9/9/2005

03:52 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (40% full).
It is currently 15:48 Pacific Time on Fri Sep 9 2005.
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.
Contents:
Dwight
Obvious exits:
Southeast on the Tracks  Northwest on the Tracks  North Into Town  South on the Road  

"Took a fucking long time to get all that dew," Kenneth snorts, capping down the lone plastic Gladware box before sliding it into a corner of the house beneath some pine branches. "But according to what she said, pure water's supposed to work best. Why not a bottle of Evian, search me." The philodox crashes to a sit, arms hanging over his bent knees. "But Dakota didn't know how to make talens either. She tried learning, but it didn't make much sense."

Dwight leans his hefty shoulders against the pine, the big one that's half-overtaken the crumbling clapboard. Its huge roots break through the boards of the porch, and needles are everywhere. And the smell of sap in the hot afternoon air. He has listened with dissatisfaction, a frown on his face. "Mystic crapola," he grunts. "I'll never understand it. But I tell you what, I -ain't- askin that high-up Get for nonsense shit like that. We need him for more serious stuff, these healing talens, they're secondary. You talked to -all- the theurges, you said?"

Kenneth shakes his head. "Not all'uv'em. Cutter's not 'round. The 'high-up Get' Jamethon's busy some times. And I haven't stuck 'round the farmhouse long enough to find Aubrey. Theurges are freakin' hard to find."

"Put that on hold, then, less we find some grunt theurge to do business." Dwight begins to scratch his back on the pine, thoughtfully at first. "Cutter and Witch Doctor Jimmy, that's another matter. Pitch 'em the big-deal talen idea, something to hurt that thing with."

Kenneth grunts in reply. "Fuck Cutter," the philodox spits out. "When he shows up, then I'll consider it." His hand clenches. "And Jamethon probably already knows 'bout the talen shit... but I'll check it out." He glances up again. "And you?"
"Gonna go to the Glass Walkers. They got my TNT-- least, they -better-, I already ast. Course that woman was a dumb shit ragabash, but she said she was acting alpha at the time. They give me shit, I tell them their acting alpha already said yea, and that it's for -Touch Deer-." Dwight smirks, and shuts his eyes as the rough bark itches out a good place on his shoulders. "And speaking of him, I'ma talk with him more. The man is level-headed for a warrior moon, I'll say that of him, but I get the feeling he ain't gonna take that failure kindly. He'll be ready for a rematch."

Kenneth continues watching the ahroun. "Alpha for the Walkers is a galliard named Natalie," he corrects. "An' Touch Deer was.. said he came back from some Silver River called Erebus."

Dwight stills, and gazes out across the woods. "Explains the burns," he says, with a note of respect. He's rubbing his fingers over his stubble, and then leaning away from the tree to walk. "So.. you done good, so far, huh. Exed out the duds, and now we got some idea where to go. I'll keep an eyeball peeled for mystics, too."

Kenneth rolls a shoulder, looking off. "And where you thinking of goin'?" he asks, not turning back. "What's the big picture here?"

The ahroun smiles at him, sidelong. "I'ma take a piss, and get one of my beers," he says. "You want one?"

Kenneth snorts, pushing to his feet. "I meant, what do you got in mind for the Lords around here? There's the two of us, a kin, and a metis. Are you thinking of pushing our tribe up the ranks here? Gettin' more help? What?"

Dwight laughs, a deep-timbred, jolly sort of sound. "Boy," he says, "there's no way any other tribe is going to like us, or respect us, as a whole. One-on-one they might get long with us fine. Brom, Touch Deer, so on. We ain't never going to get into power here, that is, with our name in the lights. What I want is for us to get things done. That's what we do. By any means. Baby steps now, sure, but it'll come to us. Sure you don't want a beer?"

Kenneth grinds his teeth, his patience stretching. That black gaze of his turns back on the ahroun, trying to gauge him. "You're /always/ drinking," he comments roughly. "Worse'n a Fianna."
The teen does take a step closer though, perhaps to indicate his following.

"Keeps me from killin' shit," the ahroun says, cheerfully enough. He's headed down to the stream, saying, along the way, "For now, what we do is make ourselves seen, make it known we're being helpful. Get others moving. Forge alliances. Take stock of our resources. Remember, we're no villains, and only an ass sneers at everybody and every damn thing, like we was from a Saturday morning cartoon. Lords who act like that, either they can -afford- it, or they don't last long. We can't afford it, by the way."

Kenneth strikes a rock into the stream with his foot, saying nothing for a minute or so. "I don't sneer at everybody," the philodox mutters.

The ahroun snorts, as he wades down into the water. "I wasn't -tal-kin' about you," he says. "I'm just sayin', that assy class of Shadow Lord that everybody thinks of when they think of a Shadow Lord. That kind of asshole that you actually do find here 'n there. I known my share. They didn't get far. Wolves are social animals." He's to his ankles in the stream, then to shin; little brown fish, scarcely the size of a finger each, go zipping about. "Though you don't got a problem with that, when you -feel- like it. Do ya, half-moon?"

Kenneth eyes the water, and then sloshes in. "What's that supposed to mean?" he snaps back, eyes narrowing at the ahroun's back. "I ain't a bully." Something about that statement echoes back further, accompanied with a deeper 'growl' of a tone.

The sound turns Dwight's head, and his brows close in. He growls a warning buzz in his throat, a reply, before he bends to fish up a can of beer from the water. "I meant," he says, "that you can get long with the other types, when you need to. Yeah?"

Kenneth stands there ankle deep in the water, hunching slightly a hand goes to his pocket. "If they aren't bein' stupid," he amends, watching the beerfishing commence. "Even if they usually are."

The answer seems to satisfy Dwight, to put him back in his precarious good mood. He fishes up his own beer can, and when he's got that, he throws Kenneth one. A primitive system but it works: the stream keeps the beer cold, and prevents evaporation. He's wading back.

Kenneth breaks out of his distracted growlings to catch the can with a quick swipe. The boy's got coordination. He turns out of the stream, cracking the can open absently. "You hear about Kevin?" Random, disjointed, the philodox queries about what's on his mind. His gaze falls upon the opened beer, but he doesn't yet drink.

"What about Kevin?" Dwight eventually asks, as he sloshes over to a stand of pines.

"Brom," the judge answers at first. The pause is long, before he continues, "He kicked him outta the pack." Kenneth then grimaces and tosses the beer down, chugging at least a gulp or five, before pulling the can away from his lips.

"Shoulda thought about that fore he asked the kid -in-, don't you think?" The southerner floats over a voice of mild irritation. "Don't like indecision like that. Why for, anyway?" He's taking his piss.

Kenneth coughs roughly, like the beer completely did not agree with him, taste wise. "Not permanently," he manages out after a few throat clearings. "Because Kevin drew somethin' /real/ bad out on the barn wall. Picture of Grey and Tamara charaching, from what I heard. And tried to make it look like it wasn't him that did it."

Dwight lets loose a laugh, half-astonished, half-amused. "Got kicked out for -that-?" he says, dick in one hand, beer in the other. "Why?"

Kenneth rolls a shoulder, gazing at his beercan with a wrinkle of disgusted feeling. Still he tilts it back again, trying to get rid of the liquid as quick and painlessly as possible. He doesn't get very far. "Because he got pissed off at 'em for ripping some cub's tongue out and feeding it to 'im," the philodox exhales. "But if you ask me, it's more 'cause he tried to cover it up."

"Who did what now?" Dwight's making his way back by this time, squinting, as the levels of drama go deeper.

"I said," Kenneth repeats, "they - meanin' Tamara and Grey - ripped some cub's tongue out and fed it to him for whatever reason. And Kevin got pissed at 'em, so he decided to take his revenge by drawing Garou porn on the barn wall while making it somehow seem like he wasn't the one to do it." One more gulp of the foul stuff. "Something about one and four eyes being naughty." He waves off the details with a hand. "So he got found out. And Brom laid him out for it."

"Jesus Aitch Christ.. you're suppost to abuse cubs." Dwight gives a hearty gesture with his beer, sloshing some. "What a stupid turn of events. Muscles sure got a high 'n mighty streak... but that kid needs to learn to suck it up. Cubs get hurt, and no such thing as hurtin' cubs too much. I mean physically. Screwin' em up in the head's another matter, you don't do that shit." He wrinkles his nose. "Why the hell is Lockwood with us, anyway, a -ragabash-?"

Kenneth slings back the can as the ahroun asks his questions, barely managing to hold back a choke as he chugs. And chugs. And gets to perhaps, the dredges of the bottom. Wiping a drip off the corner of his mouth, the philodox shakes his head. "Like I know. He has some Get ghost up in his head or something, so maybe that's enough qualification to get him into a Fenris pack." The halfmoon wiggles the can a touch, listening to the remains of the suds slosh. "He didn't even beat Snaekolfr."

"He shoulda been raised a Get." Dwight shakes his head. "Walkers all right.. but that boy needed more beatin'. In any case. I saw him jump up right brave, when we was fighting that buffalo thing. All right boy.. but he needs a little more fucking -sense-."

Kenneth works to crunch the can in his hand, but it gives rather easily. "He's a ragabash. His sense don't come easy," the halfmoon judges. "Anyway, he's not comin' aroun' until he does what Brom told him to do."

"And what's that?" Dwight's rolling his eyes, annoyed with the whole affair. "And who was the cub, by the way. The tongue one."

Shaking his head, Kenneth shrugs. "I don't know which one it was. Don't really care," he replies, looking for somewhere to toss the empty can, and finding no trashcans. Or recycling bins. "But Kevin's supposed to be doin' something to make up for what he accused Grey and Tamara of, as apology. And I hear he's gonna paint the barn over too."

Dwight just groans, eyes shut tight a second. "Fucking stupid," he says. "Stupid problem, stupid solution, it's all sissy-ass shit." He chucks away his crushed can. "Least the barn's getting painted," he fumes.

Kenneth snorts, and yet in a way looks sarcastic and amused. "Story of this sept's life," the philodox comments aside, tossing down the can and leaving it for now. "About as interestin' as dealing with Circle Keeper."