Big Red Barn(#3420RA)
The barn is built in the old style, a vast three level structure that is greater in height than a mere three stories, actually closer to five. Great wooden posts support the weight of the upper levels and roof, sunk into the hard-packed dirt floor of the first level like a sparse forest of regularly spaced, naked trees. The stalls and flagstones which once were here have been torn out to leave a rather open area where even crinos Garou may roam freely without fear of running into anything but the supports or the walls or the ladder at the back which allows access to the other two levels.
The first two levels are relatively open to each other, the second being only little wider than a catwalk going around all the walls but the front one, which has massive, twenty foot tall doors set into it. The third level is a true second floor except for a place cut out that allowed hay to be tossed down to the ground floor when the farm was actually worked. Now, it is a hayloft where Garou can sleep outside of the house.
(Non-Garou, please "+view curse")
Contents:
Nikolai
Obvious exits:
BarnYard  

[look Nikolai]
Nikolai stands a smidge over six and a half, straight as a board after far too many years in private schools. His hair is shaved down to a thin layer, the color such a light ashen grey it's only a few shades off of going white, despite his age which can't be more than mid-twenties at most. The same color is on the stubble on his chin and forms a thin representation of a moustache, though there are several patches where scars prevent the hair from growing in. His eyes are clear and and sharp blue - aquamarine in the light and cobalt in the shadows - almost frequently surrounded by dark, sleepless circles. He dressed typically in nice casual or business-like formal. When he speaks, it's in educated english with a strong russian accent.

For once, the Silver Fang looks more like one might expect him to, if in a down-dressed manner. He wears a sleeveless beige tunic bound with a strap of leather around the waist over blue felt breeches than one might commonly see in a military issue. Black boots adorn his feet, worn but kept well. The scars on his arms and shoulders are apparently, namely the large battle scar which he seems to be working out at the bag. Covered in a fine layer of sweat, it seems Nikolai has been at his work for some time.

The barn door crams open, admitting one mussy-haired Shadow Lord into the dimly lit structure. His gaze doesn't match his hair though, looking intense, alert, wild. He starts towards the bag... at least until he sees Nikolai. Then he stops dead, watching. Staring.

Given that old wooden doors squeak regardless of how much you oil them, the noise attracts the attention of the Ahroun who pauses to glance over his bad shoulder towards the source of the sound. "Ah, you." He says in a neutral observation. "You look like you did not sleep well."

Kenneth grunts in initial response, sidetracking towards one of the bales of hay instead. Once he's plopped himself on top of one and bent a knee to his chest, the philodox continues his observation of the new Fang. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," he utters in reply.

"I know the feeling." Nikolai utters as he stretches out his scarred shoulder, grimacing faintly as it seems sluggish to move. "Of course, I have never known a Lord to sleep long or soundly. Neither Claws-of-the-Wind nor Ghost ever slept more than a few hours, but then one was metis and the other lupus. I would not have expected otherwise."

Kenneth rubs a hand over his face to try and wake himself up more, though his gaze never wanders far from the scarred Fang. Another grunt precedes the Shadow Lord's end of the conversation. "So why here?"

"Why America or why this sept?" Nikolai asks but doesn't wait for an answer. "America, because I had heard the Garou here were very different from in the Old Lands. This sept is only one of many I have visited all over this place. The septs of so many tribes such as this interested me but it was because I heard my tribe had suffered so much here that I chose this place."

"Suffered.. isn't the word I'd use for it." Kenneth cuts his gaze across the barn. "More like this place is a pit of bad luck for anyone who sets foot in it." Slowly, the Shadow Lord resumes watching the Fang. "You either end up with your head in your ass thinkin' it smells fresh like flowers, or you end up dead."

"It is not so different than other septs, then." Nikolai says as he gives up stretching out his bad shoulder which seems not to be cooperating. "At least those with many tribes. I notice it seems to lessen the traditions of a place. With one tribe, or very few, they share many of the same ideals and strengths. In a place like this, there is much to balance and so there is much you lose in the process. As luck goes, I have had my fair share of the worst kind."

Kenneth is sitting on a haybale, knee to his chest, mussed mane of hair allowed to hang over his dark eyes as he gazes in the general direction of the scarred Silver Fang. "And what are you expectin' to gain out of coming here?" The interroga-- conversation, continues.

A young, high-spirited man walks in from the outside of the barn. His clothes look completely like shit. Its obvious that he must be a Gnawer. His shirt looks like it has a spaghetti suace stain, although it is hard to tell if it is tomato sauce or blood-- even a combination of both. "Howdy," he drawls.

[look Aaron]
Aaron has a fairly Caucasian appearance, with an exception of his almond-shaped eyes that show off an Asian decent. His raven-black hair is cut short and spiked with cheap hair-gel and from his chin is a clean-shaven goatee. He has a muscular, gangly form. The young man appears to be in his teens and his appearance is riddled with a sense of inner-sovereignty. A spicy smell of cheap aftershave rises from off of him. He is currently wearing a tee-shirt that fits a little snuggly to his chest, presenting his muscular chest from the taunt fabric. Also he has on a pair of grey sweatpants and sandals on his feet.
Along his inner right forearm, Aaron has a tattoo in masculine, serif-font that reads 'MADDOG.'

"I am here to regain my Honor." Nikolai says, tone turning serious instead of conversational as he turns his deeply set blue eyes more intently upon the Shadow Lord. "Beyond that, I have no plans. I will aid my tribe and cleanse my name of the mark I put upon it." He says it with a quietly said, but powerful commitment that seems even further bolstered by his breeding. The Gnawer's arrival causes the Silver Fang's brow to crease. Dressed in a leather-belted, sleeveless tunic and crisp blue pants, he looks right out of a royal military as opposed to the boy.

Kenneth looks, as far as comparison goes, somewhere on the inbetween, and yet somewhere outside of the circles of either Garou. What Nikolai says though, regains the Philodox's attention much more quickly than the arrival of the unfamiliar Gnawer cub. "What'd you do?" he asks outright, not bothering with frivolous runarounds. "Bet it has something to do with the scar on your shoulder."

Aaron straightens his shoulders as soon has he walks in, his dull brown-eyes survaying the rest of the barn before turning back to the two men talking. His brows furrow for a moment between them but remains silent.

Nikolai returns his attentions to the Shadow Lord, a bit like a teacher to a student. "This scar," He begins, holding his right arm out to better show the heavy, gnarled white tissue that nearly covers his right shoulder in whole. "Was the gift from a Black Spiral Dancer when he tried to remove my arm forcefully. It was my Rite of Passage some many years ago. My brother and I were sent to remove them from our lake. We did so. As to what I did, that was only two years past. Our caern was overrun with the Wyrm. I watched my brothers and sisters in arm being torn apart in front of me, my father slain right beside me." His face grows grave, making the circles around his eyes all the darker. "I fox frenzied and ran, leaving them all to die. I should have died with them. The Crescent Moon Sept judged me thus unworthy of my Fostern rank and told me I was to either restore my lost honor or take my own life in payment."

The constant invisible clouds that circle around Kenneth seem to darken just that much more when he looks upon the scars riddling the Fang. "And you're going to try and regain it here?" The Shadow Lord's doubt rears its ugly head. "How the hell're they gonna know? They aren't down here, and apparently you can't go up there anymore if it's been asskicked by the Wyrm." Yanking a straw from the bale, he chomps down on one end of it and grunts.

Aaron walks around the two, ignoring them for the time being as he reaches the ladder. He scales up it enough to grab at one of the supporting beams to the loft and begins doing chin-ups.

"I have to." Nikolai says with that divine degree of absolution often born of his tribe. "One day, I hope to return to Russia, but never until I have completed my quest. The Sept of the Citadel, my home, will never again see the grace of Gaia, but there is the Crescent Moon, the oldest throne of my tribe, to return to. It is not so much to them I am here to repay, but Falcon Himself. I did not jut shame my name, but His."

"Christ, you're really into it," Kenneth utters, eyes narrowing a short time at the Fang as if in evaluation. "Well. You've certainly come to the right place for dying then," he tacks on. In the next moment, the Shadow Lord's eyes sweep towards the exercising cub, scrutinizing the supposed stranger. The Lord's memory databanks seem to visibly work themselves, hunting for a name.

Aaron counts, he's at twenty-something but he mutters well enough to make his verbal counting unaudible to the others in the room. His face is now set in determination, even with the scrutinizing looks.

Nikolai gives the cub a brief look and the conversation in the barn plummets to near silence. Squinting, he turns away and with an almost lazy series of motions rolls himself up into the Crinos form with enough ease he could probably do it sleeping, clothes melting away into crisp white fur shaded in silver.

[look Dragon's-Blood]
Lion may call himself the king of beasts, but a Silver Fang is the king of monsters, and this one is no exception. A tall, heavily built wolf-beast, this Crinos is heavily scarred, worst of which being his right shoulder which is a knot work of gnarled tissue. The fur on the werewolf is a rugged silvery white, thick and densely packed, designed for cold weather. His eyes are a bright, sharp blue set deep in a broad, heavy face.

Kenneth slits his eyes further as nothing comes to him immediately, giving up the search in lieu of the shifting Silver Fang. Back to the Fang ahroun, Kenneth stares with a nearly tangible drop of temperature in his gaze. The philodox's seemingly idle chewing of the straw between his lips grinds to a halt. Part of him raises hackles at the sight, another part goes completely still. It's not for a few more halting moments that the Shadow Lord stares longer, before he stands up.

Aaron swings around to face the other direction, towards the two. As he notices the Silver Fang's gazing at him, his expression suddenly turns into one of confusion. "What?" the cub asks, puffing as he remains hanging from the beam.

A clawed hand carefully kneads the scarred shoulder before it's run through a series of motions and strikes at the air to test it. Dragon's-Blood grunts once, sounding vaguely displeased. ~Even late in the season, the humidity in this country is oppressive.~ He briefly fluffs up his fur like an annoyed cat before letting it settle again. The cub is given a brief look down the end of his nose. ~What?~ He echoes. ~I do not know you, cub. I believe it was him who was looking.~ He says, turning to gaze at Kenneth.

Kenneth visibly wrenches his gaze's cast a few degrees in the cub's direction, having to work to keep something from twisting inside. "Nothin'," he answers gruffly at Aaron. "'Cept that you're an unfamiliar face." In response to the Fang's complaint of the weather, he shrugs a shoulder. "Better than down south."

Aaron drops down to the ground, landing with his feet planted on the floor. "Aaron Daniel Knight, Slower-Than-A-Speeding-Bullet or Mad-Dog, Ahroun Bone Gnawer Cub... sir." he replies in a cut and dry tone, crisp and militant as the Silver Fang's attire.

Dragon's-Blood narrows his eyes and stares down at the cub, nostrils flaring as he inhales. ~I did see you, but in the wolf skin. I remember your smell.~ He remarks, not in a derogatory tone but simple statement. ~You were near the Child of Gaia?~

Kenneth renews his look to the cub, and now with the introduction in place, puts face and name in the same mental file. Still, the Shadow Lord declines comment, looking back at the Fang when the crinos speaks.

Aaron senses no uneasement while the Silver Fang towers a few great feet from the boy's current height. "The girl?" remarks the fullmoon. "Yeah, yeah." His tone has a lazy way of pushing his words through his lips as he speaks.

Dragon's-Blood dips his chin slightly before shrinking back down to his homid form, clothes settling back into place as fur receeds. "She has a very good bloodline. Their tribe is not highly known for it." He remarks as he moves to take a seat on the hay bales. Of course a Fang would instantly note such things.
Dragon's-Blood pages: Figured a Fang Ahroun had better have that one.

Kenneth shifts his gaze once more upon the shifting Silver Fang, appraising the older ahroun from afar. "What exactly ... does it take to restore your lost honor?" he asks.

"I am going to be real up front and honest," Aaron replies to the Silver Fang, warning him that what the cub has to say is simply an opinion and nothing more. "I don't care jackshit about bloodline," he comments. "You could be in the spitting image of your great-great grandfather who killed lots of nasties and is all pomp and shit like that, but if you don't have any balls and know how and when to fight, then you've got nothing." Aaron grunts, "I am so fucking sick of shit like that, and I'm going to make sure that I do my job right and be a good Gnawer. If anyone wants to call me a pansy-ass because of my tribe, they can shove it for all I am concerned."

The answer to Kenneth's question goes for the moment unanswered as Aaron speaks up. Eyes narrowing, Nikolai stands to his full six and a half feet and stares hard and fierce at the young Gnawer. "Your zeal is commendable, cub, and yes it is what you do with the blood you are given that counts. The achievements of your ancestors is a great responsibility to live up to, a path to glory I mourn your tribe does not have. It is a great gift. Fight then, boy, so that your decendants might have a hero to tell tales about. I fight so that the kings of my blood did not give their lives in vain. Now excuse me, I need to go speak with Jervis." Nodding his head once to Kenneth, the Ahroun turns and walks for the door, seeming more than slightly bristled.

Aaron stares in silence for a moment before his eyes travel to Kenneth. The boy appears almost confused by the Silver Fang's answer, nearly surprised with how he was allowed to get away with what he said. Then, without further adu, the Gnawer also leaves shortly after the Silver Fang without any word given to the Shadow Lord.

"A good Gnawer huh," Kenneth rasps, though a smirk cracks through the Shadow Lord's expression. "You keep that line of thought then, see how far it gets you." As Nikolai and the cub head out, the philodox turns towards the original reason why he came in: the punching bag.