untethered. [introductions, greeting the sept of forgotten questions]
#1
Portland, Maine
Two Weeks Ago

It's mid morning when the Ahroun finds the Guardian working on the docks, winding rope around his arm and stacking empty lobster cages on the pier ready to be packed back onto the small fishing trawler tied amongst a mish mash of other boats; some broader, others narrower still than the rusted green and black vessel several Kinfolk of the Sept are working aboard, their voices cutting through the distant sounds of a fishing precinct hard at work.

Gulls circle high above, calling out as early morning hauls are unloaded, fish poured into great containers and packed tight with ice, ever vigilant for the morsels tossed aside; guts and discards ripe for the scavenging. The Sept kept a steady watch on the comings and goings of the harbor and it was duty as much as lifelong exposure that had the Adren working long into the morning; sweat gathering on the back of his neck, on arms still strong despite advancing years.

Stands at Dawn had seen enough younger Garou born screaming only to perish the same way, his own flesh and blood included, it was perhaps why he was, as his deedname suggested, always the first to work, the last to rest. He'd told as many stories of glory as of disgrace and as he straightened and sniffed, wiping a gloved hand across his face, the subject of many a recent discourse regarding both advanced across the docks, her hair a brilliant beacon in the sunlight.

There was a duffle bag over one of the Ahroun's shoulders and the elder Garou tossed aside another length of rope at her approach.

"Someplace to be, Morgan Roche that finds you on my dock so early?"

The Ahroun's features were marred by healing cuts, the corner of her lip, a bruise blooming in gorgeous shades across a cheekbone; purple mottling around the base of her neck, all standing in starker regard against an otherwise fair complexion.

"'m headin' out."

She's tall, for a woman, for her line, for her age. Her brother carrying only the briefest two inches on her, less, in heels. Though for all the contemplation the Theurge offers daily, there is, in his sister, as she bears her subdued displeasure, the same enduring spark of irritation trembling just under her skin. Only difference between the siblings their grandfather has ever seen is a willingness to give over to emotion.

By the light of a full moon, Morgan had that in spades.

"Lookin' to be persuaded to stay, or add another reason to go by tellin' me so to my face?" There's something there, a firming of her jaw, a slight hardening of storm-grey eyes before the answer. "I think I have enough reasons on my own, -rhya."

Her chin lifts incrementally.

A smile surfaces, familiar and well worn on the Galliard's face as he leans against a crate; crossing arms over a broad chest. "I bet you got a whole bunch of 'em, Morgan, I don't doubt it a second." He weighs her resolve, the Ahroun holds his stare long enough to be impudent, then hefts her bag against her shoulder and drops her eyes to the ground, jaw working.

"I can't change wha' happened. He's dead."
"Yes, he is." The exchange is hard, blunt. Sliced to the bone. "Well and truly. So why leave?"
"I can't stay here."
"Or you won't."

The Kin on the boat are watching, eyes downcast for the prickling of rage in the air but their movements slower for the interest in the exchange between the two Garou on the dock. The female breathes out harshly and turns to leave. The male allows it for several steps then calls her to halt. Says her name.

Morgan turns, her profile silhouetted against the heat of the sun. Her hair is unbound and the breeze plays with the strands, sending them sliding around her shoulders.

"Give 'em hell."
There's a lightening of the girl's features. A brief, darting smile.

Stands at Dawn watches the girl leave for a moment before returning to his task, his refocused attention scattering the others back to formation.

Present Day

Under a heavy moon, climbing toward full, is when the Ahroun finds the Sept.

Hitching hadn't been a problem, she's young, pretty and aside from the heaping unease she sets into the bones of most, an easy passenger to ferry the miles it takes to discover the Caern buried away in the heart of Roxborough Park. She finds her way beyond the gate, unmanned in the twilight and hikes further in.

She shifts down when she's close, clothing melting down into fur, a blur of red darting through the dust and low lying plantlife; scaring birds out of their nests, sending frightened rabbits panicking out of the way. On a low rise, the blood of Stag finally comes to a rest, tips her head back and howls her greetings.

[FYI, this is just a sort of general 'hey, I'm here' post, but if anyone feels like replying, you're quite welcome to!]
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#2
[i will take you up on that! =D ]

As it so happens, the red wolf is not the only newcomer come to make introductions to the Sept of Forgotten Questions. Yukito's approach is from the south and west, down from the mountains but up and away from the neighborhood that skirts the park's western border. He arrives in Glabro, t-shirt and jeans adjusted to fit his increased bulk, with a ram slung over his shoulder.

He pauses well outside the borders and gently, almost reverently places his kill on the ground. The ram was an old and strong creature, his horns curving twice, nearly three times and coated in scratches, chips, frays. Even in death he is deserving of some form of respect, even if at the end of the day his flesh will become someone's meal. Yukito arrived in the area hours and hours ago, and spent the time from then to now hunting down this creature's herd and then bearing down on its leader. One can tell by the way the head lolls against the Ragabash's back that its neck was snapped. Its pelt, save for the scars received in life, is perfect.

Shifting to lupus, he howls his presence and his name and so forth. A Guardian will find Yukito on bended knee beside the ram's body, returned to his birth form with head inclined respectfully.

"My name is Yukito Hayashibara," he says, repeating his howl with human words and speaking with a notable accent, "Cliath Ragabash Shadow Lord, deeded Senpū in the Sora no Soko Sept of Tokyo. I have brought a gift for the Warder and Guardians of the Sept of Forgotten Questions." Only when the gift has been received will he enter the bawn, to explore its grounds on four legs that cover the ground much faster than two. He marvels at the great hulking sandstone spine jutting up near to the park's visitor center and sniffs around Persse Place.

Perhaps it's here that he crosses paths with the Fianna Ahroun. They are light and dark, she with her shades of red and he who looks like a scrap of shadow torn from night-spirit and given life. He dips his muzzle down, ears flicking back as golden eyes regard the other cliath before whuffing a quiet, quick greeting.
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#3
The Ahroun had not brought a fresh kill to lay at the feet of the Guardians. Perhaps upon sighting her, feeling the familiar twist of a full moon's anger rolling against their skin they hadn't expected one. Perhaps her offering was made in other ways. Quiet news of another Sept travelled from, updates on the struggle that somehow made distance seem less. A familiar story no matter the location.

Death. Invasion. Wyrm. The insidiousness of an enemy that could fold itself beneath even the most innocuous things. Firebrand was an orator by blood, if not by moon, she passed on what information served a usefulness and was allowed to make her offerings to the heart of the Caern. It takes Morgan some long minutes to untangle a memory strong enough, early enough to satisfy the parameters of joining forces with the Sept of Forgotten Questions. She was born to the beat of a warrior's moon and while death was a certainty for her, at eighteen years it had also been a familiar phantom for many past.

The black wolf finds her inspecting the view from the hillside overlooking the rebuilt homestead of Henry Persse. In this form, the Fianna is impressive if only for the brilliant russet shades of her fur and the purity of the blood that sings through her veins. Her eyes are a reflection of their homid state, clear and so pale a blue as to seem more grey than anything else, level and watchful as the other wolf approaches.

The Fianna scents the air, ears flicking and vocalizes some brief huff through her nostrils that accounts for a response. As comfortable as her wolf skin was, the Fianna clearly had little desire to commune in it and after a beat there's the telltale rippling shift; clothing replacing fur, sharp claws retracting down to be replaced by blunter, human fingernails. The brilliant color of her coat remains, but now only as unbound strands hanging loose around a young face.

"'lo," she greets in a low voice, crossing arms over raised knees. "Firebrand, daughter of Stag, Cliath Ahroun, new t'these parts." She waves a hand, an abortive catch all for the landscape around them. "Who're you, then?" There's a trace of some accent there, american, treated with time abroad. A lilting edge, slicing at the tips of words. Also a directness.
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#4
Yukito sits back on his haunches, watching the Ahroun curiously. At her huff he lowers his muzzle and closes his eyes briefly. There is a pop!, not like a balloon popping but like bones cracking and muscles and tendons hastily reshaping themselves to fit a smaller, even slimmer frame. Where there was a black wolf, now there crouches a young man. In the sunlight Morgan would see that his wild and disheveled hair is medium brown and highlighted blond. Now those highlight catch a little of the moon's light, making him look silver-streaked despite his youth.

She introduces herself first and he mentally chides himself. That's not how it should be. The etiquette faux pas is alleviated only slightly when he learns that she, too, is new. To this sept or to this city or to this state he doesn't know.

"Hello," he returns, his own voice light and airy. Where the Ahroun is sharp edges and slicing accents, the Ragabash is...well there's no other word for it. He's softer. Gentler.

Rising to his full if shorter height of five feet and seven inches, he says, "I am Senpū, Cliath Ragabash Shadow Lord." The words fit strangely in his mouth, but they feel more familiar each time he uses them. His smile in the moonlight is slight, but no less respectfully friendly for it as he dips his chin and says, "I am also new. I've come to pay my respects. Please forgive me for the intrusion, but could you perhaps direct me to where I make my offering? I was told to give a memory, yes? But it seems I've wandered astray, and I am not used to navigating by these stars." At this he looks up, at the sky, and the moon so nearly full and so very bright, trying to blot out all but the brightest stars in the sky.
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#5
At Shadow Lord the Ahroun's expression shifts momentarily, a wary light entering otherwise curious eyes and Morgan's gaze skims over the male's form head to toe. It's a direct sort of inspection, more Garou than human and while there's the faintest hint of a blush blossoming on the Fianna's cheeks, she manages to sound at once flattered and put out. "Well I'm not one o'their Guardians - " She fidgets with her sleeve, then pushes to her feet. There's nothing particularly graceful in the movement, Morgan's more instinct than grace but there's none the less nothing off putting in her appearance.

By regular teenage standards, she'd probably be considered attractive. Tall and slender, but with meat to her bones; endurance visible in the shape of her calves through the give in the denim as she moves, there's certainly nothing willowy about her despite the fact she seems slightly flustered by the newcomer's request. "I think it was this way," she directs and begins off with very little leeway for the Ragabash to decide if he's tagging along or not, long legs eating up the ground beneath their easy stride.

"You're pretty polite f'a Shadow Lord," she opines as they navigate the Bawn, the Fiann's hair dancing around her shoulders like flames licking at the air. She tosses a assumptive look his way, almost daring the contradiction. "Most I've met aren't much for apologizin'." A beat. "Or askin' for help, now that I think abou' it."

Once she's begun, it appears talking isn't a rarity for the Ahroun. Though carelessness regarding what she says on the other hand - "So where are you from? Senpu," she's sounding out his name like she's reading something unusual off a menu, "isn't a name you hear often."
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#6
When she states that she is not one of their Guardians Yukito nods his head once. "I did not think you were, but another visitor who may have come from there." Was that the wrong thing to say? Perhaps not wrong but maybe a bit unnecessary, but Yukito believes in honesty, and in keeping an honest understanding. Particularly with Garou. Particularly with ahrouns.

He submits to her inspection without complaint, but watches her. She seems young. Judging by appearances Yukito does, too, but there is a gravity to him, a weight to his gaze that that suggests he is at least beyond his mid-twenties, if only by a year or two. They make an interesting pair, these two, like opposite sides of a coin. Where she is tall and solid and strong Yukito is shorter, slender, with a slender build that does not suggest strength or enduramce but speed.

He makes note of her discomfort and is prepared to thank her and be on his way when she suggests a direction, but then she's off. She forges ahead boldly, leaving him to follow or be left behind as he will. Yukito chooses to follow, and then he chooses to walk beside her as an equal. He catches up to her, swift and sure-footed despite the way the altitude coupled with the uneven trail threatens to make his lungs burn.

Morgan is speaking. Yukito is attentive to her words, her open musings about his tribe and his birthplace. He considers how to answer her question, not because he considers deceit but because one answer makes his chest ache with lonely homesickness and the other is more palatable. He decides on that one.

"I received my deed name at Sora no Soko Sept in Tokyo," he says, his voice slipping easily from accented English to Japanese. "Senpū means whirlwind. If you like you may call me that instead.

"And you, Firebrand-yuf? Where do you hail from?"
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#7
Morgan's hair and the slight blurring of her speech is misleading. It does offer a more stereotypical vantage from which to view her, to judge her. Garou of Stag, no doubt. With her complexion and build one could be forgiven for assuming much about her auspice were it not for that slow burn to her aura, the telltale flicker of Rage hot in the air around her as she moves; threaded into every twist and shift of her musculature.

She's tall and lean, but weak of will; of character, decidedly not.

Not with the way her pale eyes flash to the Garou beside her as he calls her his equal; measuring him with that title before her eyes flick back to the task at hand, leading him toward the huge, towering formations she'd been shown earlier herself. Toward the place where the air felt colder by degrees and the tug of otherwordly forces grow stronger.

"Whirlwin'," she tries out and nods, as if he's settled the matter. "I like that. I'm from Maine, Portland direct. My family is there, we've been part o'the Sept of Four Flames for a few generations. Well -" she smiles, but it's brief. A flicker at the edge of her lips. "Until recently, anyway."

The Fianna stops when they're close, the giant formations looming tall in the distance. She points. Looks a moment, then glances at the No Moon. "Just there. Y'feel it?"
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#8
He does not ask her to elaborate. For one thing he's only just met her, this wolf of the Fianna, and one does not greet a potential friend or ally by asking for their life story. Perhaps some other time their paths will cross again, some night when the moon is not so heavy with the promise of burning Rage and explosive tempers. Even Yukito feels the pull of Luna's influence with his scant amount of Rage.

For another thing, he feels it. Before Firebrand stops he feels it. Or rather, he becomes aware that he's feeling something, and he has been feeling it for some time. The very ground beneath his feet seems to vibrate through the soles of his shoes and suddenly he wants very much to remove them. He turns his head in the direction that the ahroun points, gaze turning sharp toward some distant point in those looming, shadowed formations before he gives a solemn nod.

Looking at Morgan his chin lifts and the corners of his mouth raise in a polite smile. "Thank you, Firebrand-yuf. It was good to meet you." He offers her his hand. If she takes it, Yukito shakes it once, his calloused grip firm, before releasing her with a nod.

Turning his attention to the formations, he says - because not saying it would make his muscles ache and his skin twitch and his entire being feel wrong somehow - "Shitsurei shimasu." Stepping away, he ripples through forms until he is a small and lean shadow of a wolf. He's gone in a blink, traveling swiftly on four feet and disappearing into the shadows.

[thank you for letting me crash your intro, Jacqui!]
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#9
[OOC: No worries! It was my pleasure. Smile ]
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