesn't otherwise seem to notice it. Or ask.
"Well I was brought here by a higher power, and she might not be thrilled if I decided to," Tim gestures grandly, "run off into the sunset. I'll be around for a spell, gods willing." He gets a look of filing tidbits of information away as he listens to Djehuti, and adds, "Might be nice to get some word back from those areas, find out if they're dealing with the same things we are."
"Good," the Fang tells Tim firmly, with a separate nod for Long-Path. "I'm not a Guardian any more, but I can let them know that you're in the area. Has Tim told you where anything is, around here? Or are you that newly arrived?" Her accent's faded back to where it was before, still obvious but not prominent.
Djehuti tilts his head in question at Tim's statement -- Which power is that? -- but all he says out loud is, ~That was part of what I was thinking, yes. Useful information for putting puzzle pieces together.~ He settles back down onto his haunches, and indicates to Shelby, ~I have met a Guardian. Or, anyway, someone in the Warder's pack. So I am free to wander the Bawn, though not yet, alas, the Caern. As for where things are...I know the house open to all, on the edge of the woods, but I don't yet know where the Glass Walkers den. Might I trouble you for an address?~
"I freely admit that I've been remiss in explaining things." Tim begins an attempt to make up for it. "The Walkers have a Tenement--" He stops, eyes distant, then gets up and starts rolling his prayer rug. "I just remembered, I have to do something in the city. Djehuti, give a howl for me later? We can chat then." Once his shoulderbag's in place, he shifts to his wolf shape and chuffs at Shelby. I will seek the Night's Shadow, that he and I may meet and discuss being Pack brothers.
Shelby ahs? at Long-Path. "Who was it? No point in me spreading the word if they already have," she explains. She's about to add more when Tim interrupts himself; her smile turns rueful. "One of these days I'm going to see what duct tape does to a Strider. But all right - if I see Xander I'll remind him to come find you. I'm sure I've given him your number, and I'll text you with his."
Long-Path's ears swivel as Tim starts to leave, and there is mild disappointment in his posture, but only that of a tribemate saying goodbye to a tribemate, and not that of someone with urgency in his heart. ~Run well with the Mother,~ he tells Tim, and then informs Shelby, ~Carries the Tale Back From the Land of Fire. The metis with many legs.~
Golden licks his nose in apology to Djehuti, then shakes himself out and sets off to the east.
The Fang lifts a hand after Tim, remembering, "Galliard," and nods. "I haven't heard that Heartwood is a Guardian pack, but maybe they are. I'm sure the Warder knows you're here by now, at least." She extends first one arm, then the other to stretch, rolls onto her knees and likewise shifts into lupus. I will show you the denning place, she decides, where you may find warmth. She shakes out her coat, fixes Long-Path with one eye, and heads off at a trot toward the south.
Long-Path, who admittedly does look slightly cold, brightens, clambers to his feet, and follows her. He's none too speedy, but he covers ground well.