"I was hoping to run across you, of all the knife-moons, Ritemaster."

At the Rock Outcropping
The rocky wall of the caern flattens out here, a more stable and solid area than around the steam vents or even the caern's center. A small outcropping juts out slightly over the caern, forming a natural dais from which to address the gathered. The stone bears chips and faint stains from past abuses that can't quite be rectified. Scrub grass and mosses eke out an frail existence on this otherwise inhospitable terrain.
The forest surrounding the caern's border is far less dense than the rest of the nearby forest. Scattered, centuries-old oaks stand majestically over their fallen, decaying, moss-covered comrades. This peculiarity seems to surround only the area just outside the caern.
The caern circles away from the walls east, towards the swirling area, and south, towards the steam vents; the center is southeast of here. A dangerously slippery, muddy trail winds up towards the rim of the caern from here. One false step could result in tragedy.

Once or twice over the last day and a half, on the bawn, one who knows how to interpret the howling of a wolf may have heard a relatively soft and almost diffident call letting it be known that a theurge is sought. It sounds again now, from near the caern itself, and the voice is the voice of Power-in-the-Darkness.

Well, he's not a Theurge, he's a Godi - but people make that mistake all the time. Ahem. Right. Whatever the case might be, though, Gunnar moves into the area with that force of a proverbial juggernaught; strong, steady, and undaunted. It may very well seem that the crescent moon will rather joyfully walk over, or through, anything that happens to get in his way along that path until, finally, coming to the edge of the outcropping area, he grinds to something of a halt. Rolling his head lightly to one side, then the other, with a sharp snap of vertebrae, he hoods his eyes just a touch before trailing that focus down, then along the near edge of the horizonline.

First, the basics. He stands at perhaps six and a quarter feet in height, with proportionately long limbs and a chisled, athletic build. Ash-blond hair falls in a single arrow-straight mass to the middle of his back, bound only by a seperated pair of thin, chest-length braids at each temple - these last capped off at their very ends with narrow metal sheathes. This mane frames, and in a small degree sweeps over, a well formed face posessive of high cheekbones, a strong jaw and narrow nose: Scandanavian, if ever there was an epitome of it, a fact which is even more clearly upheld by the slightly almond shaped, steel grey eyes. The features - though those of a man in his late teens - are weathered and well tanned, but their inherent attractiveness is marred by number of small scars here and there: across the brow, down one cheek, and along the chin amongst others.
His clothing is sturdy, but well worn. Unremarkable faded blue jeans are tucked into the tops of metal plated black leather boots, while a white t-shirt is occasionally visible beneath the green army field jacket, this last's pockets visibly bulging, either through current or previous periods of long occupation. Finally, a black leather thong hung around his neck disappears beneath said t-shirt.
His carriage is steady - not so much elegant as economic, as is every other function of his movements. Further, when he speaks the voice carries in a deep tenor-baritone, and gives final truth to the nationality by way of a rather prominant accent; perhaps Danish or Norwegian.

The pale brown wolf who gave the recent howl has no difficulty in hearing the approach of Gunnar, given the general absence of subtlety in his progress today. Indeed, when the Get rolls his neck and the crack of vertebrae moving against each other sounds, Power-Up gives a little sympathetic twitch as though he imagines Gunnar's neck must be painful. Then he shifts, up through the forms, until he appears as human as Gunnar does, and nods his head politely. "I was hoping to run across you, of all the knife-moons, Ritemaster," he greets.

It's stress. Really. Either that or he just needs a better mattress. Who's really to say? Ahem. Right. Whatever the case might be, the large portion of Gunnar's form stills, though his gaze slips to focus more fully on you once you step forwards; coalescing in what might well seem to be an incremental manner, step by step until the entire weight of focus levels off on you. Nostrils flaring for just a moment in something akin to a sniff, he responds to the greeting with a singular nod, followed by a low, ground-out voice. "What is it that you wish." Straight, to the point.

"I wish, Ritemaster," Kevin responds, as directly as Gunnar, "to know of a crescent-moon who knows the Rite of the Totem. Or any auspice," he qualifies that, "but crescent-moon is, I understand, the most common to know it."

"Mn." Squaring his shoulders there, slightly, Gunnar reaches up to brush a few of the more errant locks of hair from his brow, tucking the strands behind one ear as he continues. "For what purpose do you need this thing; I had thought you to be already packed."

"The pack I was a member of has disbanded, and your tribemate Dillen intends to form a new one, without me," Kevin replies, truthfully enough and with an air of regret. "You appear to be... a little out of the loop, Gunnar-yuf," he goes on rather tentatively.

"I have stopped concerning myself with such things." Gunnar replies, rather simply. If anything the Theurge is just getting to be a bit more... Theurgy. But that's probably to be expected. He says nothing more on that topic, however, but rather continues in a steady enough tone "If you wish one know knows this Rite, you have found him. Have you selected those with which you will pack, and what form shall this pack take?"

"There is myself, and one other. We intend to invite more," Kevin explains. "It will be a pack of healing -- healing the wounds of Gaia, and of all those who need respite and deserve it. It is our intention to complete the foundation of the pack before we go forth to attack the evil at the heart of the tire fire," he says with a determined air, "so that our chances of destroying it may be greater, and our chances of returning unscathed also."

"A noble enough cause, though you will need several more - or, at the very least, a few strongly favored by the spirits if you wish to make this effective." He pauses, seeming to slink into thought for some breaths, then nods once again - fractionally. "I will perform the rite when you have who you wish to be involved."

"That is all I ask of you," Kevin assureds the big Get. "Now that I know you'll do it, I can move my focus to speaking with the unpacked, or at least those of them who would be suitable for a pack like this. Have you any experience," he asks curiously, "of the Pegasus or Unicorn spirits?"

"Pegasus and I are not on speaking terms." he talks about the spirit - the entire group of them, in fact - as if they were actual people. "I have dealt with Unicorn before, but as would be obvious; our paths do not cross often."

"You still likely know them better than I do," Kevin points out. "My dealings with spirits have been very limited, apart from Snaekolfr, of course. Thank you for your time and help," he concludes crisply. "Will it be necessary for me to obtain any special items or substances for the rite or for the spirit?"

"When the time grows closer, and we have more of an idea as to which spirit you may attract the attention of, I will determine what it is you may need to provide to appease it." Gunnar replies as he shifts back to full height. "I am easily found here, should you need me."

"I'll find you," Kevin vows, and with that and with a cheerful wave of his hand he goes striding off, his long legs taking big paces down the muddy path to the forest. The encounter seems to have given him some kind of injection of new energy.