One of the nice things about the Caern of Lost Sight was the bawn -- the sacred space around the source itself -- abutted against the back of an ancient pub. The Skirrid Mountain Inn
had been put up hundreds of years ago by a few enterprising Fianna, and it'd been run by the same families ever since.
The crowd alternates, night by night -- most Fridays are full of tourists and musicians. Saturdays are a mixed crowd, but by Sunday it's all locals again, humans with the stones to make it their local, kinfolk and of course most members of the sept. Even Wednesday and Thursday, there's plenty of locals about, drawn in by a couple of specials and some live music.
But Mondays, Tuesdays, the locals know enough to stay away. Even the drunks find an excuse to drink at home. The Garou socialize those days, and they're free to talk as they like. There are all sorts of little added security added those days -- mirrors are covered, even the glasses are frosted. The shutters are closed.
This Tuesday was just like any other, to start. There was a small group of elders in one corner, shooing off anyone who got too close and talking in low voices. Tables had been pushed out of the way away from the bar, and a group of cubs -- none older than sixteen -- had a little music turned up and were sitting on the floor, playing cards and occasionally getting into fights. In between, garou were socializing, gossip was being passed, all the rest. ANd Lyssa... Lyssa was?