Log edited with Logedit 2.6.6pl on Wed Aug 26 14:49:08 EDT 1998

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The hazy gentle fog of sleep finally takes it's toll on the pack after they return to the snug shelter on Arthur Island. It's an easy sleep, even for those who haven't been sleeping well, passing from the "tired" stage directly into a deep, heavily dream encouraging sleep. Like a movie theater darkening, you can perceive a lessening of light in your "visual" field in this dream, and slowly but surely you realize, as the light drops to near darkness that each one of you is in a non-descript solitary room -- the walls made of rough unfinished granite and with a cold, bitter wind screaming at the opening of the tunnel which provides the dim soft grey illumination. Strangely, you're not alone in this dream... your packmates are here too. And they *seem* to be... awake.

Cassandra stands up quietly, running her fingers through her tangled mop of curls, and looks around. The sound of the wind alone is enough to make her shiver convulsively as she stirs.

Patrick looks around, blinking a few times, gaze ending on the tunnel opening. "Andrea ... you know anything about this?" he asks cautiously.

It's freezing inside of the cave, and there is absolutely no protection from the elements. Swirls of wind deliver in flakes of snow from outside the cave wall. There is the strangely discordant music of wolves howling in the far off distance.

Touch Deer peers at the opening, shivering despite his habit of appearing unaffected by cold weather.

Andrea looks around with a thoughtful frown, rubbing her arms. Snow catches in her dark hair and melts there. Her breath plumes white as she speaks. "It looks a little like the room in the mountain." The sound of wolves catches her attention and she turns toward the opening.

Touch Deer flashes his alpha a questioning look at the mention of 'the room in the mountain,' and then returns his gaze to the opening. "I Touch Deer says "I'll take a look outside?"

Patrick cautions, "Just a sec. Let us check out what we can from in here first."

Cassandra shifts down to a form more suited to harsh weather, then shakes out from nose to tail and pads a couple steps away from the group. This one thinks we should probably stay together. One could get oneself lost forever in such a storm. Cassandra contorts and blurs as she is transformed.

Touch Deer moves back and sweeps his eyes over the room, teeth starting to chatter.

Patrick glancess over at Andrea. "Sniffin' anything odd? I'm not picking up any magic yet."

Touch Deer shakes his head, not having spotted anything of interest with his eyes.

Andrea's eyes lightly unfocus as she looks around the cave. "Wendigo spirits, and spirits of cold and ice. No taint, though. Nothing troubling."

Touch Deer's eyes peer back out the tunnel. "Wendigo. I think we are meant to go outside..."

Mark-Of-Thorns sneezes and pads in the direction of the door. It smells like a wolf den...abandoned?

A few more flurries of snow slip into through the cave opening and travels down the short tunnel to the pack. There are more sounds of howling outside -- wolves mixed in with the cry of a Wendigo spirit. The latter sounds relatively close.

Touch Deer swallows at the animalistic cry of his Totem. "We'd best be careful. Wendigo is not kind."

Patrick shifts down and starts towards the door. Come on, folks. Might as well see if we can find out what is happening.

Touch Deer follows, not shifting. He's warmer in homid with his clothes than he would be in lupus, since that form only has patches of fur in between the scarring.

Mark-Of-Thorns turns her muzzle towards Andrea and waits for the Theurge before following Patrick as well.

Andrea, on the other hand, shifts to follow Patrick. The yellow wolf scents again, looking around, before moving out. She says worriedly, Where is Midnight? We fell asleep together.

Quiet sends through the pack link: Soren?

There's no reply to Quiet's query, even if she waits for several minutes.

Touch Deer hugs himself with his arms, looking about, also worried. "Maybe he is outside?"

Quiet doesn't pause to wait on answer through the link, but her tail begins to twitch with tension as the time goes on without answer. She follows Patrick.

Whitestreak is the first through the door and the weather outside seems to almost consume him, small white flakes pushed fiercely by the razor sharp winds... He is lost from view. And in indeed, as each member of Ouroboros heads outside of the confines of the cave, they take perhaps four steps and then have the sensation of falling, like a snow flake, lazily and gently towards the ground -- almost as if they had fallen off a cliff in perpetual slow motion. The scene fades to black with an agonizing slowness, and though you can feel the weather chilling your very bones ... things *feel* different. When the picture opens back into view, you're in the middle of a snow lined muddy street. And even though you're in lupus (mostly) people don't seem to notice -- going about thier business. Scanning, quickly you discover you seem to be in...

Saint Claire 1876:

The sights and sounds of Saint Claire one hundred and twenty years ago is a vastly different picture than what one thinks of today. Metal and glass skyscrapers are gone, the cars, bustle and noises of a city of nearly a one million people have been reduced to a small mining depot, a jumping off point for hardy prospectors that mine the Blue Mountains east of the city. The streets names are familiar: Silver, Beaugregory, the river front, but the sights, and sounds, and yes, even the smells are drastically different. The central main street of Saint Claire is lined with boom town constructed wooden buildings, hastily erected after a historically minor silver rush in 1874. Even now the buildings have lost some of their luster: the paint is faded and cracked, the boards are weathered and broken in. Even St. Claire's ritziest "gaming" parlor has lost some of it's splendor: the faux gold giltwork looking well-worn and brassy, and cheap. The sounds of the city are different too. Stages bustle in on a regular schedule from the nearest train depot in Yakima, the distinctive jingle of the livery and bridles clanging against the lacquered wood of the hansom carriages and the creak of the rudimentary suspension springs underneath which look to afford small comfort to the carriage occupants. There's the sound of an out of key piano in the distance, accompanied by much rousing laughter, boasting and talking.

And the smells... the smells are perhaps the most distinctly out of place: sweat, and dust, mix with the pungent smell of work animals being labored.

Yes. This is a very different city than the place you all know.

Mark-Of-Thorns lifts her nose, then puts it down to the ground again, sniffing cautiously. That black nose lifts again, and turns from side to side, seeking out a place with shadows that might be suitable for shifting unseen.

Soren says "When are we?" says Soren suddenly from the midst of the pack, one moment he is absent, the next there in full form, his presence strong through the link."

Touch Deer blinks and jumps slightly. "Soren..."

Quiet's dark eyes are wide. She glances toward Soren with relief, but looks with Cass for somewhere to shift rather than answer right away.

Mark-Of-Thorns's fur stands on end, her search momentarily distracted as the Get sends her jumping nearly out of her skin. Yah! Don't scare me like that, she growls softly, resuming her search.

Patrick looks around, looking for a place to shift for a moment, then the lack of observation by passersby sinks in. Instead of shifting yet, he stops and listens carefully, glancing once to Soren, but not really in surprise--in dream-logic, his appearance makes as much sense as anything else.

Touch Deer says softly, "We aren't here, or we are unseen by everyone, I think."

There are plenty of places to shift out of the middle of the street. Buildings line the muddied road on either side, period clad winter clothes are all in vogue judging by the dress of the people moving along the raise wooden sidewalks.

Soren doesn't sem especially bothered by the reactions or the sudden appearance. "America's Wild West it seems," he says as he watches a pair of miners walk by. "Why are we here?"

Mark-Of-Thorns quickly borrows the remnants of a nearby abandoned building, avoiding people casually. She reappears a few minutes later in her birth form, looking much more comfortable on two legs.

Habits die hard, apparently, because Quiet still moves into the shadows before instantly returning to her birth form. She then moves back to rejoin her pack and shakes her head at Soren. "The Wendigo spirits I understood, but not this pass in time."

Patrick has as little knowledge as you have.

Touch Deer wrinkles his nose now and then. "Wendigo brought us here...I think." He glances at Andrea as if for confirmation from the elder Theurge. "To see something. This is like my Vision Quest I took when I was a cub."

Andrea glances toward the other theurge. "This is the first time I've had a vision take more than one person, outside a rite." Her smile flashes, briefly. "Unless all of you are in my mind."

"A shared dreaming," says Soren, stating the obvious. "For the pack." He walks a bit apart from the others, pausing to look into a building at random.

Patrick seems to be less than excited at the prospect of undergoing yet another Rite of Passage. We /are/ here for a purpose. Probably.

Touch Deer seems to be growing more anxious as time passes, much the same way he acts inside the Scab. "Or maybe Jade has something to show us?"

Cassandra wanders over to rejoin the pack, conveniently sidestepping a stray cat that runs across the street to avoid getting squashed by the carriages that roll by. "Somebody does, anyway." Her lips twist. "Welcome back, Touch Deer."

A large group of men seem to be coming into town from the far end of main street, as far as you can tell... Most of them look Irish or Chinese. The foremen are easy to spot -- they're well dressed and don't look as soiled. There are perhaps 20 men in all and they disperse semi-randomly as they hit the city limits. Three burly looking Irishmen (easy to tell from thier accents) pass you by, but fail to notice they've walked past you. They're chatting idly amongst themselves. "I can't believe it, that's the fourth time in four days that the new rails have been torn and undone. We're never going to get this railroad done on time. I heard old man Bartholomew is coming down from Seattle." one of them says in a thick brogue. "It's like a story my uncle told me once back home." The others smack this man on the arm good naturedly and shake thier heads. "You're full of shite," they tell him. "Let's get something to warm our bones." They trail off down the street, silently and step into one of the nearby saloons. A near garishly colored sign titles this bar "The Rialto."

Touch Deer watches the men pass by, listening intently.

Several Chinese also pass the pack, but they're speaking (predictably) in Chinese. They look very frightened and excited though.

Andrea watches the men go, then glances at Patrick. "Torn rails? Sounds like the tactics we planned when the railway was coming to the fairground."

Touch Deer nods with Andrea. "Probably Wendigo..."

Cassandra is mostly quiet, shoving her hands in her pockets and looking around with interest. "Don't sound like such a bad thing t'me. Mebbe we oughta check it out."

Soren returns from his brief peek into one of the buildings. "Or Get ... or Fianna," he adds to what Touch Deer has said. "By the looks of things, we're seeing this city sometime before the turn of the century. No cars. Anyone know he history of this area?"

Touch Deer shakes his head slowly back and forth.

Patrick snorts. Not that much of a history to know. But I think checking out these tracks sounds like a good idea. Perhaps done by Wendigo?

Touch Deer nods with everyone's comments and looks in the direction the men came walking from.

A stage driver pulls a stage to a stop right beside the pack. The climate here is definitely winterish. The stage driver locks the stage by throwing a wooden lever, and then stands up, announcing, "Saint Claire. All passengers for Saint Claire, we're collecting your luggage." The hardy looking weathered man hops nimbly down off the driver seat, while his companion scrambles to the top of the stage and starts to throw down parcels to the driver. He opens the door to the stage ... and an elegantly dressed woman steps out of the stage. She's wearing an ornate Victorian silk dress in lemon yellow with a mink fur shawl and muff. She has a refined voice and a pretty smile. "Ms. Bartholomew," the driver addresses her. "Please deliver my luggage to my hotel," she replies. The driver pulls his cap off (Union army Civil war vintage). "Yes ma'am."

Andrea shakes her head. "Only the Garou history. Back in time, the Wendigo were more or less alone at the Wh..." The calling of the town name grabs her attention and she moves a step or two aside from the stage, her eyes resting on the passengers.

Soren shoots a glance over at Andrea and then at the others. "St. Claire?" The Get frowns and joins Andrea.

Touch Deer watches and keeps quiet.

Cassandra steps out of the way as well, automatically.

The woman, Miss Bartholomew, has a darkly beautiful, but still radiantly young looking face and she walks with an air of authority like she or someone close to her controls this city and it's people. Haughty, aloof, are the feelings you can sense from her. The driver assists her to the raised wooden sidewalk putting his coat over the mud and filth that stands between her and this goal.

Touch Deer rolls his eyes.

Patrick glances over at Andrea. Anything odd, beyond the minor point that we're in another time?

Andrea glances at the Uktena, nodding at his request. After a momentary unfocus, she says, "Nothing. Not even from her." She glances at Cassandra, at that. "Is she human?"

Another group of men, railroad foremen, perhaps, pass the group. "We're going to have to send out hunters to kill off them wolves. The men are antsy enough without those critters howling and raising ruckus all night long. It's gotten so good Christian men can't sleep a whole night through." One of the others consults his pocket watch and then nudges the other men and points to the Rialto bar. "I think it's about time I saw me some hostesses." The men all laugh, one of them a bit leeringly.

One corner of Cassandra's mouth quirks up as she crosses her arms, her gaze sharpening on the woman. After a moment, she nods. "Far as I can tell."

Soren turns to watche the group of men walk into the Rialto. "Two clues in the riddle of this dreaming..."

The woman heaves a weary sigh and makes her way down the street, her dress distinctive in its bright gaity, constrasting acutely to the other ladies more... proletarian dress.

Andrea's eyes follow the foremen, then she turns to nod as Cassandra. She watches the woman walk away as she asks opinion from her pack. "Three paths. Follow her, go into the Rialto, or go find the rails. And probably the wolves from there."

Touch Deer looks about now and then, keeping an eye out for things.

The sound of Stephen Foster on an out of tune piano floats out from the double doors of the Rialto saloon, followed by a pair of Chinese who have been thrown into the street by a tall man with a wide handle bar mustache. "Your kind don't belong in here," he says, giving on a swift kick in the behind. "This ain't no place for Chinamen. Git out and stay out."

Whitestreak votes for following the fox.

"She's the catalyst," suggests Soren with a nod toward Patrick.

Even in her rather acidic state of mind, Cassandra manages to laugh at that. "I told you, it's because you ain't gettin' any, man. I'm all fer the Rialto, m'self."

Andrea considers the opinions of the pack, then decides. "Follow her. If we don't find anything quickly, then return to the Rialto."

Even though one of the pack is still in lupus, and the others are dressed in obviously non-period clothing no one bats an eyelash. It's like no one is bothered by this, or no one can see. Behind you, the driver is still unloading parcels and baggage from the stage, while his companion has sent a runner to the livery to get fresh horses for the wagon team. Bartholomew has stepped inside of the Grande Hotel, which is just a few storefronts down the street. (more)

The Grande Hotel is easily the largest building on the main street here. It's three stories tall, which is a minor feat of frontier engineering prowess, considering the ramshackle appearance of some of the other buildings nearby. There are a set of wide double doors, partly paned with expensive looking etched glass, a fluer de lis emblem on the front of the doors. Stepping into the reception area, you are greeting with immediate and comforting warm from the blazing Italian marble fireplace. An old-time mahogony reception desk is set behind the counter/registration desk and there are the traditional mail slots for each room. A brass spitoon is within an easy spit of the more... bucolic patrons reach, and there is an expensive looking walnut table with several deep piled arm chairs with a green marbled ashtray on the table, the butts of a few cigars still resting in it.

A wide plush red carpeted split level staircase leads to the second floor, and from the second floor landing, once can proceed to the top floor, or investigate the second floor. There is a single cream colored porcelin vase with surprisingly fresh looking flowers in it at the top of the second floor landing.

Cassandra steps in and immediately to one side, eyes scanning the immediately visible part off he room for any sign of the lady. She seems intent now, her humor gone.

Bartholomew is not in the lobby area. There is a friendly looking gentleman in a three piece pinstriped wool suit behind the desk. He seems to notice the pack, but doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. "Help you young folks with anything?" He grins at Cassandra and then glances at Whitestreak. "I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to keep your dog outside, miss."

Touch Deer keeps close to everyone, looking about himself in abject wonder and puzzlement. He looks sharply over to the man behind the counter, and then back at his pack.

Cassandra grins at the request, not batting an eyelash herself; in the dreamworld, this makes as much sense as anything else. She whistles and points to Whitestreak. "Out, boy," she calls, then looks over at Andrea outside the door. "Ah hell. Why'm I botherin'? Andrea, you tell 'im. He's yers anyway."

The man returns Touch Deer's gaze evenly, frowning faintly, before he nods to Cassandra. "Thanks kindly, miss. I do appreciate it. Well, then. Will you all be needing rooms for tonight?"

Andrea blinks twice, a heartbeat going by before she smiles warmly at the man. "Yes, I saw someone outside I thought I knew. Did you just have a lady check into a room here?" She glances toward Cassandra and her smile gains an apologetic air, moving toward the 'dog' and motioning him out with one hand.

Cassandra sends over the pack link, with a hint of humor, "Yer ballgame, hon. I'll just put my foot in my mouth. Sorry, Patrick. Go find yerself a place t'shift, dog." That last is said with more than a hint of humor.

The man inhales a sharp breath and then smiles, almost apologetically towards Andrea. "No, miss," he replies. "Are you friends of Mrs. Bartholomew? She doesn't seem to have many callers." He glances, looking nervous, towards the second floor and the vase of flowers, before he grins, still nervous back at the Gaian elder.

Soren simply stands at Andrea's side, satchel over one shoulder, and a one-eyed gaze looking about the room,

Whitestreak snorts and whines at Andrea for a moment, then pads slowly back out.

Touch Deer assumes a stance on Andrea's other side, eyes no long sweeping the area in obvious amazement but simply looking around, like a 'normal' person.

"Injuns," the man grunts distastefully under his breath, as he glances at Touch Deer again. He still wears a charitable smile for Andrea though.

Touch Deer obviously didn't hear that comment. He keeps looking about.

Andrea watches the dog leave, then turns back to the host. Her expression doesn't flicker at his un-PC mutter. She smiles again. "Not as such. I remeber her face, though. I think she was attending a social that I was at some time ago, and we talked briefly. At least, I think it was her. Has she retired to her room?"

The reception clerk gives a nod and points up the stairs. "Two-oh-one," he says. "Just missed her in the lobby."

Andrea smiles in thanks. "Thank you, sir. I'll be seeing to my dog, first."

Whitestreak looks around once her gets out, and ducks into a darkish alley before shifting, just in case the earlier social invisibility as been negated at being noticed by one person.

The man nods again and shuffles off into a door which leads to some kind of office. It's labeled 'private.' "Make yourself at home," he says before the door shuts.

There doesn't appear to be any problems with Patrick's clandestine shifting.

Andrea goes outside, leading the rest of the pack with her. Once outside, she glances around for Whitestreak.

Touch Deer follows and rubs his arms, frowning. "What are we going to say to the woman?"

Soren moves along with his usual curious attention to this and that.

Cassandra follows, with a shrug. "I'm not sayin' shit to her. I'll just put my foot in my mouth if I do. I dunno, is she even gonna notice us?"

You say "Watching her is one thing. Talking to her is something else." The Gaian frowns. "If I had any idea what part she played. But I don't, so I'd be talking blind."

Soren shakes his head. "We know she is connected to those who are running this city. And to the building of the railroad." The one-eyed Get reaches up and wipes away the moisture of his blind eye. "Ask her for employment."

Cassandra leans against the outer wall. "So you think mebbe we oughta hit the Rialto first and...how we know that, Soren?"

Patrick joins the rest of the group and suggests, "Just ask her out to dinner? Another bastion of civilization in the backwoods town that is St. Claire this century?"

Soren looks over at Cassandra. "Those men talked about a Bartholomew running the railroad. And the look of the woman. The way she moves and the way they talk about her."

Andrea frowns. "I get the feeling that five is too many for any of these plans concerning the woman. But I'm loathe to split us up."

[The dream fades at this point.]

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