Time/Date : It is currently 13:12 Pacific Time on Mon Dec 10 2007.
Place : Farmhouse: Kitchen and Dining Room
Weather :Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 38 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.37 and steady, and the relative humidity is 79 percent. The dewpoint is 32 degrees Fahrenheit (0 degrees Celsius.)
Moon Phase :urrently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (7% full). F
Farmhouse: Kitchen and Dining Room
Homey is the first word to come to mind when looking at the farmhouse's kitchen. Dark, wood-paneled wainscoting covers the walls to about waist height, dark beige wallpaper continuing to the ceiling. Twin refrigerators occupy the north wall, facing the large six-burner stove on the south. The kitchen counter runs the length of the eastern wall, broken only by the double-basin sink. Cabinets run above and below the counter and a twin-pane window is set in the wall above the sink. A small pantry is set into an alcove alongside the refrigerators, presumably holding the deep freezer as well as shelves of dry goods.
Some twelve feet above the floor, a large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, lighting the dining room and casting long shadows over the bar to the kitchen. A long table occupies the center of the dining room, three chairs setting along each side, and one on each end. On the west wall, a large window looks out on the trees alongside the western pasture. Set into the north wall is a large cabinet, its glass doors closed on shelves containing a full compliment of fine china and glassware as well as a few decorative nicknacks. On the east, a wide bar separates the dining room from the kitchen.
An opening in the southern wall allows passage to the front entryway of the house, while a sliding glass door in the kitchen opens to a clearing behind the house.
Sometime over the last couple of years, a teen girl with a poor attitude and a hair-trigger temper has grown up, and matured into a young woman. With a poor attitude and a hair-trigger temper. KL is a little over five-foot tall - no late growth spurt for her - and slimly built. She moves quickly, and is rarely still for any length of time. Her natural balance and co-ordination are clearly evident in her movement, but any hint of grace is smothered with her air of irritation, hostility and restrained aggression. She manages to turn even simple activities - like ordering fries - into not particularly subtle attempts to provoke fights.
Her mousy-brown hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the front falling to frame her face. Her hair looks like it has been cut recently, and by someone with at least a little skill. She's really quite attractive, perhaps not a pin-up, but far from ugly, with a cute upturned nose and wide expressive hazelnut eyes. However, any level of appeal her physical appearance might have is swamped by the anger in her gaze and the sullen set of her mouth. She stares at people - particularly people she doesnt know - with a cold fury, as if trying to decide exactly which way to kill them.
KL has pale skin, and on her right shoulder-blade is a two-inch-square tattoo of a winged horse. There isn't much in the way of excess flesh on her, her cheekbones are clearly visible and her bare arms have a tight musculature that speaks of regular and plentiful exercise.
She is wearing a white T-Shirt and a pair of white cycling shorts, white sports socks and a pair of white trainers. All of the clothes look new, or at least very well cared for. There's a large bandage wrapped around her right calf.
Around her neck hangs a pendant, an oval disk made of some kind of bone. It looks like it's been decorated with carved designs, which are somewhat hard to make out on casual inspection. The pendant is hung on a leather thong.
Just a hint over six feet in proper height, this young man's built tall and rangy; lean muscle stretched taut over his limbs without too much fat to soften it, the result perhaps of too much exercise and too few meals. A splash of blue contrasts his night-pale skin, dyed hair swept back in short moussed strands, shaven along the sides to just above the level of his ears, along the back as well to leave his nape free of all save a razor's shadow of stubble. Just to add colour, it seems, his brows have recieved the same treatment where they rest above startlingly clear green eyes - lined at the corners just a little more than most of his age. His features are angular, a somewhat sharp chin and high cheekbones marred with an old scar that crosses down across his jawline.
At the moment he's just wearing a loose tank-top, black in colour and with the legend 'You'll regret reading this shirt when the sketch artist asks you to describe my face' superimposed upon a faux height chart across the front of it, and a pair of black bondage pants adorned in zippers and buckles whose cuffs drape over the edge of hi-top, steel-toe shoes. A studded leather belt wraps about the waist of his pants twice to keep it up. The outfit leaves his neck, arms, and part of his chest and back bare, revealing the extensive tattooing that's marked him; an intricate design of bones and circuitry that stretches from wrist to shoulder in two full sleeves, up along his neck down his back. Grasping bony hands tangled in wires and circuitry, grinning skulls, cockroaches and rats peeking out from the montage of images painted skillfully upon his skin. Ornamentation's spartan - a Coleman 'night sight' watch is wrapped about one wrist, below one of a pair of gloves done in leather and polyester mesh - more a stylish statement than protection from the elements, unless perhaps he's a bike rider - and he's usually not to be found without a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, with a rat-eared notebook sticking out of it. A closer look at those gloves will reveal that the little finger's missing off the left one, fabric sewn to cover the hole where it'd be.
Standing 5'5 and with a lean physique, Brook carries herself like someone who knows she is armed. Her hair is long, dark and wavy- hanging well past shoulder length. Her light green eyes dance with a bold mischief that is almost fae like, and her smile is full of confidence. She moves with a steady, sure gait, but not one that is overly rigid or strict; she's fluid, and graceful, but with a strength about her as well. One suprising thing about this woman, is that despite a body and appearance that is fully feminine, her hands are strong and callused, the kind that speak of hard physical work.
She dresses in form fitting casual attire. Jeans, tank tops, leather jackets, boots and the like. While the clothes work to show off her form, they do not limit or overly inhibit her motions or actions. She also wears a bronze pendant that is in the shape of a crescent moon.
The knife's set down, Quentin's head lifting to look her way-- and a rueful smile curves his lips, stepping away from the counter and over to reach out and try and sneak an arm around the kinswoman's waist and pull her in against him and away from the stove. "I don't have any claim on you, gorgeous," he murmurs back to her, "More's the pity, but I don't, and I know it. I'm happy with what little I've got, though, an' I'm not giving that up just 'cause of some politics."
Brooke grins at the other, slinking into that simple hold. "Good. We'll just be subtle about it. You got no claim on me, but honey, neither does she, and neither did Cole. So long as she understands that, it won't be any problem at all." A grin, a quick kiss and then she's back at the pot to stir. "There's wine too, but that's just for me and whom I choose to share it with."
The back door slides open, to admit both a gust of cold air and a diminutive brunette. Despite the cold, she's covered in a sheen of sweat, and her white t-shirt is sticking to her sides with moisture. She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling as she stands in the open doorway. "Whew," she says, between gasps. "Who are you two?" She doesn't make an instant move to close the door behind her.
Quentin tips his head down to return that kiss, and he chuckles ever so softly-- letting her go back to the pot, he turns to step over to the french loaf, pausing as the door opens. A brow lifts, regarding the sweaty woman panting in the doorway, and he gestures with the knife. "Quentin. Close the door-- you are?"
Brooke looks over to the new arrival, eyes perusing the girl with a bold look. She grins a little, "Brooke. Spaghetti's cooking if you want some doll. Be about another thirty minutes though."
KL glares at Quentin balefully, holds the pose for about twenty seconds, then turns back and slowly closes the door. Having completed that task, she turns back. "I'm KL," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "Cliath Ahroun of the Black Furies, sometimes known as Escapes-From-Money, packed under wolverine as part of HAVOC." She then switches her gaze to Brooke, cracking a smile. "Heya," she greets, more warmly. "Spag would be great. It's a bit chilly out, though the run has done me some good, got some cobwebs out."
"Ah. Well, good t'meet you," Quentin allows easily, turning back to slicing through the loaf before him and offering in affable tones, "Quentin Speaker-for-the-Dead, Cliath Galliard of the Glass Walkers of the Sept of the Steel Angel. House of Urban Defense. Currently packless, I'm afraid..."
Brooke's grin shortens a bit at the girls introduction. "As long as we're doing full intros, then you may as well know the rest. Adams. Fianna kin. It's a meat sauce, with extra garlic." The spoon dips into the sauce again and stirs once more. "Haven't seen you around before, course I'm not the most outgoing sort either. New or you keep to the woods?"
"I've been away," KL explains, leaning up against a wall nonchalently. "Had some business back at my original Sept in Denver." She waves a hand vaguely. "Business done, I came home. To discover it's as crazy as ever." Her smile is fond at this. "The one thing about the Hidden Walk is that it isn't dull. And meat and garlic is fine." She sniffs. "Smells good."
"It's never dull..." Quentin's head shakes a bit as he finishes slicing up the bread, reaching over for the garlic to peel and dice, his tone serious, "...there were more fomor on the bawn just last night. We still don't know where they're coming from... weirdest thing is the weapons they're carrying."
Brooke watches KL a moment longer before turning back to Quentin. "How close to here? Cole's banged up pretty good, and I don't want him sitting out there like trapped bait." Another stir follows, "And what kind of weapons?"
"Cole's hurt?" KL asks, concerned. "How? How bad?" She flicks a glance at Quentin. "And seconded on the "what kind of weapons" thing?" She leans slightly forward, leaving a noticeable wet patch on the wall.
"Leadership challenge," Quentin explains with a slight shake of his head; grimacing as he cuts the garlic up, he admits, "They're not the first, there've been small bands showing up on the bawn lately. Not too close to here, in the woods. And that's the thing, they don't seem like... Earthly weapons. I'm told they stink of taint, and they seem more like something from an umbral realm..."
Brooke grunts at this, "Well ain't that lovely. And yeah, he lost his challenge to Laora. Dunno if you've met her before, but I hear she's a real peach." The sarcasm nearly drips from the kins chin. She lifts the pot of noodles and takes them to the sink. There's no weakness in her arms, and as the hot steam wafts up as she drains them, there's no sign of flinching. "Someone grab some plates will ya?"
"No, I haven't met her," KL says, literally peeling herself off the wall and fetching out three plates from the cupboard, which she hands to Brooke. "A peach?" she queries, moving unbidden to the cutlery draw and fetching out knives, forks, and after a moment's though, spoons.
The sound of someone coming downstairs can be heard. The person's progress is slow and unsteady, as though they're infirm or injured. The last couple of steps are taken together, with a thump, a gasp of pain, and a "Dash it all!" in a growled English accent from the living room.
"I'll have to hunt her down and meet her..." Then there's a thump, and Quentin's head jerks up-- stepping over to the kitchen doorway and leaning out, calling concernedly, "You alright?"
Brooke looks up and over, trying to see just what's going on. She's still got a hot pot in hand, and once the noodles are all into the strainer, she sets it down and moves to look in on the action.
KL blinks, and then rushes to the door, almost barging aside Quentin. "Cedric?" she calls. "Is that you? What the fuck?" Worry in her voice, rather than anger.
"Yes, yes it's me," Cedric calls rather tetchily as he regains his feet and lumbers towards the kitchen door. "I thought I was healin' up nicely but goin' up and down stairs does things to my ribs..." And he breaks off, his heavy glabro jaw dropping in amazement. "Well, spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard... it's KL!"
Quentin pushes himself a bit against the doorway's edge as KL pushes past him-- stepping through after, he tips his head in a nod over, "Take a load off on the couch, we've got dinner brewin' up in here, courtesy of the most lovely kin of Stag Children, Brooke."
Brooke looks around the mess of people to spot the Fang. Her eyes go up with childish, ok teenage delight. A wide grin spreads across her features. "We'll bring ya a plate out. Looks like I get to play mother hen around here for a bit."
KL heads towards the Fang. "What happened to you? I bet you ripped them up good." She steps to her packmate's side. "Do you need to lean on me? Brooke's making pasta and it'll probably be good for you to eat something. And yes, I'm back, and I shouldn't have to go away again in a hurry."
Cedric tilts forward from the waist in honour of Brooke just a tiny bit. "Do excuse me," he says a little gruffly, "I'm still kind of on the sick list after a little contretemps the other day. Nothin' time won't mend. As for the other garou... modesty forbids," he goes on. "But I don't think she'll be usin' that klaive again. It kind of broke in half on my own superior specimen of the genre."
"Don't think we've been introduced properly, sir," Quentin offers, inclining his head slightly and respectfully towards Cedric, "Quentin Speaker-for-the-Dead, Cliath Galliard've the Glass Walkers; Sept of the Steel Angel, House of Urban Defense. Packless, for the moment. Sit, sit, relax and heal up..."
Brooke nods to all this, "Mind I ask who the other is that you got into this spat with? Seems like a lot of it going on." As she offers this, a tall glass of ice water is brought out and offered to the Fang.
"Someone used a klaive on you?" KL asks, her voice suddenly dangerous. "I'm not sure that's...appropriate. Who?" This is almost a demand, rather than a question. She steps back, as it's obvious that Cedric isn't about to collapse. "And yes, do sit down."
Cedric is glad to sit, which he does carefully, and to take the offered water, which earns Brooke a very charming smile. For someone who is pretty plainly a garou in glabro form, he's rather good looking despite his husky bulk. "Laora of the Fianna," he answers the questions. "In her defence, she was apparently bein' ridden by the Wyrm at the time and not in her right mind. Or so she claims," he can't resist adding. "Quentin, and... Brooke?... pleasure to meet you; I'm Cedric Ambermere, fostern of the Silver Fangs, galliard, and apparently, pincushion... So, KL! Where have you /been/, what?"
"Holy Mary mother of christ, Laora?" The look Brooke casts to Quentin at this is full of venom and concern. "Cedric, when did this happen? And what was done about it?"
Quentin's brows leap upwards a touch. "...she was in the thrall? Bloody hell, and now she's elder've the tribe..." He grimaces for some reason, his head shaking a little and gaze flickering back to Brooke with open concern, before he pushes it aside for now, "An honour to meet you, Cedric-rhya."
KL grimaces. "I guess I can't go and hit her, then." She looks disgusted. "I've never met her, and already I don't like her." She looks at Brooke. "Need me to do anything, or are we good. Sorry, HAVOC seems to be barging your quiet meal for two."
Cedric is dumbfounded at Quentin's casual words. "She is WHAT?" he roars. "That woman has the manners of a leaking sewer at a royal garden party! How can she have the damned gall to present herself as a fit leader of any tribe, far less the ancient and noble Fianna? What are they THINKING?" His excess of anger seems to lead to further pain in his ribs and he subsides into his chair, pulling a sour face. KL's words seem to hearten him a little, though. "HAVOC, ah yes. Now I've found you again, we should start plannin' stuff once more, KL..."
Brooke grows frustrated with not getting answers, "Well it's not like Cole fuckin' handed it to her on a silver plate. He's out in the barn bleeding and mending. If you'd be so good as to tell me when this happened, it might shed some light on things. Things that I, no matter being kin or not, will not sit back and let go unspoken of or undealt with. WHEN did this happen and if she was under the wyrm's mind, who cleansed her of it?"
From afar, to the room, Brooke looks around. Kinrage. Heh.
Quentin's hand slides over to rest upon Brooke's shoulder, fingers squeezing briefly there in an attempt to calm her down-- or perhaps it's a protective gesture, more suggested by the flicker of anger in his own eyes briefly. "I may not be've an 'ancient and noble' line myself, but given how everyone's been reacting to her, it's sounding like she's not the best choice for Elder'n the world. There any other candidates that could challenge her, Brooke?"
KL sits herself down, and as she looks at Quentin and Brooke, she suddenly looks grim and tense. She glances back at Cedric. "For sure. We need to patrol and have plans and do violence on bad people." Not the most complex worldview ever, that.
"Indeed we do," Cedric agrees. "Lots of those around now. Turned me out of my own damn house! I was watchin' it through binoculars when that crazed Fianna picked the fight." He sighs. "I don't know exactly what happened after, Brooke, but I'm assumin' someone cleansed her, and not before time. I was too busy lyin' bleedin' to notice much. I say! Check these out!" And without further ado or warning he starts to unbutton his shirt, revealing several slash-marks red and angry across his ribs, and one huge livid scar right over his heart."
The squeezing on her shoulder does not seem to alleviate any of the kins rage, and with a tightlipped frown at the scarring... scarring that looks almost identical to Cole's, the kin pulls back. "The sauce is done." Then she's making her way out of the house, grabbing keys and coat as she moves.
This time, Quentin lets her go-- looking after her, jaw tensing, and then he forces a sigh exhaled, his head shaking as he steps along over to the others. "A fair scarring, that," he frowns, leaning his shoulder to a nearby wall and folding both arms across his chest, "I don't like this. Internal strife's the -last- thing we need with the Wyrm's claws closing in on all sides... but it's all we've got right now."
"Yeah, well, it's almost what we do best," KL says, bitterly. She slumps back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest again. "She snapped a fucking klaive in you?" she asks Cedric, again, almost disbelievingly. "Fucking hell."
"Is rather, isn't it?" Cedric seems proud, though he does add "Wish it'd been from a worthier opponent, though." He nods at KL. "Takes more than that to dispose of a Silver Fang and a follower of Wolverine, though, eh?" Then his focus goes back to Quentin. "What other internal strife has this poor old sept been sufferin' from lately, then?"
There's the sound of a car passing by; a few minutes later, Rick comes in the front door, a small grocery bag in hand. "Hullo?" he calls, as he heads into the kitchen. "Oh, hi," he says, uncertainly, at all the unfamiliar people.
"It's damn impressive, I'll give you that, sir," Quentin admits without a hint of reluctance there, gaze dropping to those scars again-- a hand lifting to scratch at his nape, nose wrinkling slightly, "Fuck, what hasn't it been? Half my tribe won't even talk to the other half, and about a quarter of them are teetering on the edge of Harano if I'm any judge of that... and we've been getting hit by Wyrmspawn /constantly/. Fomori all over the bawn, Spirals kidnapping kinfolk..."
"For sure," The Fury Ahroun says with a little fist pump. As Rick enters, she looks up, and then stiffens. "Who the fuck are you?" she demands, looking at him as if he was something furry and unfortunate that a cat had dragged in.
Cedric looks around -- cautiously -- to see who the newcomer is. He looks expectantly, if silently, at Rick.
Rick says, around his bag of groceries, "Rick Morgan. I'm related to Jacob and his family, if that means anything to you?" He seems somewhat wary of KL's anger, but not at all unused to dealing with such outbursts.
Quentin drops silent for the moment, as KL makes her challenge; one foot lifting up to press to the wall, he rubs a hand against his face, thumb working at the bridge of his nose to resist a headache.
"Jacob?" KL says, still hostile. "Yeah, I know Jacob. You can speak relatively freely around here. Or at least, you could, before people started inviting dancer kin in to date people." She shoots a glance at Cedric. "I'm KL Cole, Escapes-From-Money, Cliath Ahroun of the Black Furies. Packed under wolverine as part of HAVOC." Her eyes go back to Rick, and an eyebrow raises enquiringly.
"KL," Cedric says pissily, "kindly don't sound off about things you didn't witness. Roxanne had /everyone/ fooled." He then goes on to Rick, "Cedric Ambermere, fostern galliard and elder of the Silver Fangs, and also a member of HAVOC... we like each other really."
Rick says, "Rick Morgan. Gaian Kin, as I said. Jacob's checked my bona fides," he adds with a small smile. "I'm a veterinarian, just in case you have any wolf kin that need help at any point. Good to meet you." He inclines his head to Cedric, murmuring, "Sir."
KL grins at Cedric, "Oh yeah. I mean, I'd die to save you. But I'll sound off about whatever I fucking well like." No sting. She looks back to Rick. "Pleased to meet you. A veterinarian? Does that mean you can sew us up if we're in lupus?"
"And I you, my packmate," Cedric says genially, all tension averted. "But it's more fun to make the Wyrm die for us, what?" He stops burbling, then, and looks at Rick with curiosity.
Rick starts putting his groceries away; he can't find /all/ the right places, and in fact leaves some things on the counter, but he means well. "Yep. Also homid, actually-- The theory's the same, and you guys heal quite effectively if given a chance. Obviously. Ask Kavi and Aja about their silver problems recently. Aja'd been forced to /swallow/ silver, and it kind of... Got stuck."
"Oh yes," KL says to Cedric before looking incredulously at Rick. "You what? Forced to eat silver? There is far too fucking much of that stuff around at the moment." She shakes her head. "That's ridiculous."
Cedric looks rather pale; paler, that is, even than he was before, and at present he is hardly his normal hearty self. "Eat...? Dear lord, that's nothin' short of monstrous," he opines.
Rick says, midly, "Well, they /were/ Black Spiral Dancers, after all." He adds, folding his bag, "This was the bunch that Fidelity and Mouse and Kaz took down, I think. I'm not up on the details; just that they were apparently the ones who kidnapped the Uktena kin."
"I'm gonna go check on Brooke," Quentin says quietly; having paled a bit himself at the news about Aja, looking if anything a touch sick. He heads for the door, then, shaking his head slowly and growling under his breath, "If I ever get a chance at these Spiral bastards..."
KL looks confused. "I'm getting a bit lost. Can someone point me at something to hit?" A pause. "Preferably wyrmy and mobile. Chairs and doors already know to fear me. As do Shadow Lord philodoxes." A note of desperation. "That is so fucking twisted."
"KL," Cedric says to her, surprisingly softly given his gruff glabro shape. "We'll find them and we'll make them pay. With interest. /Compounded/ interest. Save your wrath for the deservin', my friend."
Quentin slides open the door in the kitchen, passing through into the back yard.
Rick nods sympathetically. "It'll happen," he says, finding somewhere useful to put his bag.
"I have an important question," KL says. "Can we eat the food Brooke cooked? Before it gets cold? I'm starving." She stands up, and starts doling food onto plates in a fairly haphazard way. "Cedric? Rick?"
Somewhere upstairs, a woman's frantic and frightened shouting can be heard. It would seem that Beth Dane has finally awoken. At first, it's just screams. Unintelligible and without meaning. But then she's crying for her Elder. "Cedric! Cedric!!" It's worry, plain and simple. Not for herself, but for the other Fang.
"Oh, damn' right," Cedric says approvingly. But before he can even consider eating, the piercing wail sounds through the house. "Beth!" he exclaims, then roars in Stentorian glabro tones, "Here, Beth! Downstairs! Panic over!"
Rick looks upstairs in worry. "Does she need... more specific help?"
At Beth's first scream, KL is running. The cooking spoon she was using to serve the food lands on the floor with a clatter as the Fury heads out the door and up the stairs, heading towards the sound of the women in distress.
Beth comes stumbling out of the infirmary, meeting KL halfway. Her hair is mussed and strewn about her face, frantic and full of fear. Her clothes cling to her awkwardly where the blood from her wounds caused the fabric to stick to her skin and then dried there. There's a lot of blood caked there and it's a wonder the woman even managed to pull herself out of bed in Homid. "Where am I," she demands, "Where is Lo- Cedric? Where is Cedric?"
Standing an inch shy of of six feet tall, one word that comes to mind to describe Beth's features is 'regal.' That and 'crazy.' While her pure breeding may show, something is simply off about her. Despite a flawless complexion and full, pale rosy lips, she hasn't entirely forsaken makeup. A thick layer of eyeliner and mascara serve to draw attention to her otherwise unremarkable eyes. Sometimes those muddy, too-wide eyes look vacant. Other times, she has the thousand-yard stare of someone who has seen far too much far too soon. Her brunette hair, thick and wild, falls to the middle of her back, usually styled in a loose, fashionably messy manner. Each ear is pierced three times, two in each lobe and one each in the cartilage.
More often than not, Beth wears dresses or skirts, and her tops are usually low-cut. Everything is form-fitting, hugging her hourglass figure. Visible just below her collarbone is a vicious and ugly raised scar. It follows down her sternum with two arms intersecting, settled over the swell of her breasts. A cross burned into her skin. Every so often, Beth's head will twitch almost imperceptibly, or tilt to one side, as though listening to something.
Cedric follows KL a good deal more slowly. "Here! here!" he shouts again, hoping Beth can hear.
"You're safe," KL reassures her, coming to a halt and reaching comforting hands towards the injured woman. "In the farmhouse. Cedric is downstairs, he's fine if a bit sore. I'm KL." Her voice is soft - a far remove from her usual argumentative bark.
"Thank Gaia..." Beth leans heavily against the wall, raking her fingers through her hair. Trying to calm the mess as much as herself. "Tell him... Tell him I'll be down in a moment. I just... I need to catch her breath." She shuts her eyes heavily and it almost looks as though she's fallen asleep against the wall. The woman must be running on adrenaline.
Rick doesn't, actually, follow-- He seems to think more people crowding the woman will just lead to more stress. Instead, he goes about making a pot of tea.
Cedric comes limping after KL. "Beth... Beth, I'm here," he gasps. "Are you okay? You..." He swallows a lump in his throat. "You shaved my wife. I mean, damn it! Saved my life!"
KL relaxes as the woman seems better, though she still hovers worriedly. "Who is this, Cedric? She's really been in the wars. What happened?" She looks behind Beth, at the infirmary, as if expecting something unpleasant to come through the door.
Rick leaves the kettle to boil and disappears briefly outside.
"Beth... Beth Dane. Of my tribe. But for her I'd be lyin' at the burial mounds with silver through my heart," Cedric says portentously as he carefully leans over the exhausted-looking Beth. "Beth? Beth, shift up, my dear, you'll feel better."
"I think she's a bit out of it," KL comments. "Maybe we should take her back to the infirmary?" She ponders. "I think I can lift her without shifting. Are you asleep?" she asks Beth, quietly.
"I don't think I'm in much shape for liftin' even if I go crinos," Cedric says dubiously.
'Yeah, that's why I said I'd lift her," KL says, grinning. "You just open the door." She glances at Cedric. "You can manage a door, right?" She takes a step towards the collapsed Fang, and reaches gentle hands, preparing to pick her up.'.
Cedric nods, and limps on up ahead to open the infirmary door while leaving KL to carry Beth.
KL carefully carries the woman to the infirmary, making sure not to smash her head on the door frame. It's an effort, but she manages it quite well. Once the patient is safely abed, she and Cedric head off, for some much needed pack-talk.