9/2/2005

06:55 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

County Line Road, Railroad Crossing
A few wooden buildings dot either side of County Line Road, standing like faded sentinels on the southern edge of town.  The road, barely wide enough for two automobiles to pass, intersects a set of ancient, rusted railroad tracks; weeds sprout up between the ties and rails, evidence that trains no longer pass this way.  The old houses cluster around this intersection as if huddling for protection against the thicker woods to the south.  Aging oak trees and a few elms and maples loom over the clapboard buildings, as if threatening to reclaim this land for the forest.  In fact, the greyish wooden siding and slightly warped walls of the houses gives them an embattled, weary air that seems to proclaim victory for the trees.
To the north, County Line Road leads into Kent Crossing proper.  Southward, the trees thicken, spreading to block out the sky and cloak the road in greenish shadow.  The railroad tracks continue to the northwest and southeast, cutting a line through the woods.
Obvious exits:
Southeast on the Tracks  Northwest on the Tracks  North Into Town  South on the Road  

Kenneth sits alone against the side of an abandoned clapboard house, one of few dotting the area with their unobtrusive presence. The Shadow Lord philodox's eyes are closed, head hanging, chin nearly to chest like a limp scarecrow. Between his feet, the remnants of an old, ragged, chewed on rabbit skin - part of the ear probably.

A storm's coming, thick in the air, with clouds heavy and restless. Birds fly low, whole flights of them, and wind whispers through the leaves. Energized, Stands-in-the-rain bursts out from the wood, energized, ears back and then forward, tail in the air.

The thunder of beating wings wakes the sleeping Lord. Not without a bit of irritation, either, Kenneth slits his eyes open and breathes in deep almost in instinct like a wolf taking in scent. Ineffectual at best, given his homid senses. Instead it is his tracking, movement oriented as his predatorial gaze is, that leads towards any semblance of source. The philodox's head lifts, looking in the general direction of the ahroun.

The animal makes across the tangled clearing, and as he moves, he changes. As a man he strolls about on cowboy boots, with a real live Stetson to match. He's twirling it round by the brim, some sort of restless hat trick.

Kenneth squints, turning his head away in an involuntary yawn. Unfolding like a compact robot from the side of the house, the young Shadow Lord stands. His eyes track the lupine's change to man all in relative silence. Once Dwight has finished his shifting, Kenneth deems it necessary to speak out. "Evenin'."

"Little miss kin got me this hat," Dwight says, easy, as he slowly goes about. "She's trying to get her hooks in me, you know. Kind of cute, really." He gives a yawn, but seems more alert for it, the way canines do.

Kenneth tilts his head a touch, looking at the hat with a sprinkle's worth more interest. Then his eyes shift back to the ahroun. "Her name is Xia," he replies in lower toned comment. Though there might be a twinge of pseudo-jealousy stuck in, the philodox says little more. He nudges the old rabbit ear with the toe of his worn sneaker.

Dwight shrugs. "Never been able to pronounce it." He pulls his hat onto his head, and turns his face to the clouds. "The girl's mischief. Guess a little makes it interesting, but I knowed girls like her, and the little bad richgirl routine sure wears out quick. She'll help out with supplies. PR, maybe, since she seems the friendly sort." Half a smirk when he says that word.

"Do you always treat girls like objects," Kenneth questions flatly, "or is that 'star' treatment for everyone you come across?" Straightening, arms folding over his thin chest, he eyes the ahroun, like a vulture on a withered branch.

"Misogyny is just another service I provide." Dwight buffs his knuckles on his tank top. "Truth be told, I was raised right, with manners, and -Black Furies-. But that's ages ago. Dinosaurs walking the earth."

Kenneth grunts at the ahroun's reply. "Wonder what happened there," he mutters to himself as he looks off into the woodline. Something, though, has got the philodox thinking, the wheels in his head turning visibly. "So? What do you want to do?"

"Hit the liquor store up the way. Course we gotta go through all these damn woods, but if you follow the creek, it lets out by the parking lot and some trailers." Dwight is rubbing his fingers through his light beard. "We walk now, might get there fore it rains."

Kenneth creases his brow at the ahroun. "We?" The mention of rain at least sends his gaze looking skywards, though not much help with the trees obscuring his sight. Then the young Lord's black gaze realigns with the ahroun. "You mean 'you'."

"Nope. You plus me. Generally what 'we' means." Dwight glances over his shoulder. "We got some shop to talk."

Kenneth narrows his gaze at the other Shadow Lord, sucking in a breath between clenching teeth. He doesn't move immediately, but eventually, the philodox snorts and pushes himself off the clapboard wall. "Fine," he utters neutrally, hands slipping into his battered jeans. Cold eyes look upon the ahroun, silently scrutinizing, waiting for him to make a verbal first move. Or a physical one.

Dwight's stare does not budge for a time. Then, a slow nod, and he gets to it. "So no fanfare," he husks, as they walk. "I don't got a lot to say right now. There ain't a lot of us. Maybe a good thing. Too many cooks spoil the pot."

"Or not enough cooks in the kitchen," Kenneth comments, his own walking pace set to keep up with, but not pass, the ahroun.

"Maybe could use a couple more. The right kind." Dwight leads him through the hushed woods, the crackle of leaf and snap of twig that much louder. It's empty, charged, with the sussuration of leaves from time to time. "Reality is, we don't. You, me, and Fancypants. And the girl. Be good if we could get along. Ain't nothing sadder than so few as three fellas can't get their shit together."

Kenneth rolls a shoulder, peering intently at a darker part of the wood before returning to the invisible path laid out ahead. "For a tribe that had two freakin' fostern to be crippled by two cliath? Fuck yeah that's sad. Fuckin' pathetic." One hand extracts itself, raking through fast-growing hair. "Fuck it. The toilet got flushed a damn long time ago."

"Unlike you, I like to take control of my destiny. So I say no." Dwight goes on. "So our numbers are shit, and so the history here ain't the brightest. S'always gonna be those who cast a leery eye on us just for being what we are. Fuck 'em. Work with the others who don't. Let me ask you, son, what do you think the greatest strength of our tribe is?"

Kenneth stops, tensing under the diminuitive, but shakes it off with a stifled growl. He's somewhat long in answering, but does eventually. "We... get shit done even if no one else cares to do it," he puts forth, though it is with caution and a wary eye towards the ahroun.

Dwight nods his head. "That's right. We're competent. Practical. -Ruthless- some might call it, but they're just whining." He puts an arm in front of him as they go through a tighter way, keeping branches out of his face.

Kenneth ducks an overhanging branch, though he doesn't bother with dodging much of the branches. The philodox just goes through, under, around. "Isn't like that 'round here," the young Lord mutters. "Kill a bastard, get a prize." The sarcasm drips like slow tree sap.

"Gonna be like that around here. Gonna get things done." An irritable edge has crept into his voice. "We're in a prime spot for it, with these Fenris boys. They see it more like we do. Several things we gotta be looking into. Talk to people about it, I wanna know, and hell, you ought to be a bright boy, figure some of it out yourself. The demon pigs. That polluted inlet. The strange Wyld spirits. Though fuck-all if I know what to do about that, that just -is-."

Kenneth blows out a rough sigh of his own. "We're surrounded on all sides by Wyrm. Last caern in the state. Vampires in and out of the city, Wyrm in and out of the city... what the hell more is there to figure out? Everywhere you look is gonna be an enemy. Fuck, even the /Wyld spirits/ turn on you here."

"Know what," Dwight snaps, as he rounds on the boy. "I'm tired of your pissin and moanin. Yeah, we're in the shit. It's all going to hell. Ain't -nothing new-, since the first dumb shit garou walked the earth. This's what we were born into, what we were made for. You going to just give up and pout?"

Kenneth freezes, tensing, his lips curling into a feral baring of teeth. "Did I say I was giving up? I'm fuckin' tellin' it like it is, you fuckin' bastard. Why the fuck do you think I'm still in this place of Gaia's asshole if I didn't give two shits about it?" His voice trembles with strain, angry and bitter. "Do I see anything redeeming yet? No. But I've been /waiting/ for you to just say what the hell you want done instead of goin' on about gettin' things done all vague and Roman Senate-like, and you ain't said shit yet. What the /Hell/ is it you want? From this place? From me?"

"I want you to get your head outta your ass," Dwight tells him, eyes narrowed. When he's angry, blood goes up in his face, a weird coloration given his scar tissue. Makes the jagged flesh livid and purple. "And to cut this shit out. You been wanting to pick a fight with me since day one. I ain't done shit to you, cupcake, and if you want a fight I'll give you one." A growl buzzes in his chest, and he gets out, "And, all right, for right now, I'll tell you what to do. I want you to go to Tamara the mule and ask her about the animals that attacked the bawn. Find out what they were. Spirits, fomori, something else. Were they all killed? Was -any- of them killed? If so, where are the bodies, what was done with them? Questions like those. But those specific."

"Skull pigs, or something," Kenneth growls in answer. "The Guardians supposedly took care of it..." The philodox's own anger turns icy cold. "And I don't need /you/ to be callin' me by anything other 'n my God-given name, goddamnit. I ain't no fuckin' cupcake, or son, or sport, or champ, or slugger..." Each nickname gets said progressively quieter, but angrier. Eventually the halfmoon just drops it altogether, just glaring at the ahroun.

Dwight seems to regain his control, isn't going to let this kid get him all fired up. Very slowly, deliberately, he starts in again with, "Ask. I want to know." He goes on, "I want to know where the remains are. I want to smell the bones. I want to look and see if we mightn't find out where they came from, 'cause that shit just doesn't happen without more behind it. You understanding this? It's lookin' bad for us, but so long as we know -where- a threat is, we can do something about it. What and where, that's what I want. It's a start."

Kenneth's shoulders rise and fall, his own efforts to maintain control working ever so slightly better in regaining patience and cool. "If it was on the bawn, then I'll ask the Guardians or something." The philodox looks away pointedly, forcing a submit. Noticing they've stopped, he glances back. "Not that they enjoy my presence on the bawn... but if I'm gonna be Master of the Challenge, then they're gonna learn to like it."