That's what family's for, right? Helping each other.

Note: This probably happens while Hector's getting confirmation of Rabid Jack's 'yeah! pack! :D'ness. Otherwise, she would've mentioned him!

Calden White
So: it's a ranch.  It's a ranch that has apparently been here for a hundred years and more, and it belongs to the Whites, who used to be the Mac Faoitighs, the latter word of which was actually pronounced very much like White.  But we digress.  Point is:

it's a ranch.  It's a proper, working ranch -- a vast tract of ten thousand acres or so, which comes out to be about fifteen square miles in the north part of the state, a stone's throw from Colorado.  Sere, hard land, this.  No green pastures or babbling brooks.  There is a crabbed little creek on the eastern border, but by and large this land gives testament to the fact that Colorado is, in fact, a species of high desert.
Still.  The rancher who owns this land, the latest scion of a long line of Whites, must be doing relatively well.  His house is large.  It's built on the foundation his ancestor laid, but successive generations have added, remodeled, renovated until it's hardly recognizable anymore.  These days, the structure is a rugged construct of stone and wood, cresting a low hill and spills down the back side.  It boasts a vast-windowed vault-ceilinged great room looking over the land, a large deck ringing the main level, and multiple balconies and terraces.  Also, a guest suite on the lower level, which is underground at the front of the house but ground-level at the rear.  That is, one suspects, where the master of the house would room the guests that he and his family have always welcomed so Fiannaishly.

The front door is ... well, around front.  Plenty of doors in the back too, though.  Glass sliding ones on the deck, and into the guest suite.  It's an hour or so before dusk.  The sun has just slipped behind the Rockies on the horizon.

Tamsin HallThe land's a remarkable thing: how it'll keep people. How it'll keep people so close that, after years go by, they become like summer kings all, and you know when the land's doing well and when it's doing poorly by marking the fortunes of the family. They get all entwined - or at least they did. It's remarkable, and nobody says anything about the Whites but that they're hospitable and good old solid bastions of Fiannadom the kind who take their hospitality as seriously as Red Teeth at the White Ford did in the good old Ulster wolf days of yore.

So it's not remarkable that a young Fianna cliath might decide to come out and take a look.

And it's not remarkable that Tamsin, the young Fianna cliath in question, Cinder Song, Furious Lament, more names waiting in the wings, prob'ly, unless she gets herself killed or Pixie Led off the path, following some wishful trick or turn or hope (which isn't all that unlikely, let's be honest, not for these dreamy times), well - phew, take a breath - it's not remarkable she'd find herself in possession of the right about of persuasiveness to get a ride out there.

She circles it, see. She comes at it from the side, and circles the deck, climbing up with a timid air that speaks of years taught not to trespass by that mean old lady and old man who threw rocks at kids when they tried to trick or treat, until she finds a door to knock on. Maybe it won't be the right one, but that won't deter her.

Calden WhiteIt'd be awkward to knock on a glass door, wouldn't it?  Sort of screams HI I'M A LOST PUPPY PLEASE FEED ME.  So she circles around, she comes at it from the side, she doesn't quite make it all the way to the front but she does find a door.  And she knocks.  Maybe it's the garage door?  No one seems to be answering.  She might be about to move on, about to look for that fabled Front Door, when --

-- ah.  It opens after all.  It swings outward, and a white-haired ancient with a bent back and cranky eyes pokes his head out. "We don't want what you're selling," he snaps.

Somewhere behind him: "Dad.  I'll take care of it."  And then a second hand grabs the edge of the door, opens it wider.  This fellow's about half the age of 'Dad', robust in a flannel shirt (red-checked, of course) and jeans.  'Dad' leaves off, grumbling, as the new fellow -- his son, one imagines -- furrows curiously at the unexpected visitor.

"Help you?" he says.  There's a touch of red in his hair.  Just a touch.  The setting sun catches it; brings it out more than just about any other light would, save firelight.  There's a touch of green in his eyes, and there's a touch of Stag in his blood.

Tamsin HallWhoa. A goblin! Fresh from a tale of two old biddies with evil dentures (fangs) and biblical vengeance warping their blood or minds or who knows, Tamsin flushes when the elder gentleman swings the door open and snaps at her. It's one of those flushes that doesn't really know what it's for: pained embarrassment or embarrassed anger or apologetic horror. Her eyes widen and she opens her mouth to reply, when, hark, another voice, so her teeth click together and she chews on the inside right-hand corner of her mouth until White Younger [she'll assume] appears. "Um, hi." Great start, Tamsin. Truly, you're a Galliard for the ages. They'll tell stories about your glorious fucking greeting of um, hi. [Shut the hell up, Mind.]

The young woman who's waiting outside is surprisingly serious and even-keeled when she isn't mocking her alpha or roughhousing with the boys and girls (who're gone now, so [hey, the white tree is flowering, and the fog rolls in]), or it is if you've seen that side of her. Her brown (but burnished, depending on the light) hair is parted neatly in the center, but seems to incline toward windsweptedness and has been tied into low tails to keep it orderly. Her t-shirt is bears a very faded Davie Bowie circa Labyrinth with the legend you remind me of the babe. Screw thrift-store recycling shirts (yes fine she might have one of those too somewhere).

"I mean - hello. You guys must have the most hardcore branch of Girl Scouts come around ever. I'm Tamsin. Uh. Tamsin Hall, and they say we're kin, so... Is that okay?"

Calden White"I thought you might have been," Calden says, thoroughly unsurprised -- but perhaps warming a little nonetheless.  Not that he was cold before, but: different, still, when he thought she may have been a stranger, an outsider, a lost traveler, anyone at all.  "We don't have anyone come around unannounced, other than old friends and distant family.  I don't know why my dad bothers with that line, but he uses it on everyone.  Don't take it personally."

And he stands back, pulling the door wider still.  She discovers she is looking into his kitchen.  It's a nice one, a lot of brushed stainless steel and granite, a vast semicircular breakfast bar, tasteful lighting.  And through the kitchen: the dining area.  The long, dark, gleaming table.  Beyond that, the great room with its soaring ceilings and wood-and-stone decor; its vast hearth; its broad staircase both up to the second floor and down to the lower level.

The plan of the house is simple.  Very open.  All the common spaces visible at a glance, and all of it large enough, expansive enough, to not seem cluttered.

"Come on in," Calden says.  "We keep a pretty early schedule here, so we've had dinner already.  There's leftovers I can heat up for you, though.  You just passing through, or looking for a place to crash?"

Tamsin HallDeer-tentative step over the threshold. Then there's nothing deer about her. The moon again, measured into her bones, carefully constrained by the girl shape. Tamsin looks around. Not wide-eyed, like a reverse country-bumpkin in the big city. But she looks around, her grave eyes curious and perhaps appreciative. Because the ranch is cool. The ranch is miles away from the kind of place she grew up in.

"Oh. Um, okay. Thank you." Then: a wicked thorn of humor has her looking back over 'Dad' as he creeps his way back. Part of her is a little 'lost,' like she thinks the polite thing to do would be to go say something and offer her services or something, but the other part of her - it's that wicked thorn of humor. "So, uh, is your dad just 'Dad' to everybody who passes through, or is there another name I should address him by?" The wickedness disintegrates into a (bite the inside of her cheek/mouth again before offering the) shy smile. "And what about you? Are, I mean, I think Calden and Ryan were names I was given. Could I just have some water?"

If he gets the feeling she's asking for just water out of politeness' sake, then he would be right, although she's not being a complete martyr: she had some McDonalds from her ride and a bunch of trail mix earlier.

Then: "I'm looking for a place to crash for a bit this month. Me, and my pack-brother. He's not stag's, but he's mine, so."

Calden WhiteThe corner of his mouth hooks up.  "I'm Calden," he says.  "My dad's Rory.  You might see my cousins running around too, but they're usually with the stock.  Ian, Jimmy, and Paul."

He gets her a drink of water.  A glass from the cabinet, ice and water from the fridge. Holding the glass out to her, his eyebrow quirks a little at the word 'month'.  "Gotta say, longest I've had a houseguest is a couple weeks.  Don't know if my dad's had longer.  Have you, Dad?" -- over his shoulder, that.

"NO!" shouts White Senior.  And then the door to his old-man-cave slams shut.  Calden can't help but smirk.

"I'm all right with it, I think," he says, turning back.  "But mind if I ask what you aim to do up here?  We're pretty far from ... anything."

Tamsin Hall"Oh, nonono," she says. "I don't mean, not steady, just - a few days and nights here and there over this next month. We'll probably stay in the city a bit, and we've got one of his kin we can stay with too while we find a spot. It's just," and Tamsin pauses, her eyebrows drawn together, while she takes a sip and while she thinks. There're clouds. Moody, little clouds; just a lick of wistful, solemn tarnish.
"Thing is, Calden, we came back to tell his kin that her sister is dead. We're here in the area for her, but I want her to be able to grieve without thinking that her sister's battle-mates are waiting for her like a hive of full of answers to kick with questions. For Heck's sake, and hers. Does that make sense?"

Tamsin Hallooc: er, like a hive full of answers. strike that extra 'of.' this is not a time when tamsin is being all "um, uh, um" *fist-shake*

Calden WhiteSomething in Calden's face changes.  Death the dogged shadow, he thinks.  "Sorry to hear about your packmate's kin," he says quietly.  "And it makes sense.  You're welcome to come by whenever you need.  Fridge is usually stocked too.  If it's not, we have a little vegetable patch outside, and a chicken coop.  I'd be obliged if you didn't kill my stock, though.

"Come on," he adds.  "I'll show you the guest suite.  It's downstairs.  Your packmate coming around tonight?"

Tamsin HallHe's sorry to hear. Tamsin nods - echo of her other-names, the one she hasn't given the kin-man, in her eyes. Cinder. Furious. But she presses the edge of the water cup against her mouth, hiding it. There's something about water near the eyes, they're allowed to get liquid; to en-shadow, and then the water takes the tarnish away, time to move on.

Her eyebrows go right up, shocked, when he says he'd be obliged if they didn't kill his stock, and she asks in a tone of fascinated horror, "Has that happened before? Really? What's the messiest mess you've ever had a guest make? Uh," this 'uh,' quick, deep: "Hopefully that's a different tale than the 'oh yeah it happened before' one you might've been about to drop. Thanks," she says, again, following Calden where-ever he will. "And probably not. Probably come by tomorrow night. There's a thing we're scoping out."

Calden White"None of my guests have ever taken a bite out of my cattle," he says.  "I've had wolves passing through kill a cow or a steer, though.  Maybe they were starved, maybe their instinct just got the better of them.  I try not to take it personally.  As for the biggest mess from a guest -- it's hard to top my brothers and I after Christmas turkey and too much eggnog.  They don't live here anymore, so," he smiles, "I count 'em as guests."

He leads her, as it turns out, toward the staircase -- pausing to nod toward the couches, the hearth, the windows, the deck encircling the back of the house.  "You're welcome to hang out here," he says, "though the game room downstairs is probably more fun."

And, descending the stairs: "A 'thing', huh?  Wouldn't have anything to do with the Dancer pack all the Garou down in Denver are riled up about, would it?"

Tamsin HallReflective: "I don't know. Cattle aren't really good hunting, are they? They're just. They're just sweet-eyed, slow, stinky hamburgers, and - oh shiioot, I'm sorry. But maybe they were just dicks. People, even wolf-people, are dicks just because they're dicks sometimes. And that story needs work. But don't worry." Here, a quick smile, anxious-eyed and shy (and behind the anxious-eyed shyness, that sharp and kind've dark sense of humor again). "I won't try to give you one. It'd be rude." The way Tamsin goes down the stairs is this: one hand on the ballustrade or the railing or on the wall (fingerprints, whoops), toe first. She perks up a bit at mention of a 'game room,' though after the initial perk up there's a touch of wariness replacing it. Maybe he means the hunting head room? but no, no he doesn't, and dead things don't frighten her anymore, it's just the stiff unnatural staring that -

Maybe there's a PS3. Hope.

The Dancer pack all the Garou down in Denver are riled up about, he says, and Tamsin frowns, giving Calden a side-long look: "Y'know, I don't know if they're connected. Maybe. It's a thing about a Church. You haven't heard of it before; the Church of the Covenant?"

Calden White"We're Irish Catholics, supposedly," Calden says, all wry, "and that's why I've got four brothers, three uncles and an aunt, and eight great-aunts and -uncles.  That's about all the religion I can tolerate.

"If you haven't heard, though, some Dancer pack that terrorized the greater Denver metro area resurfaced.  Last time they were around they took out three or four times their number before they were finally chased off.  Or before they got tired of it and left.  So far their comeback's already claimed ... well," there's a shadow in his eyes, a grimace on his face.  "Probably better for you to ask the folks down at the Septs.  They'd have the up-to-date info.

"I'll give you my friend Eva's number, though.  She's a lawyer, lives down in Denver.  Shadow Lord kin, not one of Stag's.  Good woman, though; knows more about things than some of the Garou."
And lo: the game room.  It's unmistakable, if only because there's an enormous red-felt billiards table down here.  And a sectional couch.  And a flatscreen TV on the wall.  No decapitated heads ... although there was a ram over the fireplace upstairs.

"Your room's this way."  He nods her down the hall, nudging the door open.  It's a nice room.  Not huge, but nice; well-furnished, tasteful, albeit simple.  Rustic.  "There's a bathroom in there.  The door locks from the inside if you want a little privacy.  I'll get you a key for the sliding door in case you guys get here late and I'm not up to let you in.

"If you guys figure something out about the Church of the Covenant," he adds, "let me know, will you?  Just so I know who and what to avoid."

Tamsin HallTamsin pays Calden assiduous attention. Solemn, again. Grave-eyed, serious-faced stag's daughter, heroine-in-the-works. "I'll do that. But I'm pretty much always going to want to hear what whoever I'm talking to's heard, even if maybe another source has heard more or different." Hesitation. "Did--well. I'm certain a family like yours, blood-deep ties rooted in the land, a home," wistful, wistful, behind the sigh that to be fair is more distracted than actually melancholy, "have people who look out for you. But if you need anything--"

she breaks off, abruptly. Then says, fiercely: "I'm sorry. This is stupid. I don't know how to properly say to a grown guy hey, you're my kin, and if you've got a problem tell me so I can help, because I want to help. I don't know how to say: I know I sound like a girl and all but please do it anyway if you need. Even if you're not sure you need, or want, but think that maybe. Because I'm - well, because. If anything happens, just: I'll be here. Even if I'm not here, once we've settled more." There's a lyrical core to Tamsin Hall, and even raw like this, it's there, it shows.

She kind of ruins it by being raw, but also by perking up more (out've the fog of solemnity, of grim, grave, consideration) at the sight of a REAL BED. The room looks like a palace to her, clearly, and she quickly at him, bouncing over to the bed and sitting on it way-too-hard, and the bounce says: yay mattress. But she's careful of the glass of water, which is mostly empty now anyway--she drains what's left.

"Thanks. And we will. We're Celduin, by the way. Celduin, the River Running."

Beat. "Um. So you said the refrigerator is always stocked right?"

Calden WhiteIt probably doesn't help that Calden's mouth, though he tries hard to repress it, begins to slant toward a smile.  He knows what she's getting at.  A man his age -- and that age is likely far closer to twice hers than it is to her own -- with ties so deep in the state, the Nation, the tribe: a man like him must have heard this before from any number of other Garou.  Most of them young, perhaps, and earnest.  Good-hearted, before the war wears them down.

She stalls on the words.  She starts over.  She's suddenly fierce, and she gets it out, and the smile melds into something a little less amused, a little more -- well.  Touched, maybe.  Calden puts a hand on her shoulder.  It's a big hand, work-roughened; he's a goddamn cowboy, after all.  And it's a warm, friendly sort of hand; a kinship implied in the touch, as much as it's implied in the faint red cast of their hair.  The not-quite-bland-Americanness of their names.

"I appreciate it," he says.  "And same goes for you.  That's what family's for, right? Helping each other."

He lets her walk into the guest room, which -- for the next month or so, at least -- will be her room.  For his part, he remains at the door, shoulder to the jamb.  She'll find the sheets clean, the bed soft.  She's not the very first guest to sleep there, but this wing of the house must have been remodeled fairly recently.  There's still a new smell to the furniture; a new gleam to the faucets in the bathrooms.  She'll find thick towels in there, and a whole drawerful of toothpaste and new toothbrushes.  It's not quite a luxury hotel room, but -- it's clear Calden is prepared for visitors and passer-throughs.

He takes the empty glass from her.  Celduin, she says.  The River Running.  "We're the Whites," he says.  There's an echo of ritual here, just as her request of water -- and his fulfillment of it -- was a dim shade of ritual in and of itself.  "The Tribe Mac Faoitigh, we were.  We're glad to have Celduin under our roof.  Let me know if you need anything.

"And yeah," he appends, a smiling afterthought.  "Almost always."
Tamsin Hall[And lo, there did come a day when Damon and Jess actually finished a scene in one sitting.]