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Feb. 29th, 2012 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrou[Continued from this log].
As soon as the door is shut Shelby's bending, but it isn't the soft hands of the young woman that close around Aqil's shoulders: they're Crinos claws. In this form it takes little effort save bending so she doesn't smack her head on the ceiling to get the boy into the basement. Once there, and once back in Homid she goes through his pockets and removes wallet, cell, and anything else that could be used as a method of escape. (re)
A wallet stuffed with worn twenties and a single crispy Benjamin Franklin is extracted from the boy's shorts. Oddly enough there is no cell, and aside from stray candy wrappers and a crumbled receipt from a gas station an hour back up I-90 the boy's pockets are empty, most of his stuff in the bag that never made it out of the car.
After dispassionately flicking through the boy's wallet Shelby pockets it, then disposes of the stray wrappers. She shoots him a thoughtful look, disappears upstairs again, and returns perhaps three minutes later with two glasses of water. "Haytham," she calls briskly, manner all 'psychiatric receptionist' once more. "Haytham, wake up." She keeps hold of the water, at least for now.
The teenager stirs, slowly. Groaning, and rubbing at the back of his head, Haytham rights himself. "The fuck...?" He mutters, blinking his eyes hard as he takes in his surroundings. Eventually his bewildered, slightly afraid, gaze settles on the 'receptionist'.
"Without putting too fine a point on it," she says pleasantly, "welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. Your step-father told you you were being brought here for behavioral issues. What he -didn't- tell you, because of reasons I'll go into later, is that all your anger, all your attitude, is because you aren't human, and neither am I." Shelby waits just a moment for that to sink in before adding pleasantly, "Would you like your proof now, or after some water?"
Haytham's bewilderment turns to open scorn. He goes so far as to laugh, very loudly and, it may be noted, with more force than is necessary. It might even be a faked laugh. "You're the crazy roommate, right?" He enquires as he rises to his feet. "I'll take the water."
"Oh god, I hope not," the woman says with all evident sincerity. She sets one glass down on the floor and takes a step back. Then, still standing between him and the stairs, she slowly begins to... change. First through Glabro, her clothes somehow remaining as well-tailored on this larger form, then up to Crinos. Somewhere, it's not quite clear when or how, her clothes disappear and are replaced by a pelt of brilliant white. Even the glass remains in her hand, now ridiculously dwarfed.
"Denial," Haytham murmurs warmly, moving to pick up the glass. He doesn't get far. As the Fostern takes a step back, the boy takes a step forward and freezes like a block of ice as he watches the woman... grow before his very eyes into an eight foot tall monster. There is no scream of horror. There are no curses. He can't find the breath for either.
Bright Eyes watches him with ears pricked and her tail gently waving. "Water," she reminds in a low growl, pointing at his neglected hydration.
His eyes widen as the... thing speaks. A wordless moan, guttural and dripping with terror, crawls out of his mouth. His body convulses, skin rippling and bulging like thick worms were wiggling under it, seeking a way out, and the moan turns into a full throated cry of pain as he his body crawls its way through the near-man, sticks for three blinks of the eye, and then, finally, fights its way into the war form. The cub wavers on his feet, his whole body radiating shock, then collapses on the floor.
Bright Eyes's ears pop even farther forward and she hurries to the cub's side. In that short distance - not quite between one stride and the next, but close - she's returned to the brutish Glabro form. Kneeling beside the boy, glass set aside and forgotten, she reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder. "Good job, Haytham." Her voice is full of nothing but warmth and pride. "Welcome to the Garou, my brother. Can you try and sit up?"
The white furred cub seems to take some kind of solace from the hand on his shoulder, the sound of his heart trying to rip itself out of his chest slowing slightly. His fingers flex, claws scraping across the floor, then flatten as he plants them flat on the ground and pushes himself up. His legs scitter about underneath, tail lashing furiously. It takes some time, but he eventually manages to get himself on all fours, having found that sitting on that rebellious thing sprouting from his lower back was painful.
A living nightmare made for killing. This horrific monster looms over the ground, almost nine feet in height and covered from wolfish head to claw tipped feet in glossy coat of white fur that does nothing to hide the bulging muscles underneath its skin. Intelligent eyes look out from this monstrosities' face, peering alertly down its muzzle. Its lips barely conceal the sharp fangs filling its maw. Broad shoulders give way to long arms that nearly touch the ground. Its oversized hands, easily large enough to palm a human head, are tipped in deadly claws. Its muscular upper body gives way to long, thickly muscled legs... that are nothing like a human's; where the knees would be on a human, this thing's legs bend the opposite direction, much like a wolf, before continuing downwards and ending in splay toed feet the toes of which each have a single sharp claw.
Shelby shifts back only far enough to let him maneuver without being in danger from flailing claws. Once he's settled she offers a bright smile that's probably cuter on a face that doesn't look like a refugee from a Natural History museum. "You're doing just fine. Now - would you rather return to human, or try to shift to wolf? Lift your left hand for human, your right hand for wolf."
A keening 'I've had enough of this fucking weirdness' moan slips forth form the cub as he lashes his overly large head back and forth in the negative. He takes his time figuring out which hand is his left before lifting it, not even an inch off of the ground. It's more a bunch of the muscles in that arm, a flexing of the wrist, than a proper lifting, the cub, probably, too afraid he will topple over on his face if he removes his hand from the floor.
Shelby manages to swallow her laugh until it's no more than a single exhalation. "All right. Haytham, I want you to close your eyes. Think about this morning. Remember waking up, getting dressed. Remember what your body felt like. Remember sitting in the car. You know what it's like to be human. You've looked like one for years. Remember what that feels like."
Slowly, the boy's eyelids close. Time passes, Haytham's breathing and heartbeat become calmer, and finally, he shrinks back down into his birth form where he takes advantage of the English language to express his profound shock, and exhilaration. "What the fuck!"
While waiting, Shelby takes advantage of the time to retrieve her glass. "It's a trip, isn't it?" she agrees, as pleased as if watching him take his very first steps. "All your anger, that's what we - the Garou - call Rage. It boils within you. And until now, you haven't known how to channel it, how to control it. That's what I'm going to be teaching you." She offers the water again.
Haytham hasn't noticed his lack of clothing yet, too high off of his first change. He barely notices the glass of water. "Wow," he mutters as he extends a shaky hand to take the glass of water.
On her way back from fetching the other glass Shelby detours to a linen closet, where she retrieves a bath towel. "Any questions for me? Your stepfather said you might remember some stories from your grandmother, but otherwise we'd be starting from a clean page." She offers the towel too, almost as an afterthought.
By the time Shelby returns, the glass, now empty, is placed back on the floor, the boy squatting with his knees drawn into his chest, legs tightly closed, and arms wrapped around them. Now that nothing is covering his left arm, the two headed snake tattoo that was partially hidden can clearly be seen. Haytham doesn't answer the question until he has the towel wrapped tightly around his lower body. "So, everything she said was true, then?" He enquires, the words coming out slowly. "There's a war, and..." his eyes squint, a thoughtful frown wrinkling his forehead, "monsters trying to take over the world?"
Shelby's, "Pretty much," really shouldn't sound so cheerful, nor so matter-of-fact. She settles, not upon the floor, but on the couch, knees together as if visiting the Duchess. "The Garou are Gaia's warriors, her defenders. We're trying to prevent the Wyrm from destroying, well, everything."
For some reason the cub remains on the floor, one hand gripping the towel to keep it closed. He nods his bald head as the woman speaks, not a nod of listening but one of understanding, until she mentions the Wyrm. "What the fuck's the Wyrm?" He asks, obviously feeling a bit more comfortable now.
"Monsters trying to take over the world," comes Shelby's prompt response. "Or, more accurately, trying to destroy it. They're... well, 'evil' is too bland a word for the Wyrm. Think toxic waste. Think mutation - not the X-men variety, but the 'four arms, three eyes, and oozing snot from every pore' sort."
There is a shutter of revulsion at that, the description just this side of vomit-inducing if the look on Haytham's face is any indication. "The monsters are the Wyrm... Is it some huge thing? You said monsters, but Wyrm sounded singular..."
"It's, hm, both singular and plural," says Shelby after a moment's thought. "That monster is of the Wyrm. Those monsters are of the Wyrm. He, she, or it has been tainted by the Wyrm. You see, over everything is Gaia. She's the earth, the air, and everything living here. Then there are three massive... hmm, spirits, who aren't as powerful, but still capable of smashing your head like a grape simply by being in the same room. We call them the Triat: the Wyrm, the Wyld, and the Weaver. We'll go into more detail later, but to get started the Wyld is creation, the Weaver is construction, and the Wyrm is destruction. The Weaver and the Wyrm got out of balance."
Haytham's face is a blank, inscrutable slate while he tries to digest this, and chokes. "Oookay..."
Shelby quirks a smile. "It'll get easier as you learn more, and once you've been able to see things for yourself. For a while, however, until you learn to control yourself, your world is going to get pretty small. As in, 'this house' small, unless someone is with you. The reason is because until you're trained you're a danger to others - that big wolf-man is called Crinos, or the war-form, for a reason - and you're also a nice tasty tidbit for anything that comes along. You simply don't have the defenses yet to put up a fight."
Haytham tries to scowl, but it is a weak attempt. "I've lived this long without killing anyone, I don't think I'm going to start now..." He says, not quite batting his eyes innocently at the woman. "How long are you going to keep me locked up? When can I call my parents? Why didn't they tell me this was going to happen?"
"Until now you haven't been able to shift into a nine-foot killing machine capable of biting off someone's head and driven solely by fury," Shelby counters pleasantly, and has more water. "And to answer your questions in order - as long as it takes for you to prove your control, ditto, and your mother didn't know. Your stepfather did, which is why he brought you here. But if he'd told you, would you have believed him? Or would you have sworn, flipped him off, and told yourself what a fucking mindless idiot he is?"
The scowl grows in strength, "Well, fuck." Eloquence, it would appear, is limited to that four letter word. Haytham sighs, loudly, giving a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders at the questions that all but says, 'yes, I would have taken him for a raving lunatic who'd smoked one too many joints'. "How long's it gonna take before I 'prove' myself to you, or whoever?" He mutters, clearly displeased with the situation he finds himself in.
"That depends entirely on you," is her answer, probably neither welcome nor unexpected. "Hopefully no more than a month or two. However, you've got a lot of ground to make up and we might as well start now. Garou society is divided into thirteen tribes. We," she gestures between the two of them, "are the Silver Fangs. We're meant to be the leaders of Garou society. Your role in society is determined by your auspice, or the face Luna - the moon - was showing when you were born. You, like I, am a Ragabash. We're the scouts, the questioners, the tricksters. Finally, there is rank. Your rank is determined by your deeds and actions. So far, you have none, so you're a cub. Your introduction, therefore, would be "My name is Haytham Yamani, Ragabash cub of the Silver Fangs". Mine is Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, Ragabash Fostern of the Silver Fangs, called Bright Eyes Sees to the Heart of the Ambush, and child of Dragonfly in the pack Equinox."
Haytham visibly fights back a retort, his lips pressing into a thin line. The anger dissipates somewhat as the woman continues to talk, and his eyes glaze over. There is nodding of his head as though he were listening, but his body is held a little too stiffly, and the hand gripping the towel is busy flexing.
Shelby quirks an eyebrow at his body language but continues inexorably. "I also have a deed name - you'll get one shortly - and I'm in a pack. There's also a new language you'll need to learn, called Mother's Tongue. It's practically impossible to use it in homid, because so much of it is body language, and we don't have mobile ears or a tail. Wolf speak is instinctive, so the best way to learn that is to spend time in lupus." She pauses for a bare moment. "Which reminds me. We also have five forms. Homid, which we're in right now; Glabro, the near-man; Crinos, the war-form; Hispo, the dire-wolf; and Lupus, or wolf-shape. As you've already proved, shifting is not controlled by the moon."
Now and then during the speech, the cub stirs, trying to pay attention, before once more sinking back down into the murky abyss of inattention. "We're going to go back over this later, right? 'Cus this is too much fucking information to swallow at once, and most of it I've never heard before."
"As many times as you need," she agrees. "However, you may not write it down in any way, shape, or form. Makes it a bitch to learn, I know, but it's important." Shelby rises in one smooth move and offers a hand. "Now let's go see if your stepfather remembered to leave some luggage and get you some clothes. I'd like your word that you won't try to leave this house. Do I have it?"
Haytham relaxes a little, only to scowl briefly when he is told he can't write anything down. He's still scowling as he gets slowly to his feet like a baby testing out there legs for the first, or more aptly someone who doesn't trust their body. "Not to leave? Why the hell should I promise not to go outside?!"
"I already told you why," Shelby answers. "Because you're at a spot where you're both incredibly dangerous to others, and in incredible danger yourself. You can go outside if I'm with you, but right now I don't want to. Later I'll take you out so you can practice shifting and moving in other forms. But right now I want you to think about this: I am asking you for no more than your word that you won't try anything stupid. Why would I trust you with something like that? Shouldn't I lock you in chains or something? That would be smarter, wouldn't it? When you think you know, come to me with your answer. This, Haytham, is your first test." She starts for the stairs, then turns back. "--What do you prefer I call you, by the way? Haytham, or Aqil?"
Haytham lowers his head, shoulders slumping as his elder... speaks to him. "Fine," he whispers at the ground, then raises his voice to give a proper reply to the last question, his tone subdued, "Haytham."
Shelby says, "All right," as if asking if he prefers Coke or Mountain Dew for lunch. "Let's go find you some clothes." She heads up at an easy pace. Finding that no, someone did forget Haytham's luggage, she manages to produce a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that fit reasonably well before going over the ground rules of the house: no going outside without permission. Make free of the fridge, or any food left laying about. Watch television. No shifting in sight of a window. (She gestures to the overgrown shrubbery outside as if the connection should be obvious.) A bit later she calls his stepfather and requests he return for a proper farewell and leave his luggage this time, please.
As soon as the door is shut Shelby's bending, but it isn't the soft hands of the young woman that close around Aqil's shoulders: they're Crinos claws. In this form it takes little effort save bending so she doesn't smack her head on the ceiling to get the boy into the basement. Once there, and once back in Homid she goes through his pockets and removes wallet, cell, and anything else that could be used as a method of escape. (re)
A wallet stuffed with worn twenties and a single crispy Benjamin Franklin is extracted from the boy's shorts. Oddly enough there is no cell, and aside from stray candy wrappers and a crumbled receipt from a gas station an hour back up I-90 the boy's pockets are empty, most of his stuff in the bag that never made it out of the car.
After dispassionately flicking through the boy's wallet Shelby pockets it, then disposes of the stray wrappers. She shoots him a thoughtful look, disappears upstairs again, and returns perhaps three minutes later with two glasses of water. "Haytham," she calls briskly, manner all 'psychiatric receptionist' once more. "Haytham, wake up." She keeps hold of the water, at least for now.
The teenager stirs, slowly. Groaning, and rubbing at the back of his head, Haytham rights himself. "The fuck...?" He mutters, blinking his eyes hard as he takes in his surroundings. Eventually his bewildered, slightly afraid, gaze settles on the 'receptionist'.
"Without putting too fine a point on it," she says pleasantly, "welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. Your step-father told you you were being brought here for behavioral issues. What he -didn't- tell you, because of reasons I'll go into later, is that all your anger, all your attitude, is because you aren't human, and neither am I." Shelby waits just a moment for that to sink in before adding pleasantly, "Would you like your proof now, or after some water?"
Haytham's bewilderment turns to open scorn. He goes so far as to laugh, very loudly and, it may be noted, with more force than is necessary. It might even be a faked laugh. "You're the crazy roommate, right?" He enquires as he rises to his feet. "I'll take the water."
"Oh god, I hope not," the woman says with all evident sincerity. She sets one glass down on the floor and takes a step back. Then, still standing between him and the stairs, she slowly begins to... change. First through Glabro, her clothes somehow remaining as well-tailored on this larger form, then up to Crinos. Somewhere, it's not quite clear when or how, her clothes disappear and are replaced by a pelt of brilliant white. Even the glass remains in her hand, now ridiculously dwarfed.
"Denial," Haytham murmurs warmly, moving to pick up the glass. He doesn't get far. As the Fostern takes a step back, the boy takes a step forward and freezes like a block of ice as he watches the woman... grow before his very eyes into an eight foot tall monster. There is no scream of horror. There are no curses. He can't find the breath for either.
Bright Eyes watches him with ears pricked and her tail gently waving. "Water," she reminds in a low growl, pointing at his neglected hydration.
His eyes widen as the... thing speaks. A wordless moan, guttural and dripping with terror, crawls out of his mouth. His body convulses, skin rippling and bulging like thick worms were wiggling under it, seeking a way out, and the moan turns into a full throated cry of pain as he his body crawls its way through the near-man, sticks for three blinks of the eye, and then, finally, fights its way into the war form. The cub wavers on his feet, his whole body radiating shock, then collapses on the floor.
Bright Eyes's ears pop even farther forward and she hurries to the cub's side. In that short distance - not quite between one stride and the next, but close - she's returned to the brutish Glabro form. Kneeling beside the boy, glass set aside and forgotten, she reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder. "Good job, Haytham." Her voice is full of nothing but warmth and pride. "Welcome to the Garou, my brother. Can you try and sit up?"
The white furred cub seems to take some kind of solace from the hand on his shoulder, the sound of his heart trying to rip itself out of his chest slowing slightly. His fingers flex, claws scraping across the floor, then flatten as he plants them flat on the ground and pushes himself up. His legs scitter about underneath, tail lashing furiously. It takes some time, but he eventually manages to get himself on all fours, having found that sitting on that rebellious thing sprouting from his lower back was painful.
A living nightmare made for killing. This horrific monster looms over the ground, almost nine feet in height and covered from wolfish head to claw tipped feet in glossy coat of white fur that does nothing to hide the bulging muscles underneath its skin. Intelligent eyes look out from this monstrosities' face, peering alertly down its muzzle. Its lips barely conceal the sharp fangs filling its maw. Broad shoulders give way to long arms that nearly touch the ground. Its oversized hands, easily large enough to palm a human head, are tipped in deadly claws. Its muscular upper body gives way to long, thickly muscled legs... that are nothing like a human's; where the knees would be on a human, this thing's legs bend the opposite direction, much like a wolf, before continuing downwards and ending in splay toed feet the toes of which each have a single sharp claw.
Shelby shifts back only far enough to let him maneuver without being in danger from flailing claws. Once he's settled she offers a bright smile that's probably cuter on a face that doesn't look like a refugee from a Natural History museum. "You're doing just fine. Now - would you rather return to human, or try to shift to wolf? Lift your left hand for human, your right hand for wolf."
A keening 'I've had enough of this fucking weirdness' moan slips forth form the cub as he lashes his overly large head back and forth in the negative. He takes his time figuring out which hand is his left before lifting it, not even an inch off of the ground. It's more a bunch of the muscles in that arm, a flexing of the wrist, than a proper lifting, the cub, probably, too afraid he will topple over on his face if he removes his hand from the floor.
Shelby manages to swallow her laugh until it's no more than a single exhalation. "All right. Haytham, I want you to close your eyes. Think about this morning. Remember waking up, getting dressed. Remember what your body felt like. Remember sitting in the car. You know what it's like to be human. You've looked like one for years. Remember what that feels like."
Slowly, the boy's eyelids close. Time passes, Haytham's breathing and heartbeat become calmer, and finally, he shrinks back down into his birth form where he takes advantage of the English language to express his profound shock, and exhilaration. "What the fuck!"
While waiting, Shelby takes advantage of the time to retrieve her glass. "It's a trip, isn't it?" she agrees, as pleased as if watching him take his very first steps. "All your anger, that's what we - the Garou - call Rage. It boils within you. And until now, you haven't known how to channel it, how to control it. That's what I'm going to be teaching you." She offers the water again.
Haytham hasn't noticed his lack of clothing yet, too high off of his first change. He barely notices the glass of water. "Wow," he mutters as he extends a shaky hand to take the glass of water.
On her way back from fetching the other glass Shelby detours to a linen closet, where she retrieves a bath towel. "Any questions for me? Your stepfather said you might remember some stories from your grandmother, but otherwise we'd be starting from a clean page." She offers the towel too, almost as an afterthought.
By the time Shelby returns, the glass, now empty, is placed back on the floor, the boy squatting with his knees drawn into his chest, legs tightly closed, and arms wrapped around them. Now that nothing is covering his left arm, the two headed snake tattoo that was partially hidden can clearly be seen. Haytham doesn't answer the question until he has the towel wrapped tightly around his lower body. "So, everything she said was true, then?" He enquires, the words coming out slowly. "There's a war, and..." his eyes squint, a thoughtful frown wrinkling his forehead, "monsters trying to take over the world?"
Shelby's, "Pretty much," really shouldn't sound so cheerful, nor so matter-of-fact. She settles, not upon the floor, but on the couch, knees together as if visiting the Duchess. "The Garou are Gaia's warriors, her defenders. We're trying to prevent the Wyrm from destroying, well, everything."
For some reason the cub remains on the floor, one hand gripping the towel to keep it closed. He nods his bald head as the woman speaks, not a nod of listening but one of understanding, until she mentions the Wyrm. "What the fuck's the Wyrm?" He asks, obviously feeling a bit more comfortable now.
"Monsters trying to take over the world," comes Shelby's prompt response. "Or, more accurately, trying to destroy it. They're... well, 'evil' is too bland a word for the Wyrm. Think toxic waste. Think mutation - not the X-men variety, but the 'four arms, three eyes, and oozing snot from every pore' sort."
There is a shutter of revulsion at that, the description just this side of vomit-inducing if the look on Haytham's face is any indication. "The monsters are the Wyrm... Is it some huge thing? You said monsters, but Wyrm sounded singular..."
"It's, hm, both singular and plural," says Shelby after a moment's thought. "That monster is of the Wyrm. Those monsters are of the Wyrm. He, she, or it has been tainted by the Wyrm. You see, over everything is Gaia. She's the earth, the air, and everything living here. Then there are three massive... hmm, spirits, who aren't as powerful, but still capable of smashing your head like a grape simply by being in the same room. We call them the Triat: the Wyrm, the Wyld, and the Weaver. We'll go into more detail later, but to get started the Wyld is creation, the Weaver is construction, and the Wyrm is destruction. The Weaver and the Wyrm got out of balance."
Haytham's face is a blank, inscrutable slate while he tries to digest this, and chokes. "Oookay..."
Shelby quirks a smile. "It'll get easier as you learn more, and once you've been able to see things for yourself. For a while, however, until you learn to control yourself, your world is going to get pretty small. As in, 'this house' small, unless someone is with you. The reason is because until you're trained you're a danger to others - that big wolf-man is called Crinos, or the war-form, for a reason - and you're also a nice tasty tidbit for anything that comes along. You simply don't have the defenses yet to put up a fight."
Haytham tries to scowl, but it is a weak attempt. "I've lived this long without killing anyone, I don't think I'm going to start now..." He says, not quite batting his eyes innocently at the woman. "How long are you going to keep me locked up? When can I call my parents? Why didn't they tell me this was going to happen?"
"Until now you haven't been able to shift into a nine-foot killing machine capable of biting off someone's head and driven solely by fury," Shelby counters pleasantly, and has more water. "And to answer your questions in order - as long as it takes for you to prove your control, ditto, and your mother didn't know. Your stepfather did, which is why he brought you here. But if he'd told you, would you have believed him? Or would you have sworn, flipped him off, and told yourself what a fucking mindless idiot he is?"
The scowl grows in strength, "Well, fuck." Eloquence, it would appear, is limited to that four letter word. Haytham sighs, loudly, giving a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders at the questions that all but says, 'yes, I would have taken him for a raving lunatic who'd smoked one too many joints'. "How long's it gonna take before I 'prove' myself to you, or whoever?" He mutters, clearly displeased with the situation he finds himself in.
"That depends entirely on you," is her answer, probably neither welcome nor unexpected. "Hopefully no more than a month or two. However, you've got a lot of ground to make up and we might as well start now. Garou society is divided into thirteen tribes. We," she gestures between the two of them, "are the Silver Fangs. We're meant to be the leaders of Garou society. Your role in society is determined by your auspice, or the face Luna - the moon - was showing when you were born. You, like I, am a Ragabash. We're the scouts, the questioners, the tricksters. Finally, there is rank. Your rank is determined by your deeds and actions. So far, you have none, so you're a cub. Your introduction, therefore, would be "My name is Haytham Yamani, Ragabash cub of the Silver Fangs". Mine is Shelby Zaleski-Leveque, Ragabash Fostern of the Silver Fangs, called Bright Eyes Sees to the Heart of the Ambush, and child of Dragonfly in the pack Equinox."
Haytham visibly fights back a retort, his lips pressing into a thin line. The anger dissipates somewhat as the woman continues to talk, and his eyes glaze over. There is nodding of his head as though he were listening, but his body is held a little too stiffly, and the hand gripping the towel is busy flexing.
Shelby quirks an eyebrow at his body language but continues inexorably. "I also have a deed name - you'll get one shortly - and I'm in a pack. There's also a new language you'll need to learn, called Mother's Tongue. It's practically impossible to use it in homid, because so much of it is body language, and we don't have mobile ears or a tail. Wolf speak is instinctive, so the best way to learn that is to spend time in lupus." She pauses for a bare moment. "Which reminds me. We also have five forms. Homid, which we're in right now; Glabro, the near-man; Crinos, the war-form; Hispo, the dire-wolf; and Lupus, or wolf-shape. As you've already proved, shifting is not controlled by the moon."
Now and then during the speech, the cub stirs, trying to pay attention, before once more sinking back down into the murky abyss of inattention. "We're going to go back over this later, right? 'Cus this is too much fucking information to swallow at once, and most of it I've never heard before."
"As many times as you need," she agrees. "However, you may not write it down in any way, shape, or form. Makes it a bitch to learn, I know, but it's important." Shelby rises in one smooth move and offers a hand. "Now let's go see if your stepfather remembered to leave some luggage and get you some clothes. I'd like your word that you won't try to leave this house. Do I have it?"
Haytham relaxes a little, only to scowl briefly when he is told he can't write anything down. He's still scowling as he gets slowly to his feet like a baby testing out there legs for the first, or more aptly someone who doesn't trust their body. "Not to leave? Why the hell should I promise not to go outside?!"
"I already told you why," Shelby answers. "Because you're at a spot where you're both incredibly dangerous to others, and in incredible danger yourself. You can go outside if I'm with you, but right now I don't want to. Later I'll take you out so you can practice shifting and moving in other forms. But right now I want you to think about this: I am asking you for no more than your word that you won't try anything stupid. Why would I trust you with something like that? Shouldn't I lock you in chains or something? That would be smarter, wouldn't it? When you think you know, come to me with your answer. This, Haytham, is your first test." She starts for the stairs, then turns back. "--What do you prefer I call you, by the way? Haytham, or Aqil?"
Haytham lowers his head, shoulders slumping as his elder... speaks to him. "Fine," he whispers at the ground, then raises his voice to give a proper reply to the last question, his tone subdued, "Haytham."
Shelby says, "All right," as if asking if he prefers Coke or Mountain Dew for lunch. "Let's go find you some clothes." She heads up at an easy pace. Finding that no, someone did forget Haytham's luggage, she manages to produce a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that fit reasonably well before going over the ground rules of the house: no going outside without permission. Make free of the fridge, or any food left laying about. Watch television. No shifting in sight of a window. (She gestures to the overgrown shrubbery outside as if the connection should be obvious.) A bit later she calls his stepfather and requests he return for a proper farewell and leave his luggage this time, please.