The old man and the fox
Jun. 22nd, 2010 05:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 09:12 Pacific Time on Tue Jun 22 2010.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (70% full).
The Sept Compound
Somewhere in the world it's Summer, the skies are clear and the temperature balmy. Saint Clair is still stuck in spring, with its cool temperatures and cloud-covered skies. At least it isn't raining? In the Compound Shelby shadow boxes in homid, stopping every few punches to test the lay of her shoulder. A hand towel and a water bottle await her pleasure under the scant coverage of the roof, but she hasn't been at this long enough yet to become truly sweaty.
Salem limps into the compound in wolf form, more scars than fur it seems, and shifts up smoothly through the forms into homid as he arrives. He squints at Shelby from underneath the brim of his boonie hat, studying her critically.
Jack Salem is in his middle sixties and looks as though he's served a long-term tour of duty in hell. A thick mane of unkempt white hair hangs well past his shoulders, and a scruffy white beard covers most of his hawkishly gaunt face. He was probably handsome, once upon a time, but the fine aristocratic features are marred by the detritus of old wounds. Thick keloid rips down the left side of his face (his eye on that side is milky white, obviously blind), while another line runs crookedly across the bridge of his nose. There are pockmarks from old shrapnel wounds as well, and half of his right ear has been torn off at some point. His eyes (the good one's dark brown) are deep-set under thick black eyebrows, but despite the lines and sleepless bruising around them, the stare from the good one is as sharp and predatory as it ever was.
At six-foot-three, Salem stands taller than many men; he is leanly muscled, with not a spare ounce of flesh on him. He limps when he walks, favoring his right leg, and his left hand is missing its smallest finger and half of its ring finger. Despite this, he appears neither infirm nor weak. There is, in fact, an aura of tightly-controlled violence about him that is enough to make most mortals blench.
His clothing's fairly shabby and suggests the appearance of a 'Nam vet down on his luck; the olive-drab combat jacket is from around the time of that particular conflict and looks like it's been through a few wars since then; there are several mended tears, old stains, and bare patches where the insignia and name tag used to be. The baggy white wifebeater he wears underneath the open jacket is dingy, as are the torn and faded jeans he's wearing. Battered jungle boots and a nigh-shapeless boonie hat complete the appearance of a guy who's made maybe one too many trips up the Nung River.
Frowning to herself, Shelby stops to pace a small circle, catching sight of the newcomer and giving him a smile. "Morning," she says politely, without any indication that she knows who the familiar stranger might be. "I'm Shelby. I don't believe we've met?"
"You look familiar," the scarred man says, "though it's been a long time." He scratches idly at his beard, then pushes the hat back a little on his head. "Jack Salem, called Scar. Philodox of the Glass Walkers."
Shelby looks bright and attentive, her 'has it?' plain on her features if not her lips. Half a beat after his introduction she boggles at him, momentarily gaping like a fish; then it's, "Oh my god!" and a slow approach, as if the Fang isn't sure he isn't going to disappear. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, called Doesn't Know When to Stop, Ragabash of the Silver Fangs. We met here, remember? I had cashews? You're... um, back!"
Salem's squinted expression clears. "Ah, right. The cashews. And, yes, I am, I suppose." He heads over to the fire pit to take a seat on one of the bench-logs around it.
"I'm really glad to see you're back," Shelby continues, continuing her slow stalk after him - is he really...? - but taking her seat on the opposite side of the fire. "You, and Jacinta, and some other J-name all disappeared about the same time. You're all right, though?"
Salem grunts. "I've lost a few bits over the years," he raises his maimed left hand to demonstrate, "but as far as it goes, I'm well enough." He grimaces. "I didn't see Jacinta, by the way, if you were going to ask after her."
Shelby's, "Oh," is both polite and startled, with an undertone of sudden understanding. Carefully, "You know it hasn't been, um. Years for me - I mean, us though, right? I don't have any cashews," she adds with a gesture toward the shelter, "but you're welcome to my water. You're still a cliath, aren't you?"
Salem grimaces a little, nodding a bit sourly when she mentions the time difference. "There wasn't anyone to challenge," he says in answer to her other question. He shifts his weight, stretching out his right leg and rubbing the knee.
Her eyes go to his leg, just for a second, before returning to his face. "Well, I'm glad you're back, and safe. I hope the others come back too. How long have you been back?"
"Not quite two weeks," he answers, after a moment's thought. "Several days before the Great Hunt."
"Well, that was." Shelby pauses and wrinkles her nose. "It went well, I hear? Did you go on it?"
Salem shakes his head without offering an explanation. "How's your training going?"
She glances aside as answer, shoulders lifting and falling. "All right, I suppose." Back to Salem, "I'm working with a Black Fury now - um, I think her name is Shan-? No, Chandini. I like her. She explains things."
Salem grins at this. "My packmate," he says, rather fondly. "You're in very good hands."
Shelby actually brightens. "Oh? Yes, she had Freedom and I running, and working together. It's different from the katas and things August-rhya has me doing. He's very patient, though." A pause. "They're both patient, I suppose. Which is probably good."
"Patience is an essential characteristic of any good teacher," says the scarred Walker.
"And in students," Shelby adds wryly with another wrinkle of her nose. "--Are you looking for someone, Salem-rhya? If you're just trying to rest, it probably isn't helping, me chattering on at you like this."
Salem shakes his head. "You're fine. I was just taking a turn around the bawn. Relearning the land, I suppose you could say."
Shelby ohs again, and studies the older Walker for a few more seconds. "--What was it like?" she finally inquires, delicately.
Salem raises one dark eyebrow. "Where I was, you mean?"
Shelby nods silently.
Salem purses his lips as if considering how to answer. "Unpleasant," he says at last. "Difficult. Cold, most of the time, and dangerous."
"--I'm sorry," Shelby finally decides, after long moments of mulling that over.
Salem's shoulders lift and fall. "In my point of view, I never left. It was what it was. I survived it, while many others did not."
Shelby says, "Well, that's good?" though it's clear she's not sure if she's speaking truth. "I'm glad you survived it, I mean, not that other people died." She brushes invisible lint from her knees before wrapping her hands about them. "I've been in the Umbra a few times," she volunteers, "but nothing like that ever happened."
Salem grunts. "The Umbra is a strange place. Reality itself is, however, no less strange." He shrugs again, bends his leg, then takes off his hat briefly to push hair away from his face.
"How can you tell what's reality, though?" the Ragabash asks with a shrug. "Or maybe a better question to ask is - whose reality is right? Spirits have one reality, so do Garou, and people - well, kin and other humans - a third. Are they all right?"
"That's a very good question," Salem says, replacing his hat. "And impossible to answer. At least from my perspective. I'm sure there's a Stargazer or two out there who would say otherwise."
The cub brightens, a smile briefly lighting her face. "From anyone's perspective, maybe. Theurges might know, or at least say they do. I know my reality's changed in the last few months. It'll probably keep changing, too."
Salem nods, smiling faintly back at her. "My tribe reveres adaptability. 'Survive and adapt' is Cockroach's motto. It's the way of many lupus as well. Survive and adapt. Work with what's in front of you. Deal with what's in front of you. When it changes, change with it."
Shelby says, "Humans too. --Which are like cockroaches, maybe," she adds with a rueful moue. "If you listen to some of the tribes." She glances over at the shelter and back to the Walker, lips pressed together. "May I ask you a... maybe a personal question, Salem-rhya?" Exquisitely polite.
Salem's mouth thins, but he nods.
The Fang glances up and promptly back down to where her hands rest in her lap, fingers precisely folded. "You're a Philodox. What's the best part of being a Philodox, for you?"
This clearly wasn't the question he was expecting her to ask, and it takes him a moment's thought to answer it. He scratches his beard, tugs absently on the white, bristly hair. "The challenge," he says. "As a Philodox, one is expected to follow the precepts of Honor more often than the other creeds, and the half moon all but insists on balance. Which isn't easy."
"Balancing...," Shelby starts, only to trail off. "Balancing justice and mercy? What is right, versus what is fair? I hope you don't think I'm prying," she adds with another excuse-me smile. "I wanted to be a lawyer, before. I'm interested in how it changes, when you choose to do something versus when, I don't know. When it's expected? When you're born to it?"
"Justice and mercy, right and fair, wolf and man, the aspects of the Triat..." Salem trails off, brow furrowing. "What do you mean, exactly?"
Shelby is slow to answer, frowning over her words. "Well... if I were a Galliard, everyone would expect me to be good with words, or sing, or enjoy telling stories, or passing along news, right? Except people - humans - do those sorts of things too, only they choose for themselves. They don't have tradition, and Gaia, and spirits telling them that they should go into journalism."
"Perhaps not," Salem says, "but they do have parents, teachers, and society itself telling them what to do. 'Be a doctor, your father was a doctor, his father was a doctor, et cetera.'"
"True," she acknowledges. "But you still have those people who say they aren't going to do what they're told - or those who aren't told anything. They encouraged me to become a lawyer, but if I'd really wanted to, oh, become a doctor or a teacher instead, no one would have said boo. The point is, how does you role - how does performing your role change when it's something you can't choose?"
Dryly, Salem says, "Speaking as someone who was born an Ahroun, I find it difficult to answer that. I do know that when I was an Ahroun, the role seemed natural to me. I had plenty of anger in me, and violence is easy when one is surrounded by it."
Shelby only gapes once, to her credit, before her velour-covered knees again become intensely fascinating. "We're," she starts, swallows and tries again. "Technically speaking, we're all surrounded by violence. Garou, I mean. But maybe I'm not asking the right question. I'm not sure what it is, anymore."
"Are you feeling uncomfortable being a Ragabash?" Salem asks, tilting his head slightly and squinting.
"--What? No!" The cub looks up sharply, hands falling to her sides like she'd push herself upright. "I just - I don't know. If I was meant to be a Ragabash - and I was - then why wasn't I, why didn't I... Shouldn't I have been interested in something that wasn't so obviously another Auspice?"
"That's not what I meant to ask either," she adds, lips twisting miserably. "I don't know."
Salem considers this. "I don't know," he says after a moment. He's honest at least. "What, exactly, was it that drew you toward being a lawyer?"
"Making a difference," she answers promptly. "The money didn't hurt, of course. But making sure everything is... was?" She shrugs off the competing tenses. "As fair as can be. Or maybe as just as possible, which isn't exactly the same."
"That's not incompatible with what a Ragabash does," Salem points out. He slides off the log bench to sit on the ground with his elbows on it.
"It's what a Philodox does though, too." Shelby replaces her hands in her lap, trying first one thumb on top of laced fingers, then the other. "If there's overlap between those two auspices, then there must be overlap between the others, too. Logically speaking, that is."
"A little." Salem half-closes his eyes and looks upward through the trees. The sun keeps moving in and out of the clouds. "Although, apart from the fact that all Garou fight, I think that it's more that the Ragabash have such freedom to serve Gaia how they wish."
"Jack of all trades, master of none?" she quips lightly. "Or maybe we're nothing like anyone expects. But that doesn't really make sense either - if all the other auspices are locked into their duties, but not the Ragabash, then why? We're an auspice just like all the others." Shelby laughs then, a short breath out. "Tim says I'm as flexible as a steel pipe. I just like knowing what to expect."
Salem chuckles briefly. "You're the unquantifiable auspice. The auspice that can't be predicted. The wild card."
"Or we're the smart-mouthed ones who don't know when to shut up," she ripostes wryly. "The sneaks, the scouts, the troublemakers. The fly in the ointment. Pebble in your shoe."
Salem smiles crookedly. "That too."
Shelby meets his crooked smile with a straighter one. "I suppose I can see how that might be lawyer-like, especially if you're the one getting nagged by those stupid lawyers who don't know when to shut up."
"That, too." The scarred Philodox yawns abruptly, not bothering to stifle it.
"I'm sorry," Shelby apologizes promptly, almost before his mouth starts to close. "You don't want to sit and listen to me chatter on."
Salem, coming out of the yawn, shakes his head and makes a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand. "No, it's actually quite restful, talking to you. You're a very intelligent young lady."
Shelby's face scrunches up at 'restful', but she says thank you anyway (even if she sounds a touch doubtful). "It's hard, asking some people questions. They always think I'm trying to be smart, even when I'm only trying to find things out. What they teach Kin isn't always... well, it isn't always all of what the Garou know, and they leave huge holes in it, too. I'd tell them more, if it were up to me. Which I don't suppose it will be, at least for, well. A few years, anyway."
Salem utters a thoughtful 'mm'. "I'm mainly an advocate for letting kin know as much as they wish to know. There are plenty that prefer ignorance."
"Is it knowing ignorance, though?" the Silver Fang wonders. "If you don't know that you don't know, there's no way you can even ask to find out more."
Salem raises eyebrows. "I had a woman tell me flatly that she didn't want to know. Absolutely did not."
"All right," Shelby acknowledges, "she told you. But she had to know something, at least, to know that she didn't want to know more. If you're careful, you can leave out bits, and they'll never know to ask. Like... oh, maybe she knew about Garou, and she didn't want to know more, but what about the other shifters? Or vampires?"
Salem exhales. "She didn't want to know more about the nonhuman world than she had to. She didn't even like to see me out of homid form." He shrugs. "Unlike Garou, kinfolk have the luxury of living in blissful ignorance if they choose, and I believe in allowing kin to live as they wish. Presuming they're not working for the Enemy."
Shelby brushes off her knees again. "Right, but that's not really what I'm asking. What if she did want to know more? I can't even tell you how many things I've learned since I shifted, and I was raised at a Sept. Everyone knew about the Garou, and the war, but the kin were protected. Coddled. The better your breeding, the more important you were, but even that didn't get you much of anything."
"Do you feel happier, for knowing?" Salem asks.
"That's an impossible question," the Ragabash says. "I wouldn't have known more if I weren't Garou. I know more now, but only because I am Garou, and being Garou has totally upset my life. So no, by knowing I'm not happier, but I'm not the same person I was four months ago either, and she's the one you ought to be asking."
Salem regards her with half-lidded eyes. The sun's come out for the moment, giving the rough-looking Walker the appearance of a lazy tomcat. The kind that rips the face off of pit bulls but is, for the moment, feeling too comfortable to move. "Well, imagine yourself in the shoes of your four-months-ago self. Imagine her with the knowledge you have now, about the Umbra, about the spirits, about the coming Apocalypse."
Shelby regards him dubiously for a moment before her attention turns to the trees on the far side of the clearing. "I could have helped," she decides. "Or, well. It would have been easier to help. Know where to aim, instead of just throwing rocks at everything. I still don't think happy is the right word, but it's better to have more knowledge than less. For everything, not just this."
Salem goes 'hmm', shifts his weight a little, and scratches his nose. "Truthfully, most kinfolk I have known have been quite well-informed. Moreso than some cliaths. So, I don't deny the value of knowledge. Certainly it helps us when kin are knowledgeable. And it's usually not difficult to tell when a kin is eager to know more about the nonhuman side of their heritage and when they aren't."
Shelby leans forward, effortlessly resting her chin on her knees with the flexibility of the young. "Maybe it's just Silver Fangs who coddle their kin," she opines, her voice only slightly muffled. "I don't know. I do know I'm not likely to have the chance for a while, though. I'd ask Zosia-rhya if she has any plans for my marriage, but she still doesn't even want me going shopping. She'd fall over laughing, assuming she didn't tear my throat out first."
"I'm sure you've heard it before," Salem says dryly, "but it'll be different when you Rite."
Shelby snorts and may even roll her eyes, but if so it's done behind the privacy of her eyelids. "Thank you for saying 'when' and not 'if'. I suppose you've heard all this before, from too many other cubs to count?"
"More or less," Salem says, not unkindly.
The Ragabash snorts again, at herself this time, and lifts her head far enough to bring Salem back into view. "And here I thought I was the only one," she claims in a voice mockingly full of self-pity. "I'm crushed, Salem-rhya, utterly crushed. I don't think I can ever recover." Liar.
Salem chuckles quietly. "Woe, oh woe."
Shelby wrinkles her nose at him, hardly trying to repress her smile. "I'm sure you feel utterly wretched now, for ruining my life so."
"Deeply," Salem says in languid tones. "If you fetch me a sword, I shall fall upon it."
"--I've got a towel," the Fang offers after a moment of quiet. "Close enough?"
"Is it sharp?" Salem asks, eyeballing her with amusement.
Shelby says, "Um," like she's thinking it over. "--No," she eventually decides, terribly heartbroken over this failure. "I used fabric softener."
Salem is lounging near the fire pit, his shoulders braced against one of the log 'benches' and his hat sitting well back on his head. He grins crookedly at Shelby's reply, but affects a tone of reserved, businesslike regret. "I'm afraid that just won't do."
Shelby's sitting on the opposite side, actually upon one of the benches. Over under the shelter's roof is not only a water bottle, but the unfortunately-softened towel. "My turn to feel terrible," she tells him, trying (and mostly succeeding) for her own brand of remorse. "And no handy cliffs anywhere around for you to throw yourself off of, either."
"Oh, I have one of those," Salem says, scratching his nose idly. "There's quite a big one over the water in my pack's territory at Lake Arthur."
Shelby promptly perks right up. "Oh, really? But I wouldn't want you to put yourself out. --Where's Lake Arthur?" she adds, discarding the talk of potential suicide. "Plus if you did throw yourself off that cliff, then you really would need a towel, afterward."
Rustling and heavy footsteps against the ground announce that someone is inevitably approaching the clearing. And lo, in short order the form of a youth appears exiting the trees. Her head lifts as she comes into the compound, eyes moving to take in the setting. Catching sight of Shelby generates a small measure of tension in the girl, at war with the guarded response that comes from spying Salem.
Salem waves a hand in the general direction of the lake, then shifts himself to sit up a little in order to peer at the new arrival. "Hello."
At the sight of the Ahroun Shelby straightens further, her easy good humor draining to politeness. "Kerr," she acknowledges, posture perfect. "Salem-rhya, this is Kerr, a Shadow Lord Ahroun cub. Kerr, this is Jack Salem, cliath Philodox of the Glass Walkers." She could be introducing acquaintances at a cocktail party.
Tension becomes a little more palpable as Kerr's guarded look setting toward a frown as the Fang speaks. "Nice to meet you, Salem-rhya," replies quietly. Though her jaw clenches, the Ahroun cub bows her head respectfully to the Cliath.
Salem nods politely enough, though his demeanor also cools considerably when Kerr's tribe is mentioned. Despite his shabby appearance and white hair, he has a very Shadow Lord look himself. "Pleasure's all mine."
"What brings you by?" Shelby continues, all proper Southern hostess.
"What's it matter to you," Kerr replies, quietly. She considers Salem briefly, frowning in spite of her better efforts to keep it from being so. "No one's said I can't be here." The Ahroun turns that frown to Shelby, head lifting and brows raising as though asking the Ragabash if she thinks it should be otherwise.
Salem raises an eyebrow, but says nothing; he seems more interested in how the Fang cub handles this.
Shelby goes cooler, though she doesn't move. "Why, just simple manners," she acknowledges, her accent thickening even as her company smile grows. "It's so nice to spend time with friendly people."
Kerr smirks faintly, though it doesn't remove the glower as she watches Shelby. She is still standing, having just stepped from the forest and into the compound. "I can be friendly. Not my fault you have a problem with my tribe."
"Thunder's tribe has never been a popular one," Salem says calmly. "Generally for good reason. You can make a deal of it, or live with it."
The Silver Fang turns her attention from Kerr and back to the lounging Walker. "How far is it, to Lake Arthur?" she asks, for all the world as if Kerr weren't there. Of course, her body language remains hyper-erect, as though she were going to be judged on it. "It can't be on the bawn - but then, no one's allowed to have territory on the bawn, are they?"
"I don't have a problem with my tribe," Kerr states with a glance toward Salem. "What I have a problem with is people, whom I'd thought were my friends, suddenly deciding I'm scum because of who decided to claim me."
A soft rustle announces another newcomer, though the noise itself may suggest she's making herself known on purpose. A small red vixen pokes her muzzle out of the brush, peering at the Garou with bright eyes and perked ears.
Salem raises an eyebrow. Perhaps at Kerr's words, perhaps at Shelby's conversational gambit. "Hm," is all he says. He doesn't notice the vixen.
Shelby closes her eyes, just for a moment, the fox's arrival going apparently unnoticed. Then she stands, company smile back in place, and turns to face the other cub with a murmured, "Excuse me," to Salem. "I'm tired of your sniping and back-biting, Kerr. If you have something to say to me, you may say it to me. You have been nothing but impolite and bitchy to me since the day you announced you were taken by the Shadow Lords. As Salem-rhya says, Thunder's tribe isn't a popular one, and you're not doing anything to change my mind."
Kerr half turns to investigate the sounds drawn from the Fox's approach, but stops as Shelby launches into a rant. As the Ragabash's words roll on, the Ahroun begins toward her, scowl deepening into a glare. "The hell you talking about," she growls. "Are you stupid as well as stuck up? Too full of yourself and Miss Priss Silver Fang ideas to grasp sarcasm? You're the one who said there 'might' be hot water left and were totally snubbing me when I tried to ask how sparring with Tim was."
The vixen's ears slick back, and for a moment she seems to contemplate the underbrush. She does sink back a step, but lets out an audible 'tch' noise.
Salem definitely does not get in between the girls' "debate". Instead he glances sidelong in the direction of the 'tch' and raises eyebrows in curiosity.
Shelby folds her arms and lifts her chin just a fraction as she stares across the clearing at the other cub. "Of course I said might. Because I might have used it all up, and I didn't want you to have to take a cold shower. As for the other, I don't remember what you are talking about, but you were being very rude and snippy, and I had just learned that someone I counted as a friend had been claimed by the Shadow Lords and was doing her best to perpetuate the stereotypes. Of course I was upset."
Kerr may very well have forgotten that there were others present, for all the notice she gives them. She's crossed the clearing and stands before Shelby now, glaring at the Ragabash cub. "Well, excuse me for taking your concern the wrong way. And I don't recall being rude or snippy, but my usual self. Maybe a little grumpy from having been running all day."
The girl standing before you is nearing her adult height. Just shy of five feet, three inches tall on an atheleticly built frame. She stands tall, head poised and shoulders back, in confidence of herself.
She has dark brown, nearly black hair, usually pulled back from her face. Steel blue eyes are set into that angular face that's just shy of being pretty. There's a slight curve to her nose that makes it appear a little on the large side but not out of place with the rest of her features. Still trapped in childhood, she's still sporting a boyish shape having not yet come into her adult form. Yet it's not difficult to see a femininity in that figure.
Now clad in new clothes, Kerr is now wearing a ringer tee, slate blue accented with navy. On cooler days she wears a black weatherproof jacket. Her pants are a dark gray, loose fitting cargo style. The simple ensemble is completed with a sturdy pair of suede hiking boots, gray in color and accented with black.
The vixen pushes out of the underbrush again, though this time she leaves it from the side, and moves in Salem's general direction while giving the two quarreling cubs a very very very respectable berth. Really, she sort've angles so Salem is between her and the cubs.
Salem shifts his weight subtly in turn and sits up while still presenting himself as a body shield between the vixen and the upset cubs. Other than a couple of glances her way, though, he doesn't look at her; Shelby and Kerr have the majority of his focus.
"A little grumpy," Shelby repeats with polite incredulity, but inclines her head anyway, not taking her eyes from Kerr. "Very well, I accept your apology, and I'm sorry I was ill-mannered in return."
"A little grumpy," Kerr repeats, solidifying the claim. "You haven't yet seen me angry. But apology accepted." The Ahroun remains standing before Shelby, looking at her levely.
The vixen hunkers down. After a moment of slight, nervous ear-twitching, she proceeds to lean over and investigate one paw with her teeth as if nothing were in the slightest bit worrisome, though she's still keeping an eye on the two cubs.
"Are we settled, then?" Salem regards the girls -- both of them -- coolly.
Shelby tips her head again and lifts her eyes over the Shadow Lord's shoulder to meet Salem's. "I believe so - is that a fox?!" A good portion of her self-possession drops utterly away to be replaced by teenage-girl squee. "Isn't it precious?"
Kerr turns slightly, angling so she can look toward Salem. "Yessir," she replies. "I think we are."
This vixen is of average size for her species, with long slender legs, alert ears, and bright, yellow eyes with dark, slit pupils, much like a cat's. Her fur is soft and thick with a fine winter coat and all the typical fox markings; red on the top, white on the chin and throat and the very tip of her tail. Black markings along the muzzle, the backs of her ears, and her legs are much in evidence. Black guard hairs also darken the red of her back, especially near and on the tail. She moves with an almost supernatural grace.
The small fox continues chewing at her paw. Fox body language is for the most part fairly different from that of wolves--but she may seem slightly pleased.
Salem smiles thinly. "Good." He pushes to his feet, his natural grace somewhat marred by the trick knee. "I have to be going, but I'll be annoyed if I learn of any fox-hunting. Gaia with you." He seems to include the vixen in this farewell as he heads off.
"Fox-hunting?" Shelby repeats, clearly revolted. "Euw." Whatever her earlier beef with Kerr, the look she slides toward the other girl invites nothing but solidarity. "No, Salem-rhya. I do want to get its scent, though," she adds after a second's thought. "I think I've smelled fox before, but I'm not sure."
"Nice meeting you, Salem-rhya," Kerr says, shrugging off any implied thought of fox hunting. She looks to the Cliath briefly, then leans over a little to look at the vixen. "Not enough meat anyawy."
The vixen lifts her head a little, watching Salem as he leaves. That vague sense of possibly pleased from her doesn't go away, though once the Walker has stepped away, her attention seems to shift more to the two girls.
"Euw," Shelby says again, and quite firmly, this time to Kerr. She steps away from the other cub, movements exaggeratedly careful as she moves backwards over the log. Once this barrier is between her and the fox she slowly shifts to lupus, her body language curious rather than predatory.
Kerr grins slightly, glancing toward Shelby. Unlike the Fang cub, the Shadow Lord cub simply lowers herself to the ground in homid. She sits crosslegged, watching the vixen, and the anger from earlier seems to have fled.
The fox stands at the shift. While she looks prepared to spring away at any moment, she doesn't actually. Instead, her own nose twitches, and she peers intently at Shelby.
Stops-Too-Late remains behind the log at first, her own nose going up to scent the air. Musky, she reports, and sneezes.
Kerr hooks her arms around her knees, hugging them toward her chest. She scoots slightly around, turning to watch both vixen and lupus.
There's little change from the fox. She seems to be studying the two cubs as intently as she's being studied.
The white wolf keeps one eye on the fox as she slinks out from behind the log, heading for the edge of the clearing. Her nose continues to move as she scents first air, then ground, and air again, slowly closing in on where the vixen appeared.
Kerr carefully reaches a hand toward the fox, fingers out stretched and palm up. Nothing is there in her hand, but it's open and offered should the vixen want to sniff it.
The vixen sinks back a little from the hand, but her ears push forward, and her nose twitches even faster, causing her whiskers to bristle.
Having found the fox's point of entry, Stops-Too-Late whuffs all around it, finally settling back on her haunches and sneezing again. I have it now. Do not let it bite you.
Kerr glances over at Shelby, questioning. Her hand comes back slightly as she turns her attention to the vixen.
The fox licks her lips. As the hand is pulled back, she pulls back as well, just a few steps, and peers more.
Kerr doesn't pull back all the way, but she's a trifle more cautious than before. Fingers curl inward and tuck against her palm, and the knuckles are offered outward. "Just sniffing," she says quietly. "No biting. There won't be a fox hunt so much as a new hat for Nik-rhya if you bite, okay?"
In response, there's a loud tch, and a look that can only be described as indignant. This time, the vixen doesn't move forward to sniff, she just looks at Kerr. Hrmph.
"Well, Shelby said not to let you bite me," Kerr replies looking mildly rebuked. With a sigh, the Ahroun stretches her hand out again, palm up and fingers out. "Please don't bite, but sniff if you want to."
Stops-Too-Late stands again and paces toward the others, ears pricked forward. You are talking to it. Another sniff. No, her.
The fox does deign to approach again this time, with an air of injured dignity. She gets closer, in fact, close enough that when she sniffs Kerr's hand, her whiskers likely tickle.
Kerr holds her hand out to allow the fox to sniff, though it twitches slightly as the whiskers tickle. "Yeah, she? She seems... smart. I think. See how she's reacted to my warning about biting?"
Stops-Too-Late admits that she was not watching. I am going for a run. She lowers her head to take one last sniff of the smaller canid and straightens again. Gaia watch, she tells Kerr, and amused, to the fox, Gaia watch. With that she turns and heads off at a trot, head high and ears pricked.
Once she's had her fill of sniffing Kerr's hand, the vixen backs off again. Stops-Too-Late's movements are regarded with some brief startlement before she realizes the other cub is leaving, and then she backs away a few more steps, as if she intends to do the same.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (70% full).
The Sept Compound
Somewhere in the world it's Summer, the skies are clear and the temperature balmy. Saint Clair is still stuck in spring, with its cool temperatures and cloud-covered skies. At least it isn't raining? In the Compound Shelby shadow boxes in homid, stopping every few punches to test the lay of her shoulder. A hand towel and a water bottle await her pleasure under the scant coverage of the roof, but she hasn't been at this long enough yet to become truly sweaty.
Salem limps into the compound in wolf form, more scars than fur it seems, and shifts up smoothly through the forms into homid as he arrives. He squints at Shelby from underneath the brim of his boonie hat, studying her critically.
Jack Salem is in his middle sixties and looks as though he's served a long-term tour of duty in hell. A thick mane of unkempt white hair hangs well past his shoulders, and a scruffy white beard covers most of his hawkishly gaunt face. He was probably handsome, once upon a time, but the fine aristocratic features are marred by the detritus of old wounds. Thick keloid rips down the left side of his face (his eye on that side is milky white, obviously blind), while another line runs crookedly across the bridge of his nose. There are pockmarks from old shrapnel wounds as well, and half of his right ear has been torn off at some point. His eyes (the good one's dark brown) are deep-set under thick black eyebrows, but despite the lines and sleepless bruising around them, the stare from the good one is as sharp and predatory as it ever was.
At six-foot-three, Salem stands taller than many men; he is leanly muscled, with not a spare ounce of flesh on him. He limps when he walks, favoring his right leg, and his left hand is missing its smallest finger and half of its ring finger. Despite this, he appears neither infirm nor weak. There is, in fact, an aura of tightly-controlled violence about him that is enough to make most mortals blench.
His clothing's fairly shabby and suggests the appearance of a 'Nam vet down on his luck; the olive-drab combat jacket is from around the time of that particular conflict and looks like it's been through a few wars since then; there are several mended tears, old stains, and bare patches where the insignia and name tag used to be. The baggy white wifebeater he wears underneath the open jacket is dingy, as are the torn and faded jeans he's wearing. Battered jungle boots and a nigh-shapeless boonie hat complete the appearance of a guy who's made maybe one too many trips up the Nung River.
Frowning to herself, Shelby stops to pace a small circle, catching sight of the newcomer and giving him a smile. "Morning," she says politely, without any indication that she knows who the familiar stranger might be. "I'm Shelby. I don't believe we've met?"
"You look familiar," the scarred man says, "though it's been a long time." He scratches idly at his beard, then pushes the hat back a little on his head. "Jack Salem, called Scar. Philodox of the Glass Walkers."
Shelby looks bright and attentive, her 'has it?' plain on her features if not her lips. Half a beat after his introduction she boggles at him, momentarily gaping like a fish; then it's, "Oh my god!" and a slow approach, as if the Fang isn't sure he isn't going to disappear. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, called Doesn't Know When to Stop, Ragabash of the Silver Fangs. We met here, remember? I had cashews? You're... um, back!"
Salem's squinted expression clears. "Ah, right. The cashews. And, yes, I am, I suppose." He heads over to the fire pit to take a seat on one of the bench-logs around it.
"I'm really glad to see you're back," Shelby continues, continuing her slow stalk after him - is he really...? - but taking her seat on the opposite side of the fire. "You, and Jacinta, and some other J-name all disappeared about the same time. You're all right, though?"
Salem grunts. "I've lost a few bits over the years," he raises his maimed left hand to demonstrate, "but as far as it goes, I'm well enough." He grimaces. "I didn't see Jacinta, by the way, if you were going to ask after her."
Shelby's, "Oh," is both polite and startled, with an undertone of sudden understanding. Carefully, "You know it hasn't been, um. Years for me - I mean, us though, right? I don't have any cashews," she adds with a gesture toward the shelter, "but you're welcome to my water. You're still a cliath, aren't you?"
Salem grimaces a little, nodding a bit sourly when she mentions the time difference. "There wasn't anyone to challenge," he says in answer to her other question. He shifts his weight, stretching out his right leg and rubbing the knee.
Her eyes go to his leg, just for a second, before returning to his face. "Well, I'm glad you're back, and safe. I hope the others come back too. How long have you been back?"
"Not quite two weeks," he answers, after a moment's thought. "Several days before the Great Hunt."
"Well, that was." Shelby pauses and wrinkles her nose. "It went well, I hear? Did you go on it?"
Salem shakes his head without offering an explanation. "How's your training going?"
She glances aside as answer, shoulders lifting and falling. "All right, I suppose." Back to Salem, "I'm working with a Black Fury now - um, I think her name is Shan-? No, Chandini. I like her. She explains things."
Salem grins at this. "My packmate," he says, rather fondly. "You're in very good hands."
Shelby actually brightens. "Oh? Yes, she had Freedom and I running, and working together. It's different from the katas and things August-rhya has me doing. He's very patient, though." A pause. "They're both patient, I suppose. Which is probably good."
"Patience is an essential characteristic of any good teacher," says the scarred Walker.
"And in students," Shelby adds wryly with another wrinkle of her nose. "--Are you looking for someone, Salem-rhya? If you're just trying to rest, it probably isn't helping, me chattering on at you like this."
Salem shakes his head. "You're fine. I was just taking a turn around the bawn. Relearning the land, I suppose you could say."
Shelby ohs again, and studies the older Walker for a few more seconds. "--What was it like?" she finally inquires, delicately.
Salem raises one dark eyebrow. "Where I was, you mean?"
Shelby nods silently.
Salem purses his lips as if considering how to answer. "Unpleasant," he says at last. "Difficult. Cold, most of the time, and dangerous."
"--I'm sorry," Shelby finally decides, after long moments of mulling that over.
Salem's shoulders lift and fall. "In my point of view, I never left. It was what it was. I survived it, while many others did not."
Shelby says, "Well, that's good?" though it's clear she's not sure if she's speaking truth. "I'm glad you survived it, I mean, not that other people died." She brushes invisible lint from her knees before wrapping her hands about them. "I've been in the Umbra a few times," she volunteers, "but nothing like that ever happened."
Salem grunts. "The Umbra is a strange place. Reality itself is, however, no less strange." He shrugs again, bends his leg, then takes off his hat briefly to push hair away from his face.
"How can you tell what's reality, though?" the Ragabash asks with a shrug. "Or maybe a better question to ask is - whose reality is right? Spirits have one reality, so do Garou, and people - well, kin and other humans - a third. Are they all right?"
"That's a very good question," Salem says, replacing his hat. "And impossible to answer. At least from my perspective. I'm sure there's a Stargazer or two out there who would say otherwise."
The cub brightens, a smile briefly lighting her face. "From anyone's perspective, maybe. Theurges might know, or at least say they do. I know my reality's changed in the last few months. It'll probably keep changing, too."
Salem nods, smiling faintly back at her. "My tribe reveres adaptability. 'Survive and adapt' is Cockroach's motto. It's the way of many lupus as well. Survive and adapt. Work with what's in front of you. Deal with what's in front of you. When it changes, change with it."
Shelby says, "Humans too. --Which are like cockroaches, maybe," she adds with a rueful moue. "If you listen to some of the tribes." She glances over at the shelter and back to the Walker, lips pressed together. "May I ask you a... maybe a personal question, Salem-rhya?" Exquisitely polite.
Salem's mouth thins, but he nods.
The Fang glances up and promptly back down to where her hands rest in her lap, fingers precisely folded. "You're a Philodox. What's the best part of being a Philodox, for you?"
This clearly wasn't the question he was expecting her to ask, and it takes him a moment's thought to answer it. He scratches his beard, tugs absently on the white, bristly hair. "The challenge," he says. "As a Philodox, one is expected to follow the precepts of Honor more often than the other creeds, and the half moon all but insists on balance. Which isn't easy."
"Balancing...," Shelby starts, only to trail off. "Balancing justice and mercy? What is right, versus what is fair? I hope you don't think I'm prying," she adds with another excuse-me smile. "I wanted to be a lawyer, before. I'm interested in how it changes, when you choose to do something versus when, I don't know. When it's expected? When you're born to it?"
"Justice and mercy, right and fair, wolf and man, the aspects of the Triat..." Salem trails off, brow furrowing. "What do you mean, exactly?"
Shelby is slow to answer, frowning over her words. "Well... if I were a Galliard, everyone would expect me to be good with words, or sing, or enjoy telling stories, or passing along news, right? Except people - humans - do those sorts of things too, only they choose for themselves. They don't have tradition, and Gaia, and spirits telling them that they should go into journalism."
"Perhaps not," Salem says, "but they do have parents, teachers, and society itself telling them what to do. 'Be a doctor, your father was a doctor, his father was a doctor, et cetera.'"
"True," she acknowledges. "But you still have those people who say they aren't going to do what they're told - or those who aren't told anything. They encouraged me to become a lawyer, but if I'd really wanted to, oh, become a doctor or a teacher instead, no one would have said boo. The point is, how does you role - how does performing your role change when it's something you can't choose?"
Dryly, Salem says, "Speaking as someone who was born an Ahroun, I find it difficult to answer that. I do know that when I was an Ahroun, the role seemed natural to me. I had plenty of anger in me, and violence is easy when one is surrounded by it."
Shelby only gapes once, to her credit, before her velour-covered knees again become intensely fascinating. "We're," she starts, swallows and tries again. "Technically speaking, we're all surrounded by violence. Garou, I mean. But maybe I'm not asking the right question. I'm not sure what it is, anymore."
"Are you feeling uncomfortable being a Ragabash?" Salem asks, tilting his head slightly and squinting.
"--What? No!" The cub looks up sharply, hands falling to her sides like she'd push herself upright. "I just - I don't know. If I was meant to be a Ragabash - and I was - then why wasn't I, why didn't I... Shouldn't I have been interested in something that wasn't so obviously another Auspice?"
"That's not what I meant to ask either," she adds, lips twisting miserably. "I don't know."
Salem considers this. "I don't know," he says after a moment. He's honest at least. "What, exactly, was it that drew you toward being a lawyer?"
"Making a difference," she answers promptly. "The money didn't hurt, of course. But making sure everything is... was?" She shrugs off the competing tenses. "As fair as can be. Or maybe as just as possible, which isn't exactly the same."
"That's not incompatible with what a Ragabash does," Salem points out. He slides off the log bench to sit on the ground with his elbows on it.
"It's what a Philodox does though, too." Shelby replaces her hands in her lap, trying first one thumb on top of laced fingers, then the other. "If there's overlap between those two auspices, then there must be overlap between the others, too. Logically speaking, that is."
"A little." Salem half-closes his eyes and looks upward through the trees. The sun keeps moving in and out of the clouds. "Although, apart from the fact that all Garou fight, I think that it's more that the Ragabash have such freedom to serve Gaia how they wish."
"Jack of all trades, master of none?" she quips lightly. "Or maybe we're nothing like anyone expects. But that doesn't really make sense either - if all the other auspices are locked into their duties, but not the Ragabash, then why? We're an auspice just like all the others." Shelby laughs then, a short breath out. "Tim says I'm as flexible as a steel pipe. I just like knowing what to expect."
Salem chuckles briefly. "You're the unquantifiable auspice. The auspice that can't be predicted. The wild card."
"Or we're the smart-mouthed ones who don't know when to shut up," she ripostes wryly. "The sneaks, the scouts, the troublemakers. The fly in the ointment. Pebble in your shoe."
Salem smiles crookedly. "That too."
Shelby meets his crooked smile with a straighter one. "I suppose I can see how that might be lawyer-like, especially if you're the one getting nagged by those stupid lawyers who don't know when to shut up."
"That, too." The scarred Philodox yawns abruptly, not bothering to stifle it.
"I'm sorry," Shelby apologizes promptly, almost before his mouth starts to close. "You don't want to sit and listen to me chatter on."
Salem, coming out of the yawn, shakes his head and makes a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand. "No, it's actually quite restful, talking to you. You're a very intelligent young lady."
Shelby's face scrunches up at 'restful', but she says thank you anyway (even if she sounds a touch doubtful). "It's hard, asking some people questions. They always think I'm trying to be smart, even when I'm only trying to find things out. What they teach Kin isn't always... well, it isn't always all of what the Garou know, and they leave huge holes in it, too. I'd tell them more, if it were up to me. Which I don't suppose it will be, at least for, well. A few years, anyway."
Salem utters a thoughtful 'mm'. "I'm mainly an advocate for letting kin know as much as they wish to know. There are plenty that prefer ignorance."
"Is it knowing ignorance, though?" the Silver Fang wonders. "If you don't know that you don't know, there's no way you can even ask to find out more."
Salem raises eyebrows. "I had a woman tell me flatly that she didn't want to know. Absolutely did not."
"All right," Shelby acknowledges, "she told you. But she had to know something, at least, to know that she didn't want to know more. If you're careful, you can leave out bits, and they'll never know to ask. Like... oh, maybe she knew about Garou, and she didn't want to know more, but what about the other shifters? Or vampires?"
Salem exhales. "She didn't want to know more about the nonhuman world than she had to. She didn't even like to see me out of homid form." He shrugs. "Unlike Garou, kinfolk have the luxury of living in blissful ignorance if they choose, and I believe in allowing kin to live as they wish. Presuming they're not working for the Enemy."
Shelby brushes off her knees again. "Right, but that's not really what I'm asking. What if she did want to know more? I can't even tell you how many things I've learned since I shifted, and I was raised at a Sept. Everyone knew about the Garou, and the war, but the kin were protected. Coddled. The better your breeding, the more important you were, but even that didn't get you much of anything."
"Do you feel happier, for knowing?" Salem asks.
"That's an impossible question," the Ragabash says. "I wouldn't have known more if I weren't Garou. I know more now, but only because I am Garou, and being Garou has totally upset my life. So no, by knowing I'm not happier, but I'm not the same person I was four months ago either, and she's the one you ought to be asking."
Salem regards her with half-lidded eyes. The sun's come out for the moment, giving the rough-looking Walker the appearance of a lazy tomcat. The kind that rips the face off of pit bulls but is, for the moment, feeling too comfortable to move. "Well, imagine yourself in the shoes of your four-months-ago self. Imagine her with the knowledge you have now, about the Umbra, about the spirits, about the coming Apocalypse."
Shelby regards him dubiously for a moment before her attention turns to the trees on the far side of the clearing. "I could have helped," she decides. "Or, well. It would have been easier to help. Know where to aim, instead of just throwing rocks at everything. I still don't think happy is the right word, but it's better to have more knowledge than less. For everything, not just this."
Salem goes 'hmm', shifts his weight a little, and scratches his nose. "Truthfully, most kinfolk I have known have been quite well-informed. Moreso than some cliaths. So, I don't deny the value of knowledge. Certainly it helps us when kin are knowledgeable. And it's usually not difficult to tell when a kin is eager to know more about the nonhuman side of their heritage and when they aren't."
Shelby leans forward, effortlessly resting her chin on her knees with the flexibility of the young. "Maybe it's just Silver Fangs who coddle their kin," she opines, her voice only slightly muffled. "I don't know. I do know I'm not likely to have the chance for a while, though. I'd ask Zosia-rhya if she has any plans for my marriage, but she still doesn't even want me going shopping. She'd fall over laughing, assuming she didn't tear my throat out first."
"I'm sure you've heard it before," Salem says dryly, "but it'll be different when you Rite."
Shelby snorts and may even roll her eyes, but if so it's done behind the privacy of her eyelids. "Thank you for saying 'when' and not 'if'. I suppose you've heard all this before, from too many other cubs to count?"
"More or less," Salem says, not unkindly.
The Ragabash snorts again, at herself this time, and lifts her head far enough to bring Salem back into view. "And here I thought I was the only one," she claims in a voice mockingly full of self-pity. "I'm crushed, Salem-rhya, utterly crushed. I don't think I can ever recover." Liar.
Salem chuckles quietly. "Woe, oh woe."
Shelby wrinkles her nose at him, hardly trying to repress her smile. "I'm sure you feel utterly wretched now, for ruining my life so."
"Deeply," Salem says in languid tones. "If you fetch me a sword, I shall fall upon it."
"--I've got a towel," the Fang offers after a moment of quiet. "Close enough?"
"Is it sharp?" Salem asks, eyeballing her with amusement.
Shelby says, "Um," like she's thinking it over. "--No," she eventually decides, terribly heartbroken over this failure. "I used fabric softener."
Salem is lounging near the fire pit, his shoulders braced against one of the log 'benches' and his hat sitting well back on his head. He grins crookedly at Shelby's reply, but affects a tone of reserved, businesslike regret. "I'm afraid that just won't do."
Shelby's sitting on the opposite side, actually upon one of the benches. Over under the shelter's roof is not only a water bottle, but the unfortunately-softened towel. "My turn to feel terrible," she tells him, trying (and mostly succeeding) for her own brand of remorse. "And no handy cliffs anywhere around for you to throw yourself off of, either."
"Oh, I have one of those," Salem says, scratching his nose idly. "There's quite a big one over the water in my pack's territory at Lake Arthur."
Shelby promptly perks right up. "Oh, really? But I wouldn't want you to put yourself out. --Where's Lake Arthur?" she adds, discarding the talk of potential suicide. "Plus if you did throw yourself off that cliff, then you really would need a towel, afterward."
Rustling and heavy footsteps against the ground announce that someone is inevitably approaching the clearing. And lo, in short order the form of a youth appears exiting the trees. Her head lifts as she comes into the compound, eyes moving to take in the setting. Catching sight of Shelby generates a small measure of tension in the girl, at war with the guarded response that comes from spying Salem.
Salem waves a hand in the general direction of the lake, then shifts himself to sit up a little in order to peer at the new arrival. "Hello."
At the sight of the Ahroun Shelby straightens further, her easy good humor draining to politeness. "Kerr," she acknowledges, posture perfect. "Salem-rhya, this is Kerr, a Shadow Lord Ahroun cub. Kerr, this is Jack Salem, cliath Philodox of the Glass Walkers." She could be introducing acquaintances at a cocktail party.
Tension becomes a little more palpable as Kerr's guarded look setting toward a frown as the Fang speaks. "Nice to meet you, Salem-rhya," replies quietly. Though her jaw clenches, the Ahroun cub bows her head respectfully to the Cliath.
Salem nods politely enough, though his demeanor also cools considerably when Kerr's tribe is mentioned. Despite his shabby appearance and white hair, he has a very Shadow Lord look himself. "Pleasure's all mine."
"What brings you by?" Shelby continues, all proper Southern hostess.
"What's it matter to you," Kerr replies, quietly. She considers Salem briefly, frowning in spite of her better efforts to keep it from being so. "No one's said I can't be here." The Ahroun turns that frown to Shelby, head lifting and brows raising as though asking the Ragabash if she thinks it should be otherwise.
Salem raises an eyebrow, but says nothing; he seems more interested in how the Fang cub handles this.
Shelby goes cooler, though she doesn't move. "Why, just simple manners," she acknowledges, her accent thickening even as her company smile grows. "It's so nice to spend time with friendly people."
Kerr smirks faintly, though it doesn't remove the glower as she watches Shelby. She is still standing, having just stepped from the forest and into the compound. "I can be friendly. Not my fault you have a problem with my tribe."
"Thunder's tribe has never been a popular one," Salem says calmly. "Generally for good reason. You can make a deal of it, or live with it."
The Silver Fang turns her attention from Kerr and back to the lounging Walker. "How far is it, to Lake Arthur?" she asks, for all the world as if Kerr weren't there. Of course, her body language remains hyper-erect, as though she were going to be judged on it. "It can't be on the bawn - but then, no one's allowed to have territory on the bawn, are they?"
"I don't have a problem with my tribe," Kerr states with a glance toward Salem. "What I have a problem with is people, whom I'd thought were my friends, suddenly deciding I'm scum because of who decided to claim me."
A soft rustle announces another newcomer, though the noise itself may suggest she's making herself known on purpose. A small red vixen pokes her muzzle out of the brush, peering at the Garou with bright eyes and perked ears.
Salem raises an eyebrow. Perhaps at Kerr's words, perhaps at Shelby's conversational gambit. "Hm," is all he says. He doesn't notice the vixen.
Shelby closes her eyes, just for a moment, the fox's arrival going apparently unnoticed. Then she stands, company smile back in place, and turns to face the other cub with a murmured, "Excuse me," to Salem. "I'm tired of your sniping and back-biting, Kerr. If you have something to say to me, you may say it to me. You have been nothing but impolite and bitchy to me since the day you announced you were taken by the Shadow Lords. As Salem-rhya says, Thunder's tribe isn't a popular one, and you're not doing anything to change my mind."
Kerr half turns to investigate the sounds drawn from the Fox's approach, but stops as Shelby launches into a rant. As the Ragabash's words roll on, the Ahroun begins toward her, scowl deepening into a glare. "The hell you talking about," she growls. "Are you stupid as well as stuck up? Too full of yourself and Miss Priss Silver Fang ideas to grasp sarcasm? You're the one who said there 'might' be hot water left and were totally snubbing me when I tried to ask how sparring with Tim was."
The vixen's ears slick back, and for a moment she seems to contemplate the underbrush. She does sink back a step, but lets out an audible 'tch' noise.
Salem definitely does not get in between the girls' "debate". Instead he glances sidelong in the direction of the 'tch' and raises eyebrows in curiosity.
Shelby folds her arms and lifts her chin just a fraction as she stares across the clearing at the other cub. "Of course I said might. Because I might have used it all up, and I didn't want you to have to take a cold shower. As for the other, I don't remember what you are talking about, but you were being very rude and snippy, and I had just learned that someone I counted as a friend had been claimed by the Shadow Lords and was doing her best to perpetuate the stereotypes. Of course I was upset."
Kerr may very well have forgotten that there were others present, for all the notice she gives them. She's crossed the clearing and stands before Shelby now, glaring at the Ragabash cub. "Well, excuse me for taking your concern the wrong way. And I don't recall being rude or snippy, but my usual self. Maybe a little grumpy from having been running all day."
The girl standing before you is nearing her adult height. Just shy of five feet, three inches tall on an atheleticly built frame. She stands tall, head poised and shoulders back, in confidence of herself.
She has dark brown, nearly black hair, usually pulled back from her face. Steel blue eyes are set into that angular face that's just shy of being pretty. There's a slight curve to her nose that makes it appear a little on the large side but not out of place with the rest of her features. Still trapped in childhood, she's still sporting a boyish shape having not yet come into her adult form. Yet it's not difficult to see a femininity in that figure.
Now clad in new clothes, Kerr is now wearing a ringer tee, slate blue accented with navy. On cooler days she wears a black weatherproof jacket. Her pants are a dark gray, loose fitting cargo style. The simple ensemble is completed with a sturdy pair of suede hiking boots, gray in color and accented with black.
The vixen pushes out of the underbrush again, though this time she leaves it from the side, and moves in Salem's general direction while giving the two quarreling cubs a very very very respectable berth. Really, she sort've angles so Salem is between her and the cubs.
Salem shifts his weight subtly in turn and sits up while still presenting himself as a body shield between the vixen and the upset cubs. Other than a couple of glances her way, though, he doesn't look at her; Shelby and Kerr have the majority of his focus.
"A little grumpy," Shelby repeats with polite incredulity, but inclines her head anyway, not taking her eyes from Kerr. "Very well, I accept your apology, and I'm sorry I was ill-mannered in return."
"A little grumpy," Kerr repeats, solidifying the claim. "You haven't yet seen me angry. But apology accepted." The Ahroun remains standing before Shelby, looking at her levely.
The vixen hunkers down. After a moment of slight, nervous ear-twitching, she proceeds to lean over and investigate one paw with her teeth as if nothing were in the slightest bit worrisome, though she's still keeping an eye on the two cubs.
"Are we settled, then?" Salem regards the girls -- both of them -- coolly.
Shelby tips her head again and lifts her eyes over the Shadow Lord's shoulder to meet Salem's. "I believe so - is that a fox?!" A good portion of her self-possession drops utterly away to be replaced by teenage-girl squee. "Isn't it precious?"
Kerr turns slightly, angling so she can look toward Salem. "Yessir," she replies. "I think we are."
This vixen is of average size for her species, with long slender legs, alert ears, and bright, yellow eyes with dark, slit pupils, much like a cat's. Her fur is soft and thick with a fine winter coat and all the typical fox markings; red on the top, white on the chin and throat and the very tip of her tail. Black markings along the muzzle, the backs of her ears, and her legs are much in evidence. Black guard hairs also darken the red of her back, especially near and on the tail. She moves with an almost supernatural grace.
The small fox continues chewing at her paw. Fox body language is for the most part fairly different from that of wolves--but she may seem slightly pleased.
Salem smiles thinly. "Good." He pushes to his feet, his natural grace somewhat marred by the trick knee. "I have to be going, but I'll be annoyed if I learn of any fox-hunting. Gaia with you." He seems to include the vixen in this farewell as he heads off.
"Fox-hunting?" Shelby repeats, clearly revolted. "Euw." Whatever her earlier beef with Kerr, the look she slides toward the other girl invites nothing but solidarity. "No, Salem-rhya. I do want to get its scent, though," she adds after a second's thought. "I think I've smelled fox before, but I'm not sure."
"Nice meeting you, Salem-rhya," Kerr says, shrugging off any implied thought of fox hunting. She looks to the Cliath briefly, then leans over a little to look at the vixen. "Not enough meat anyawy."
The vixen lifts her head a little, watching Salem as he leaves. That vague sense of possibly pleased from her doesn't go away, though once the Walker has stepped away, her attention seems to shift more to the two girls.
"Euw," Shelby says again, and quite firmly, this time to Kerr. She steps away from the other cub, movements exaggeratedly careful as she moves backwards over the log. Once this barrier is between her and the fox she slowly shifts to lupus, her body language curious rather than predatory.
Kerr grins slightly, glancing toward Shelby. Unlike the Fang cub, the Shadow Lord cub simply lowers herself to the ground in homid. She sits crosslegged, watching the vixen, and the anger from earlier seems to have fled.
The fox stands at the shift. While she looks prepared to spring away at any moment, she doesn't actually. Instead, her own nose twitches, and she peers intently at Shelby.
Stops-Too-Late remains behind the log at first, her own nose going up to scent the air. Musky, she reports, and sneezes.
Kerr hooks her arms around her knees, hugging them toward her chest. She scoots slightly around, turning to watch both vixen and lupus.
There's little change from the fox. She seems to be studying the two cubs as intently as she's being studied.
The white wolf keeps one eye on the fox as she slinks out from behind the log, heading for the edge of the clearing. Her nose continues to move as she scents first air, then ground, and air again, slowly closing in on where the vixen appeared.
Kerr carefully reaches a hand toward the fox, fingers out stretched and palm up. Nothing is there in her hand, but it's open and offered should the vixen want to sniff it.
The vixen sinks back a little from the hand, but her ears push forward, and her nose twitches even faster, causing her whiskers to bristle.
Having found the fox's point of entry, Stops-Too-Late whuffs all around it, finally settling back on her haunches and sneezing again. I have it now. Do not let it bite you.
Kerr glances over at Shelby, questioning. Her hand comes back slightly as she turns her attention to the vixen.
The fox licks her lips. As the hand is pulled back, she pulls back as well, just a few steps, and peers more.
Kerr doesn't pull back all the way, but she's a trifle more cautious than before. Fingers curl inward and tuck against her palm, and the knuckles are offered outward. "Just sniffing," she says quietly. "No biting. There won't be a fox hunt so much as a new hat for Nik-rhya if you bite, okay?"
In response, there's a loud tch, and a look that can only be described as indignant. This time, the vixen doesn't move forward to sniff, she just looks at Kerr. Hrmph.
"Well, Shelby said not to let you bite me," Kerr replies looking mildly rebuked. With a sigh, the Ahroun stretches her hand out again, palm up and fingers out. "Please don't bite, but sniff if you want to."
Stops-Too-Late stands again and paces toward the others, ears pricked forward. You are talking to it. Another sniff. No, her.
The fox does deign to approach again this time, with an air of injured dignity. She gets closer, in fact, close enough that when she sniffs Kerr's hand, her whiskers likely tickle.
Kerr holds her hand out to allow the fox to sniff, though it twitches slightly as the whiskers tickle. "Yeah, she? She seems... smart. I think. See how she's reacted to my warning about biting?"
Stops-Too-Late admits that she was not watching. I am going for a run. She lowers her head to take one last sniff of the smaller canid and straightens again. Gaia watch, she tells Kerr, and amused, to the fox, Gaia watch. With that she turns and heads off at a trot, head high and ears pricked.
Once she's had her fill of sniffing Kerr's hand, the vixen backs off again. Stops-Too-Late's movements are regarded with some brief startlement before she realizes the other cub is leaving, and then she backs away a few more steps, as if she intends to do the same.