A Place For Anger
7/25/2007
03:24 PM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (72% full).
It is currently 15:20 Pacific Time on Wed Jul 25 2007.
Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 74 degrees Fahrenheit (23 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the north at 12 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.00 and falling, and the relative humidity is 46 percent. The dewpoint is 52 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)
Windswept Clearing(#3150RJ)
You stand in a small, muddy clearing, high in the foothills east of St. Claire. At first glance, the clearing appears cold and dead, but further examination shows a subtle beauty. The wet rocks that litter the ground have been eroded by wind and rain into intriguing shapes. One looks like a wolf sleeping, another like an old man staring down the mountain side. A small almost non-existent, fed by a pure spring, lies clear and still. The rock-face to the north is limestone, studded with veins of quartz that refract the light when struck just right, sending rainbows throughout the clearing. You have rarely seen a more peaceful or pleasant spot.
To the west you see a faint path leading down the mountain. Looking to the north, you see a small cave up the side of the rock-face.
Contents:
Felix
Obvious exits:
Cave Foothills
The day is bright, and suited for hunting. Far-Cry's scent, which has long lingered marking his paths between Thunder Cave and the woods around, still remains as proof that he's within the area. Visual proof comes in the form of the young philodox having caught his meal - a hare in summer colors. The halfmoon however, hasn't begun eating yet and instead takes a breather from the chase, tongue lolling out as he pants.
The day may be bright but the expression of the thin young man in the black coat who comes trudging up the hill towards the cave is not. It's positively fearsome, a sulfurous scowl on his face rendered even less aesthetically pleasing by the pink livid scars on his jaw.
[look Felix (homid)]
Standing at some five feet nine inches, and aged perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, Felix Szkarpiak has a monochromatic air about him that's only enhanced by his longish sable hair, pale face, and entirely black outfit. He's dressed in a black polo-neck, black jeans, black socks and even black sneakers, with the only variety to this outfit being a silver-colored metallic chain round his neck that carries a diamond-shaped piece of transparent material, with a musical note engraved upon it. He often wears wrap-around sunglasses which only add further to the monochrome style he affects. With them, he looks like a mafia hitman; without them, he bears an odd resemblance to a 1950s beatnik. His eyes, when not hidden by the sunglasses, are grey and cold. But his most obvious distinguishing feature is the fact that his jaw and chin are a mass of ugly red scars, and his lower lip is gashed open revealing teeth in a permanent snarl, whilst his lower jaw appears to be off center, as though he's survived some disfiguring accident in the not too recent past.
Considering the lack of stealth from the oncoming Shadow Lord, Far-Cry looks up from his meal up on the rocks and stands, scenting the air. A short, deep woof goes out to the other philodox, while the wolf's hackles lift a bit involuntarily from the anger sensed.
Felix stops in his tracks and stares in the direction of the black wolf. "Fuckin' what?" he snaps in ill-tempered English.
Far-Cry peels back his lips at the counter hostility, fur puffing out more and tail rising out stiffly behind him. You will not go further towards the cave with that anger, half moon.
"Pardon me," Felix spits back at Far-Cry like one of the nails in his deedname. "I didn't know there was a rule against going to our tribal turf when full of /righteous/ anger in a /just/ cause. Not that you would know /what/ that feels like."
Far-Cry steps away from the dead hare, pressing forth with a step more. It seems Felix's jab has riled him, but his aggression remains controlled. Anger has its place! And it is not in the cave! Calm yourself and conduct yourself properly, or find somewhere else to piss and moan.
Felix gives Far-Cry another sour look. "Anger in the cause of Gaia is never misplaced," he states flatly. But he takes a long breath, and seems to calm down a fraction. "Tell me, shadow-brother, do you know anything of a cub named Lost-and-Found? In particular his present whereabouts?"
Far-Cry remains stiffly postured, but his lips lower as Felix calms a minute level. Anger in Gaia's cause can be twisted if one is not careful. And the secret of the cave deserves no ire. This one knows not of the cub, save that he claimed himself cub of the Walkers at the moot. His scent does not come here to these lands. Only on the bawn have I smelled him. The lupine philodox flicks an ear in question. Why?
Felix gives his usual instinctive glance round, then moves through his forms and takes lupus, a second wolf as black as the first. He came to me, explains Nails. Told me that the urrah were neglecting him and he could do better... which I believe was the truth. He petitioned to be allowed to join Thunder's folk. I told him I must refer this to Moon-Calf-Otter-rhya, if not to Culls-rhya. Permission was granted within a few days, and I began to instruct him in our tribe's ways. But now he has vanished. I do not know whether to fear his kidnap or worse, or whether the urrah have stolen him back, or whether he has run off again on some crazed hunt of his own.
Far-Cry also glances about, keeping watch as the other philodox shifts forms. When he continues on, Far-Cry lowers his signs of aggression, hackles smoothly laying flat again - flat, but not entirely relaxed. What did you see in this cub that makes him worthy of Thunder's brood? asks the halfmoon to the other.
He had fire within him, Nails replies. And native cunning. Cunning in cubs is a dangerous thing. It can be trained to proper use, but it can be used against you before you can train them not to sometimes.
Far-Cry flips his tail behind him in no comment, no approval or disapproval. And Moon Otter-alpha approves? The cub could not have simply vanished. Not without going into the Shadow.
I came here in search of him, Nails points out. In the hope that the cub might be with him, learning. But I do not smell the cub here, any more than you do.
Far-Cry notes, Moon Otter-alpha keeps our two cubs, Learns-Quickly and Demands-Answers, on the bawn. It makes sense if the cub you seek were around, he would be on the bawn too. The philodox looks back to his hunted hare, and then it's back to Spits. Where did you last scent the cub?
Two days ago, Felix replies. I taught him... He stops, and sits down, scratching one ear with a hind foot. He seems almost embarrassed all of a sudden, the concept he was informing Far-Cry of only half conveyed. I taught him to play, he finally concludes.
Far-Cry stops any look back to his kill, canting his head and splaying his ears at the other halfmoon. Play? he echoes. Where was this?
On the bawn. By the philodox pool. You know it, I assume? Nails appears to be waxing sarcastic again. It's not every garou who can pull that off in lupus.
Far-Cry snorts as he realizes the sarcasm, but answers in blunt lupus honesty. I know it, and better than you as I have been here longer. Oh, the counter sarcasm. He finally gets up to pick up his hare, setting it down a touch closer to the other halfmoon. And still he doesn't eat it, only draping a forepaw over it. The last you saw, the cub was on the bawn. You tried tracking his scent, then? Asking the Guardians?
Spits-out-Nails looks at the hare, and his nose twitches the least little fraction, but he makes no move towards it. His scent goes to the farm, and back. Several times. I think it was freshest at the farm but I am no lupus-born. Tracking by scent is not my strength. I... did not want to involve the Guardians, or others. Unless it became necessary. They would think us weak, that we could not look after one raw cub.
Far-Cry sniffs at his kill, digging his teeth through its fur a moment. When he looks up again, it is to eye the halfmoon curiously. You could howl his name over the bawn. If he is as cunning and ... just playing, then perhaps he will come to you, asking for approval as his sneakiness.
Perhaps I shall do that, Nails replies, though he appears far from certain of himself. But I do not scent the elders of the tribe here, so I see no point in looking here further. One thing before I go. I plan there to be a philodox moot, soon. Probably at the next waning half. Will you attend, shadow brother?
Far-Cry flicks an ear, agreeing to it. I will go, if I am not bound to go with Walks-the-Middle-Road on her challenge then. Picking up the dead hare, he turns towards the bawn. Have you taught much to Demands-Answers, or Learns-Quickly?
Spits-out-Nails cocks an ear. I have taught them both a little, but not so much as Moon-Otter-rhya. One is challenging?
Far-Cry replies, She has challenged Reflection's-Howl, the Warder, for Fostern. She has asked me to help in this pack she forms. I agreed, so when she has gathered the other three auspices she needs, we will go soon. Hopefully, to return successful. The halfmoon swishes his tail behind him, apparently confident in the young Gaian elder.
You are a friend of the Gaian then, comments Nails. I too have... those among that tribe I am not impartial to, he goes on, deliberately choosing a less powerful form to describe his own attachments.
She is allowed to be in the territory here, so long as a Lord of Shadow is with her, notes Far-Cry. There's no secret of his friendship to the Children of Gaia's elder, long standing as it is. The halfmoon noses curiously forth, though, head quirking at the other philodox's statement. Who?
The younger pair, Ends-Dance and Shrouds, replies Felix, still seeming a little reticent at divulging the fact. They are good garou, for those not in our tribe. Well, I will leave you and search for the lost-found-lost cub again. If you scent him, bring him to me by the scruff of his annoying neck.
Good hunting... Brother. Far-Cry's farewell is a little awkward with its sentiment, a little forced, but he's trying. He likewise turns away to take his kill elsewhere, padding off with a light flick of his ears.
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