gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG :: Political Acumen (Reply)

With the sun well on its way to setting, the temperature is already beginning to drop from a comfortable seventy degrees to something a bit more tepid. The clouds overhead and a slender moon pave the way for what will undoubtedly be a rather dark night. Perfect for hunting, or for terrorizing nyctophobics.
Sandra is doing neither.
Visible by the firepit, a thin, sensible long coat to complement the usual dress-shirt-and-slacks ensemble laid out on the flat rock she's seated on, she's got her eyes largely on the caern's perpetual flame for the time being. Not so lost in thought that she won't turn to acknowledge sound, but clearly concentrating on something. Or several things. Given everything that's going on, 'several' would be par for the course.

Jamethon comes down into the Caern from the valley entrance, large wooden spear carved with symbols and glyphs dedicated to Chimera in hand as a walking stick. The sound he makes is the rhythmic tapping of the butt of the spear hitting the ground in a steady pace. The large Fenrir's expression is neutral, distant, and perhaps not entirely attentive to the path ahead. This doesn't seem to hinder his well-paced walk into the Caern, however.
Once down in the Caern proper, the Gatekeeper walks purposefully towards the firepit and the woman at its side.

The sound of the tapping earns a glance over the Shadow Lord's shoulder. What she sees, in turn, straightens her posture subtly, though she doesn't stand until Jamethon is well within conversational earshot, and when she does, it's with a respectful incline of her head. "Reflection's Howl-rhya," she affords him. "I hope it's not presumptuous to say that I appreciate you taking the time to meet."

The once-Warder and now-Gatekeeper pauses in his pace and then is somewhat slow to look up and acknowledge the source of the voice. It is similar to watching someone come fully awake after gaining consciousness from a deep sleep.
Once he has reached an attentive state, his lips thin against each other and a moment later he nods and continues forward. Jamethon speaks to the Shadow Lord in an even and calm voice that still has an edge of gravel characteristic to the Fenrir, "Brings-Winter's-Bite, hello. With all that is going on, I must admit curiosity as to the purpose of your invitation."

The slow come-to is met with patience, Sandra's gaze on him to watch the progress, though it's peripheral. As always, she's careful not to meet his eyes directly.
"Understandably," she replies, remaining on her feet for the time being, apparently taking the same tack with seating arrangements as one would with food: to the higher in station go the spoils, and whatnot. "I won't belabor the point with pleasantries, either," she says, "as I'm sure you've other duties to attend to, and for as nice as a casual 'hello, how are you,' can be..." this with a vague gesture between the two of them, as if to acknowledge the sincerity gulf that might inspire. "I wanted to speak to you about Thane's departure-- about his replacement." Beat. "More specifically, I wanted to ask if you had considered putting yourself forward as a candidate."

The Fenrir is listening casually, soon arriving at the side of the firepit and across from Sandra. He nods with quiet thanks at her insistence at getting to the point. When she does, however, a general souring of tone comes over Jamethon's expression.
"The Alpha's departure is unfortunately timed. We are in a battle with our own principles. The new Alpha that does step forward will have to make a decision that will likely plunge us into war or pit us against the Litany." He clears his throat, fist held up to his mouth as he coughs to further clear it. He scrutinizes the Shadow Lord quite intensely then continuing with, "You believe me capable of making this decision and following through with leading the Sept in the conseqeuences of that decision?"

"Your accomplishments speak for themselves," Sandra replies. "You've held no less than two high offices in this sept; you're a trusted figure amongst those who've served here the longest-- and as a renowned Theurge, you have an innate understanding of spiritual matters in a caern whose spiritual landscape is nothing if not unique. This is leaving aside the equally unique threats that it faces." A pause. "Further, you hail from a martial tribe known, even lauded for its capacity to lead during times of war," this stated without rancor or insincerity, regardless of appearances-- or, perhaps, because of them. "To my mind, it's difficult to imagine a better fit for the position, given where we are at this time-- the Nothing on one side, and Spirals on the other."

Jamethon shifts his gaze to the fire as Sandra speaks, his attention remains but there is an undercurrent of thought that goes along with that attention. "You flatter me," he says after a considerable pause, "But are not entirely incorrect."
The Fenrir looks back up to Sandra though suddenly heavy eyes, holding an extra burder that was not there moments before.
"And what would you do, in the Alpha's place?" Now the volume of his voice grows, and his sureness comes along with it. He has the voice of a teacher, looking to offer a lesson, "As you say of mine... your tribe is also known for your strategy and cunning. The Shadow Lords would clearly see themselves be leaders. How would Brings-Winter's-Bite, Alpha of the Sept of the Triquetral Accord, proceed?"

Sandra inclines her head at Jamethon's first statement, in such a way that suggests that it isn't undeserved. As for the question-- she doesn't answer it immediately, instead affording it the thought it's due. Her turn to watch the fire for several long moments, untroubled by the relative silence that falls between them.
Then, after a time, she says, "Shore up defenses, first and foremost. The Hive will undoubtedly know that leadership has changed hands, and become anxious, but there will be a delay in how much they know, and when they know it. It may not be adequate time to put together the forces we need, but the appetite for severing this truce is there, and the demoralizing effect that prolonging it could have isn't worth the risk. As it stands, there isn't a single individual I've spoken to in this sept who wants it to continue."
She raises her eyes to Jamethon, then, though, again, she's careful about eye contact. "That said, it's been pointed out to me more than once that my take on leadership is more-- democratic than most. Even if I'm as much of a proponent of a meritocracy as any." A pause. "As for the Nothing, I'd be forced to leave that in the hands of those who understand it better. The Wyrm and its so-called wolves, I have a firm grasp of. The Nothing, and matters that concern spirits, are well beyond that grasp. So," she continues, at this point adopting an almost dry tone, "assuming I can still serve a practical function as a leader, rather than an advisor or enforcer," the emphasis on practicality appearing to be a key point for her, "I'd turn to my own advisors for which way to step. Rather than just assume the problem would go away if we ignored it for long enough."
The last part may be something of a cheap shot at Thane's expense, but it's not an aside, and it's not spoken under her breath. That she's unimpressed with that approach is readily apparent.

Jamethon crosses his considerable arms over his considerable chest and listens. "I see. You've convinced me." He casts a glance down to the fire and then nods an affirmative to an invisible question.
"I clearly," the Godi speaks with a burdened gravity as he looks up from the flames to the Shadow Lord, "am needed. I do not know if I will succeed, but clearly there is need. We will also have need of a new Gatekeeper, a Master of Challenges, and Master of the Rite." This last bit is spoken with a curious, eyebrow-raised expression given to the Fostern Philodox.

Sandra's own shoulders loosen just a touch at what's said in response; almost like a sign of relief, however subdued. It's brief, however; as, quickly, there comes the look she's given, her brows arching somewhat. A small flash of uncertainty, likely an attempt to be sure she's reading what's been left unsaid correctly, but it fades; there and gone, in a heartbeat.
Carefully, however, she says, "I'd say whomever it is that steps forward to serve in those roles would have a lot to learn from their predecessors. And a strong grasp of their own capabilities; what they can, and can't accomplish." A pause. Then, "I'd also say that, in the case of the latter, a grasp of the spiritual is as much a component of that role as any. A Master of the Rite that's always playing catch-up is no Master at all-- are they?"
Though roundabout, it's far from retiring; more of that blunt honesty, if anything.

The Fenrir grins, but the humor there is somewhat cold and doesn't travel much further than the space just outside of his face.
"Very linear thought too," he intones then adds, "No intention to offend, but to get you to think about what you hear. I referred to the Master of Challenges, Philodox."
Jamethon shrugs and his expression relaxes back to being neutral. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, "I assume you have some ambition toward leadership?"

Sandra opens her mouth-- closes it, and seems to realize - quite belatedly - that she missed something crucial. Wisely, she allows for a faint smile of concession, her eyes turned down towards the ground between them. "Of course," she says, the misunderstanding serving as the one hand-tip towards a case of nerves that she's given.
The question, on that note, sobers her, the smile disappearing. "Not all of us do," she says; again, without rancor, "and I'd count myself among them. Though it may not sound grandiose or even particularly laudable to some, I find I serve best as support for the ambitions of others, either in ensuring that they reach their goals-- or ensuring that they don't, should they be found lacking."
A pause follows; a sentiment that she's toying with in the back of her head for a moment or two. Then, "It isn't lost on me that I may have been expected to serve in this capacity when I arrived," is said gently. "Or that I blinked when I should have been keeping my eyes open." Beat. "All the more reason to make sure that it doesn't happen again."

"I see," Jamethon tilts his head back a bit and looks up at the sky, "Then perhaps, behind the scenes you will be privy to a great many leaders of Garou."

"Perhaps." Sandra considers for a time, turning her gaze first to the fire, then towards the general direction of the sept compound. Then, she says, "Speaking frankly, I would wait," her attention turning to Jamethon again, "before putting another Shadow Lord in a sept office-- or putting my name forward for one," which doesn't discount an interest in Master of the Challenge; quite the opposite. Still: "I know not everyone will cast aspersions on the tribe as a whole for Thane's behaviour, but given the truce with the Hive, the nature of his disappearance, and his unwillingness to discuss a number of questionable decisions with the sept-- it's not the right time for it. Even leaving aside the poor optics, there's something to be said for public fatigue."

"And there it is," the Fenrir says with a small touch of smugness in his voice that doesn't crawl into his expression, "The game play. The well thought out political move." There is no derision in what the Gatekeeper says, but there is a sureness to it. "I wouldn't discount Thane all too quickly. He was, all in all, a servicable leader. We got through some difficult times under his leadership. Though one large mark, and considerable it is, does remain on his record." He shrugs, "I imagine in time he will not be remembered entirely harshly. Assuming we handle what comes next correctly."

Sandra gives a subtle incline of her head at the observation, the beginnings of a conceding smile, and makes all of zero attempts to contradict the impression given. She sobers, however, as Jamethon continues to speak, affording a nod to the point that the former Alpha shouldn't be so easily dismissed, her own expression taking another turn for the contemplative.
Stays that way for a while, another brief silence falling between them before she says, "I hope for his sake that you're correct," in a manner that is-- grave, certainly. Not in a fashion that casts aspersions, but there is a sincere concern couched in there. "Either way, it's fair-- or, at least, safe to say that even the departure itself has dredged up as much resentment as it has honest concern. Leaves for an interesting-- if not volatile atmosphere."

Jamethon nods easily to the last implication and then sighs, "This, in fact, may be Thane's undoing. Leaving like this more than anything else. Mistakes are one thing," he offers turning up one hand from where his arms are crossed. He then turns up the other hand, "It is another to not face those mistakes and correct them."
A brief moment of thought then a slow and deep breath comes from the Fenrir. He asks the Shadow Lord, "Anything else I can do for you other than apparently promise to challenge for a leadership role?" He says this in a slightly humored manner, indicated he is aware of at least some part that the Lord played in him arriving at that decision.

The question, perhaps surprisingly, earns a soft laugh from the Philodox. It's short-lived, but there's a genuine quality to it. "I think that will suffice for now," she says, adopting a subtly dry tone. "But I'll let you know if I think of anything." She sobers, then, and says, "Aside from that, if there's any capacity in which I can be of assistance, please let me know. Talk of political acumen aside--" She pauses; considers her phrasing, then says, "Well. I'll offer what help I can, where I can. And thank you," she amends, "for taking the time to hear me out."

"We shall soon see the wisdom inherent in my doing so," the Adren intones and then nods his head before turning to head out of the Caern. He leaves the direction he arrived from, once again the spear being utilized as a walking stick.

Sandra inclines her head again, this time in more of a deferential fashion than before, even if it is acknowledgement of the sentiment. She doesn't offer any assurances, nor even an additional goodbye, instead following his cues as they've been offered. Rather than take her leave once he departs, however, she seats herself back where she started, and continues to watch the fire.