nick_garou | Joy! Spirals on the bawn!

The Scarred Forest (North of I-90)(#2354RA)

The forest is thinner here than it is south of the highway, though it is still difficult to see for very far. Signs of human habitation break the stretch of woods every few miles; roads, paths, farms, and the occasional out-of-the-way home remind you that civilization is encroaching, though in this area, the battle is not yet decided. Hardwoods mix with towering firs and smaller trees, still concealing some of nature's hidden places from the nearby humans. Streams and small pools are scattered throughout the forest, some large enough to swim in, some small enough to freeze solid for most of the winter.

Fresh stumps dot the woods, and almost all of the trees still standing are disease-scarred around the bases of the trunk, some only superficially marked, some deeply wounded; not a few are dead.

Once hauntingly quiet and sparsely populated with wildlife, these woods have fully come alive again. The scents and sounds and glimpses of animals, birds, insects are now as rich here, among the scarred trees, as they are anywhere.

This region stretches almost 50 miles north from I-90 into the Sun Lakes area, where the disease that scarred the trees appears to have been at its worst.

Contents:

Obvious exits:

Modest Cabin Tiny Cabin Great Oak Grove 23 Hawk's End Foothills Interstate 90 Grotto South

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 58 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 17 mph, with gusts up to 29 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.89 and steady, and the relative humidity is 84 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)

Brings-the-Pack is skirting through the woods, avoiding the edge of the bawn where the Garou might be out patrolling, but also taking care to stick to the woods and not venture into anyone's backyard. He's headed mostly northwest, back towards his cabin. The winds today are strong and every so often a gust bends the trees and snaps the branches above. The cougar seems largely nonplussed by the winds. Perhaps he's just more aerodynamic or the wind isn't so bad lower to the ground.

It is the wind that brings the first hints of trouble to the cougar's nose, in the form of blood. The coppery smell is rather like a strong hit to the face, as if a rather large volume was recently spilled.

Brings-the-Pack carries onward, catching the scent but not processing it anywhere near as quick as a true predator would--a consequence of lack of instincts and being unfamiliar with how a cougar's alien olfactory system processes the smell of blood. He does, eventually, have a lightbulb moment, which makes him pause immediately to assess his immediate surroundings as he hunkers down and siddles up to the nearest large tree trunk that might provide cover--or something to climb.

The smell is there, if a little distant. Now that the cougar has registered its presence, he finds that it is mixed with the scents of gas and oil as well. The source must be a bit closer to the highway.

Brings-the-Pack peeks out from behind the tree trunk, nose pointed in the direction of the smells, and sniffs pointedly at the air--as if his sense could determine far more than might be feasible. Simultaneously, he extends his sense via magickal perception, attempting to discern more information before approaching any closer.

The highway appears much as it always does. At the side of the roat there are two cars, one behind the other. The one in front is having its tire changed by a man and woman in their early twenties. Off the highway and a short distance into the cover of the trees, the scene is far less serene. A man has been tied upsidown from one of the trees, his pants are drenched in urine and his throat has been cut from ear to ear. Around the dead man, three wolves are lounging. One looks unwell, the fur patchy, coated in rough skin and boils... Many of which are oozing.

Brings-the-Pack keeps his muzzle in the breeze, continuing to extract information out of thin air. His immediate concern? The area around him. He quickly scans it with magick to ensure he's not about to be snuck up upon.

The wind is in his favor, so the wolves have no way of knowing the cougar is out there. There are no dangers close to the cougar, aside from the skunk's hole ten feet distant.

Brings-the-Pack eyes the skunk hole, then opts to back off a ways to where he's further away from both the wolves and the hole that may or may not have a skunk in it. His attention, once he's mostly behind another tree trunk, diverts back to the roadside area. He pivots both ears forward, hoping to catch some snippets of conversation. Despite the three wolves in the woods--the obvious danger--he also eyes the two people changing the tire on the car. In case they might be upcoming targets.

The people changing the tire are finished and the woman heads to the edge of the woods, hands cupped around her mouth to make her words carry. "Hey, fuckwits, we're ready to go. Pack up your snack and lets get moving!" The wolves lift their heads in reaponse, yawn and stretch. The wind shifts and while two of the wolves pay it no mind, the metis turns its head in Brings' direction, nose workking like mad, while drool activity dribbles from his maw. There is the faint, unmistakable wail of an infant.

Brings-the-Pack watches and listens as all these things transpire. The infant's cry momentarily startles him. The cougar's brow furrows slightly, a decidedly human-like response betraying the human mind housed in the animal body. He reaches out with a wisp of subtle Mind magic: irritation and an impulse for woman by the car to summon the wolves a second time--this time louder and using one of their names.

"Hey, Jimmy, hurry it up for fucks sake!" The woman bellows, louder this time. The infant's wails grow louder and more insistant. The man opens the door to the car that had the tired changed to deal with the child. Two of the wolves shift up in to crinos and cut down the dead man, dropping the corpse on to a nearby tarp. The Metis charges off in to the woods, making a bee-line for the cougar. One of the crinos snarls in response, garbling out what one can safely assume is a name in Mother's Tongue.

Brings-the-Pack turns and bolts for the deeper woods, doing an initial detour so that the metis's path will likely cross over or near the skunk's hole.

A second yell from one of the Crinos brings the Metis skidding to a halt, before he reaches the skunk hole. Slinking back, he receives a swift kick, before the body is packaged up, loaded in to the trunk and the group drives off in both cars.

Brings-the-Pack has apparently seen enough. He keeps on running into the deeper forest for a couple minutes before checking to make sure he's no longer being followed.

Brings-the-Pack determines he's no longer being followed and hastily reaches out again with magickal senses, prying into the area the group had been at earlier, checking to see if they're still around.

The group is long gone, having disappeared into the flow of traffic.

Brings-the-Pack drops the magickal effect, shakes himself off. Twice, for good measure. And begins taking a circuitous route intended to misdirect any followers.

Spirals. Dammit. And I didn't have time to get any identifying information. I can make some sketches, though. That means I'm done with my cougar-time. Or I could sneak back to my cabin's sanctum, use magic to make the printer spit out my mental images. Then get those to the garou ASAP. I hope it's not too late for that baby.

The temptation to set them all on fire was nudging its way up from the back of my mind. I need to control those urges better. Slippery slope, Nick. And you've already abducted and then burned a vampire to death. Watch yourself.