12/6/2004

10:08 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (34% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 40 degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 29.38 and falling, and the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

Porch
A lathe-turned wooden railing runs the length of the porch save where the steps are, well-worn with use. To the right of the stairs, a wide swing is suspended from the overhang which shelters this area; to the left, a small table is the centerpiece for several chairs pulled around it, all of which face out to the front yard and the fields and trees beyond. The bright colors of fall lend an atmosphere of wistful remembrance to this place, a memory of the summer past, and the knowledge of winter to come. Fallen flower petals dust the earth around the base of the low shrubs surrounding the porch, their delicate brittleness testament to the closing of the cycle.
An aging screen door newly refurbished stands between the heavy inner door of the house and the outside air. Four steps lead down to the lane, a number of pots with small flower seedling carefully arranged alongside them.
(Non-Garou, please "+view curse")
Contents:
Olga(#4061PJceq)
Obvious exits:
Front Door Lane

The sky drizzles down, the drops are scattered and cold. The air is heavy, chill, and dark, and Olga is taking shelter from the faint rain on the swing, beneath the roof of the porch. Her bag rests at her side, the dirty neon orange seeming to glow a little in the sparse light that creeps out of the farmhouse. Glowing too is the cigarette which is tucked into one hand and from which she takes occasional, secret puffs. She's wrapped up in enough blankets to be warm enough to survive ten winters, and she gazes out at the long path leading out into the woods with a sort of vague distraction.

From the crunching of a gravel path, a figure clad in poncho and what looks like a lopsided hunchback comes along. Once close enough so that facial features are able to be made out, the hoodie is swept back to reveal Kenneth, hair somewhat wet around the edges. The halfmoon's pace slows as he looks up to see Olga upon the porch, suddenly reconsidering the idea of a solo farmhouse visit.

The Washington weather is warm enough for the Fianna Theurge who comes jogging down the lane in the winter cold as she is damp with rain. She is wearing what looks to be comfortable jogging clothes as she approaches the house, seeing the poncho-cladded boy near the steps. "Hi," she says as she combs her wet hair from her eyes.

Olga watches Kenneth approach with a dull wariness about her. The cigarette hangs in her hand, not quite concealed, but not quite revealed, either; the Gnawer watches him silently until he stops, when her mouth begins to slide open for some greeting or other. It stops though and just hangs there as the jogging footsteps approach, though, and her whole body stills and tenses as Aubrey appears coming down the lane. She offers Kenneth a quirky, awkward grin in place of a proper hello, and she slowly presses the lit end of the cigarette down against the fabric of her blanket, and tries to slide the tube up into her sleeve, like she's very much hoping the other Theurge doesn't notice her until she's got the thing out of sight.

Kenneth also looks behind him with the sound of a second crunching of gravel behind him. He squints in the darkness to see who is addressing him. This goes on but for a moment, before he returns Aubrey's greeting with a short, "Yo," turns again, and clumps up the steps. Olga and the pile of blankets is glanced at, and though her grin of greeting isn't returned, he lightly jerks his head up in that manner of address which boys sometimes address each other with. "Sup?" A light shake down of the poncho around him causes the wood to gain many spots of wetness below.

Aubrey gives a little shake as a dog would do and hunches up her shoulders as she gives Kenneth a studying look. "Shadow Lord, aye?" she asks. "I have seen you at the moots but not anywhere else." She looks up to see Olga, offering a nod.

Olga's eyes harden just a little at the boy's greeting; once the guilty cigarette is stowed whatever confidence she has seems to return, and she doesn't answer his pseudo-question, she just stares at him queryingly, like he's not quite to be believed. "Hi Aubrey," she greets the Fianna easily, with a glance over, before she returns her attention back to Kenneth.

Kenneth nods affirmatively, even if his mannerism hasn't really gained any warmth. The lumpy hunch on his back reveals itself as a tennis bag around his shoulder, which slides down from its spot and thunks dully onto the wood. "Name's Kenneth. Rited as Dagger's-Edge, halfmoon of the Shadow Lords." His gaze passes between Olga and Aubrey, decidedly settling on neither. "Seen you both, a little."

Aubrey poiletly extends her cool hand out to the Shadow Lord. "Aubrey Lynn Bennett, Sheeaghan, once named Spirit's Touch, Fianna Thurge Cliath and Beta of Crescent Wing, defender of the caern renewed." she says confidently and with a warm smile on her lips."Nice to meet you, Kenneth." Then she looks up the porch at Olga. "Good evening, Olga, friend-- how are you?"

Olga's smile isn't nearly as warm, in fact it's non-existant, her look is instead vaguely suspicious. She doesn't extend her hand, either, like she's afraid the Shadow Lord might snatch the cigarette right out of her sleeve. "Olga," she introduces herself. "Fat-Ripper. Gnawer Theurge and Elder. Child of Chimera, member of Griphus. Grand Duchess." She says that last without humour or irony, it's almost a challenge, as if she's daring him to call her on it. Her face softens considerably as she looks back at the other Theurge to answer her question: "Oh, y'know," she says slowly. "Same old same old. Damned tired, been on my feet all week."

[look Olga]
Olga is tall, strong, and pale. Her face is long, her nose protrudes, and her shoulders are hunched up, making her look a little like a bird trying to warm itself in the cold. She is better dressed than one might expect from her poverty: her clothes are trim and well-constructed, and though far from fashionable, far, also, from tatters. She prefers layers of clothing, wearing as much as possible short of sweltering. Her fine blonde hair is always tucked neatly under something, be it a hat or a cleverly tied 'kerchief. Olga has in fact so managed her wardrobe that she looks more like one of the faux homeless, a rich kid in dirty boots and patched jeans, than a real street person; with the difference that Olga wouldn't be caught dead in dirty boots. She wears a long, stiff, green army coat, which while presumably quite warm, doesn't suit her in the least. She's almost always seen with one arm thrust up around a shoulder, clutching the mouth of her heavy orange bag (look Olga's bag). Olga is in her early twenties.
Carrying:
Garbage Bag(#3091Jh)

Kenneth, once introductions are made more formally, bows his head to Olga shortly and actually does shake hands with Aubrey, hand cold to the touch as well. "I suspect we will be working together in the future on some things in the city," he says to them both, hand retracting after the shake and actually lying calmly at his side. "I... look forward to it."

"I have receieved no word about working in the city, although I am sure you meant Olga." Aubrey responds. "Tobin has been avoiding me ever since he has returned and I dare say that I have heard anything from my pack about it." The Theurge frowns a little. "So, tell me Kenneth, what is it that you have found out about the city and what is going on?"

Olga seems quite happy to stay out of this part of the conversation: she leans back into her porch swing, eyeing Kenneth when Aubrey mentions the Gnawer's own name, as if to confirm whether or not that really is what she meant. She darts quick, studious glances between the two, as she pulls her cigarette out of her sleeve and tucks it in a more convenient pocket.

"It's a shit hole on the southside," Kenneth states matter-of-factly, flicking water from his fingertips out towards the lane. "But it's not like we don't have methods of controlling it." He doesn't clarify any more than that, instead turning his gaze upon the Gnawer theurge and studying her as much as she does him.

Aubrey nods her head as she listens and then gives a little yawn. "Sorry," she mutters. "Well, I have to be going. Nice seeing you both."

Olga only pulls her eyes from Kenneth's to glance at the other Theurge as she excuses herself. "Bye 'Bree," she says to her, sincerely enough though her attention's distracted, and it goes immediately back to Kenneth as the Fianna makes her way around the side of the farmhouse. She stares at him, at his eyes and at the swoop of his hair, and only after some secret conclusion is reached does she relax any and lean back into the porchswing. "Whole city's a shithole, kid," she tells him dismissively. "South, north, east, west. Wouldn' be the city if it weren't. 'S good you chosen some little patch of it, though."

Kenneth doesn't turn his head either, but allows himself a blink or two in that moment's distraction as the Fianna passes between him and Olga. "Night," he offers, though it is not warm - simply conditioned response. "Well obviously that ain't a secret," he agrees, also allowing himself a degree of relaxation when the Gnawer leans into the porchswing. "We're gonna work near the wharf, east side pretty much." The halfmoon examines the multitude of blankets from afar. "So you're the elder of the Gnawers. Tough job?"

"Not the toughest," Olga answers vaguely, looking away from him and off into the distant dark, where the path meets the trees. "Not the easiest either. Gnawers mostly look after 'emselves, 'cept the Squeaker of course. She's the only one I really got to worry about." Her fingers play out a dull, impatient tap against the pocket of her heavy jacket, right where she'd put her cigarette, so that the sound is louder and hollower than if it were just fabric there. She looks at Kenneth then, without turning her head, her eyes sliding to the limits of their vision: "Now you look after my girl Jo," she says to him sternly, harshly. "You guys don't be takin' any stupid risks with her."

Kenneth closes a hand around his tennis bag's strap. "We ain't takin' any stupid risks more than the next pack o' werewolves," he replies. "But she better know what she's gettin' herself into. We're a war pack, and there's gonna be blood shed."

Olga answers firmly, like it shouldn't even need to be stated, "She knows." The Gnawer mulls on that a moment, her jaw moving slightly, like a cow chewing its cud. "You're no good to anybody if you aren' willing to risk your lives, just like you're no good to anybody dead."

Kenneth nods slowly, his features still remaining at neutral. "Dyin' isn't something to be afraid of," he says, hoisting the bag up. "But dying for no good reason, that's just sad."

"The hell it's not," Olga answers with a surly lilt to her voice. She leaves it at that for a moment, though she brings her face around so she can bluntly stare at the boy. She echoes her words a couple long seconds afterwards, to reinforce them both for him and herself: "The hell it's not."

Despite his words, there is something underneath the Shadow Lord's posture - a tension - that rises a level as his grip tightens along the strap of his bag. "What, you're going to say dyin' alone with no one noticing isn't something to consider sad?" Though his tone is held level, there is restraint evident.

"No," Olga says flatly, keeping her eyes dull and closer to sullen than penetrating, like her eyelids are heavy and it's only through concentration that she manages to keep them up. "No, I'm sayin' dying sucks. Period. Good cause or bad, you're just as dead. Surrounded by family or alone in a gutter, just as dead. There's no good way to die. Some might hurt worse but any way you look at it, the hurt'll be gone soon 'nough, and that's what it comes down to." She pulls her eyes off him only then, to stare out at the black woods. "'Cept me," she stipulates, with what seems to be utter seriousness. "'M gonna live forever."

Kenneth smirks. He can't help it - with a statement like that. "Yea, well, it happens to everyone some time. Even immortals die some time. If not physically, then in other ways." His statement, too, said with gravity, the philodox turns to make his way into the farmhouse. Hand on the doorknob though, he pauses, eyes on the knob. "I don't know Joey too well. I don't even know why we're inviting her in. But I know this much - she's Garou, and she's from this Sept. Because I'm still a part of this place, that means even if it's troublesome, I'm obligated to defend her much as anyone else." He turns his gaze up and back. "So don't judge me by my tribe, and I won't judge you by yours. Deal?"

Olga pulls her eyes off the woods and stares at him: they're much sharper now, there's a very definite tension in them. She passes over the first part of what he says, but the second sticks in her throat. "More," the Gnawer says firmly, harshly. "You're obligated to defend her _more_ 'an anybody else, 'cept maybe two other people. She's more than your septmate, 'r she will be, and I don't care if you come to hate her guts, her well-being's always gonna be one of the top things on your to-do list, just as yours will be on hers. Doin' otherwise is a betrayal of your pack and the spirit that binds you. And y' can feel free to judge me by my Tribe, Shadow Lord. 'S what I am."

Kenneth lifts his chin slightly, opening the door then. "She's not pack yet," he responds simply, but appearing to at least have assented to the words of the theurge.

"Not yet," Olga concurs drily, returning to her contemplation of the darkness and the rain. "Take care 'f yourself, Ken," the woman calls out to the boy as he enters the farmhouse, without looking back.

"As the same to you, Olga-yuf," Kenneth replies before stepping (with a short scratch of the soles of his shoes before entering) into the farmhouse living room.