Lake Smithville Woods

Remember waiting for the simple text pages of the chats to load back in the day? Boy, that sucked. Let's hope it doesn't come to pass again since I can't exactly pay ISPs to be in a 'fast lane.' Visit to make your voice heard and try to save Net Neutrality!

Vast expanse of lakefront property fringed by woods. One can expect to see the shore abound with fun and frolic as any lake would... only this fun and frolic is done exclusively at night. The Garou are lords of this land, others should tread carefully.

There are 0 people here The most recent statement was made about 18 hours ago.

: The misfits stumble and lurch past other teens, watching them bond in social groups, grooming each other, sharing food and drink, practicing mating rituals. Although some of the males posture and flex, there's an awareness that these are not peers to be bullied; despite their greater numbers, they know the others are a danger on some level. The bonded teens gather their things and, in a display of bravado, saunter off, keeping the females in the center of the group. They are allowed to depart.

: The group continues on in a meandering course. There, in the gloaming, an old man sits feeding sky-rats; pigeons. One greasy, swollen-gut thug grunts, and the other fade away into the landscaping as the dark gathers.

: As the shadows grow, the bushes shift and rattle. The old man, out of popcorn, rises and begins to totter towards the trail and his home. The greasy, swollen-gut thug grins a rotted smile and steps into his path. "Hey, old man."

: "I ... I don't have any money." The elderly fellow protests softly.

: "S'ok, I don't want your money. You're invited to our party, Max. We're having a Wild Rumpus tonight, and you're the guest of honor...." Grunts and growling come from the edges of the trail, and shadows rise tall. Misshapen dark shapes, glimses of horn, scale, tooth, and tail; impossible outlines against the woods in the moonlight. The old man looks nervously from side to side, and the popcorn bag falls from his trembling fingers

: "That's right." The thug's voice has lowered, roughened, like a monster's. "Be very afraid.

: *******************************************

: [Claims 1191 hours of nothing] A fellow slightly larger that five and a half frame, seeming to be in his mid-twenties with a clean t-shirt, threadbare jeans with some minor rips and a pair of worn hiking boots and a clean shaven face with fair skin; his red hair is pulled back into a tail ((usual for picks of Steven Segal)) and has the scent of 'Irish Springs' on him. His pack is properly on his back and bound to it is his instrument case ((dulcimer, if one knows)). He walks the Woods, looking about and seems to sniff something on the wind. With a wrinkling brow her follows it.

: *******************************************

William Clancy: He drives up on the Spyder F3, glad that the evening has most of the folks heading home on this Sunday night. Will cares not on why they left, to the point there is no reading his face on as he maneuvers it onto the off-road path that follows many of the trails.

William Clancy: He stops, leaving his ride running as he gets off it and walks over to a trail-head area. After kneeling and looking about some. "Someone Wyrd here, Lloyd, and I think it might've something to do with one of the clippings," he says as he glances back at his trike.

William Clancy: "The Fledgling Knight might not like that," as he goes back to the Trike, and it seems to reeve as he sits. "I know, though it was either a Wyrd or they ravaged him there. I'd almost bet a tooth on either of." He sighs as he guns the trike and does something a Spyder shouldn't be able to do, a tail spin to quickly turn around and head back down the trail.

William Clancy: He gets the trike back to the main road, and heads back to the city [Safe Journeys, Listening to the "Raiders March" by John Williams]

: **********{posts were after about 315 hours of nothing}**********

: While Nostalgia is great, for an active Werewolf (and other WoD crossover) game, check out

David Fionndamh: He walks the paths humming as his slightly larger that five and a half frame seeming more energetic than his mid-twenties age would suggest with a clean t-shirt, threadbare shorts with some minor rips and a pair of worn hiking boots. His face is clean shaven with fair skin, his usually unruly red hair is pulled back into a tail ((usual for picks of Steven Segal)) and has the scent of 'Irish Springs' on him. His instrument case is slung over his shoulder next to his pack he travels with.

David Fionndamh: He pauses on the trail, thinking he feels something before moving carefully in the twilight into the bush.

David Fionndamh: He disappears into the brush, with only an occasional rustling of the leaves. ((Gone for now))

Thomas Crowe: *having walked a good hour or so he finds a nice little meadow over looking the lake*

Thomas Crowe: *begins collecting wood and branches and fashioning a lean-to. Next he cuts some grooves to make a spear. Kicking his boots off and peeling off his shirt. He wades in and begins attempting to spear some sunfish*

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