The Umbral Massachusetts was primal, gleaming forest teeming with spiritual life that was bisected by the web-strands of the Turnpike flowing north, straighter than in real life, and idealized -- the Mass Turnpike wasn't perfect, but it was decently kept. This thing in the Penumbra, was crawling with Weaver spirits that maintained this straight line through the countryside; gentle curves in the real road were more like spider webs here, curved only by a series of closely-spaced angles that created a curve. And, like a spiderweb, the roads branched off. Generations ago, these back streets were weak Weaver presences, but as the cities sprawled out and the suburbs became cities in all but name and height, for they lacked skyscrapers, and small towns which once had an identity and welcoming spirits became the sort of development real estate guys liked to create, gated subdivisions, the small town character of New England was quickly eroding in favor of something more soulless. As a result, mechanistic Weaver-spider things made up of steel rebars and concrete crawled all over the highways, some zipping along at speed -- perhaps those were spiritual imprints of automobiles.

The road was losing its allure, or so it seemed to Nakhti Looks-Twice; the first Strider Elder he met, Shebitku Light-Step, commented that it was no longer the province of adventurers but a thing of everyday life, unremarkable. Mundane. Banal. 

And the Weaver owned this road. Maybe it was different in the less developed world, where people still were born, lived and labored in the same villages. But New England was a place that was unaffordable to the young, the most dynamic of populations, and they sought their lives elsewhere...they moved out on the highway.

While Weaver spirits were not always dangerous, at least if not disturbed, Nakhti wasn't interested in stepping onto the road; he kept his distance; a lean, muscled thing in Crinos, with smooth, short hair and perked up ears. He looked the typical Strider in Crinos, which was how the Elders at the Sept of the River Valley, Children of Gaia, knew him; his pedigree was indelibly stamped upon him in Crinos, whereas in Homid he could pass -- slightly olive skinned, dark haired, but blue eyes from his father.

It'd been a long trek from Cleveland into Western Pennsylvania, through New York, and then up 95, sometimes walking, or running in lupus, or hitchiking. It was a chance to stretch his muscles and get his bearings on the open road, the way old Shebitku Light-Step told him to -- and, as the old Strider said, slyly, be sure to live up to your name.

So Nakhti looked twice, once in the physical world, and then he stepped sideways betimes to see what these places looked like in the Penumbra. He'd been on the road before, with Charlie, with Dad, before the arrest, but he'd never seen it through the eyes of one of Gaia's warriors. He didn't spend all his time in the Penumbra, but he spent a lot of it in this unfamiliar place of strange symbolism, getting familiar with the landmarks and what they meant in the Umbral sense, learning the only way he really knew how -- doing. He had a mentor, briefly, for about six months before he was cut loose and put into the Rite of Passage, Strider Style, and that opened his eyes to what he didn't know. Some Full Moons only wanted to know where they needed to go to kill something, buit Nakhti was a different sort, perhaps it was being a full moon in a tribe known for its crescent moons. He looked beyond the immediate.

He was still sorting out what he saw, particularly on Interstate 95, one of the largest roads in America when he veered off, away from that main artery of Weaver-influence and deeper into the small towns and obscure roads of New England, a place long settled by what the Natives called, "Wyrmbringers." 

And yet, there wasn't too much Wyrm taint in these small towns of a couple thousand people or so. And if there was a lot of the Weaver here and there, it was isolated, of small consequence. And that was how he found Nottingham, New Hampshire.

He was raised in foster homes and generally was deprived as a kid, but he knew that sedate, idyllic little towns like this existed, full of kids playing in lawns and homes built in another time before the 'ticky tacky' of the song that described the post-WWII construction boom, which is really when the Weaver got started. It was curving roads and settled shrubbery and gardens, oak and elm trees in a cool summertime, and verdant parks maintained by the community. 

He was out of the umbra by the time he got to Nottingham, New Hampshire, via Route 152, a state road that was pretty much overshadowed by lush trees; it was a good place, and a scenic route. In the autumn, it must have been even better. Nakhti was a kid of the midwest, and he'd never been up here before, but this place stirred him a bit. Verdant greenery and the occasional house, but New England wasn't farmland or anything like that. It was a piss poor place to raise a crop, but it certainly had trees and meadows.

Then, the spell was broken as a navy blue car with bright blue stripes and white block lettering saying, "POLICE" pulled up alongside him on the road; he had his poncho and hoodie packed away in his backpack, which was some sort of nondescript hiker's pack, rugged and dependable and a gift from a Strider Kinfolk he'd been staying with near Cleveland before he set off; Sarah told him he'd need it, and she'd been right. She also was the widow of another Strider, so she'd known precisely what to pack and give him. She was a lifesaver. 

He wasn't too scruffy, but he had a couple day's stubble on his jaw. He wore jeans and a good pair of boots that were definitely broken in, and a t-shirt that showed off the lean lines of his homid form, along with the sun-kissed skin.

The officer was a beefier, ruddy sort, and he merely rolled down the window, "Anything I can help you with, friend? You look a little lost here." The guy had a thick enough local accent -- they all fucked with their vowels up here, but the guy wasn't getting out to frisk him or going, "What you doin', boah?" like they did in some other parts he'd been to with Shebitku; the old man was dark skinned, of Moorish ancestry, but to people in places like Georgia, black was black, don't know what the fuck a Moor is nohow. He was expecting that sort of rural cop trouble here.

[i]Aw fuck, cops.[/i] He'd grown up in the system after his dad was incarcerated, and his dad was an outlaw that wasn't particularly well disposed toward the cops to begin with, but he forced down his hostility and replied, blandly and politely, "I'm hiking toward Pawtuckaway, have some friends I'm meeting up there, locals." He made a sign that he knew, an off-handed sort of gesture that went with his speech, but he saw the red-haired, ruddy cop's eyes flash knowingly at the signal and quickly returned the counter-signal as he spoke -- he was kinfolk, Fianna.

"Well, then you're headed in the right direction. Just make sure to introduce yourself when you get in, you'll find we're a tight little community here and we take care of our own. Enjoy the weather, friend."

Nakhti grinned a bit at the cop and nodded, "Thanks, I'll make sure on all accounts." [i]Respect the territory of another[/i] so went the Litany, and Nakhti knew it by heart -- what's more, Striders were often welcome guests anywhere because they abided by it. If the cop had told him, as kinfolk, to turn away, he would have left a message and stayed away from the Caern. Being told to head on in was, at least, a good sign. Still, he intended to hold to the correct form on approaching a caern.

He didn't see much besides the odd passerby on the road from there, but about a mile down the road, he was picked up by a fellow in a truck that gave a similar sign and was deposited off a ways from Pawtuckaway; he drove off with a wave while Nakthi stepped into the woodline carefully, ever so carefully, and looked twice, as was his name, before he shifted into Lupus, his possessions were dedicated to him and shifted along, or disappeared entirely, form and gave a howl of introduction for himself; his name, identifying himself as a Silent Strider and the information that he had a message for one of the elders. This particular tradition was strong with every tribe, because territory was no joke, but it was particularly strong with the Striders, who were afflicted with a wanderlust.

It wasn't just wanderlust that brought him here, he knew he was going in the city after his half-sister, and a nearby caern was a good place to get some sort of idea of what was going on. So he'd taken the job of delivering their mail from other parts, which was an easy enough job that guaranteed he'd be invited in to stay for a bit. He didn't think he'd need too long -- Charlie wasn't on the grid, but she was predictable in that he knew what sort of places to inquire after to find her.

So a howl of introduction, it was the traditional way and everything he'd heard about this place was that it was one of those staid, older caerns where the formalities stuck. The nearest locals, luckily, were largely kinfolk and pretended not to notice the wolf howls -- they had practice. Other locals thought the local coyotes were at it again -- no one bothered to tell them differently and they didn't care.