<strong>New York</strong><br/><br/>Carlos, you do not hear the visitor so much as sense him--there isn't a lot of vehicular traffic around right now, what with the bridges and tunnels mostly choked and gasoline somewhat difficult to come by, so the strangely sudden and quiet arrival of the beat up old vintage Ford pickup truck is a bit of a puzzle.  Judging by the amount of wear and tear on the cab, it's seen a lot of mileage...but an engine worked that hard for that long shouldn't be quite so smooth or purr so gently.  The young man who slides out of the driver's side looks a bit on the rough side as well--that's less of a surprise.  Maybe twenty.  Got a few days' worth of five o'clock shadow built up.  Brown hair.  Freckles.  If not for something in his eyes, you'd probably just assume he's some farmkid who got more than a little lost.  Faded green army surplus jacket, worn jeans, worn work boots.<br/><br/>He approaches only as near as the threshold of the open garage door.<br/><br/>"Mind if I come in," he asks, voice carrying a drawl somewhere north of Texas but west of the Mississippi.  "I'm lookin' for a Carlos Esperanza.  Got a message for him."  He pats the satchel.  "Know where I can find him, please?"<br/><br/><br/><strong>Las Vegas</strong><br/><br/>Jenny, passing through the big black bramble gives you a case of the shivers, but doesn't seem to do anything else.  A little bit of a hike later, you're looking up...and up...and the massive standing stones.  Passing between them gives you another shiver, like a thrum of electricity passing up and down your spine.  It feels good in ways that you probably don't want to talk about in mixed company.<br/><br/>There, looking for all the world as if it has been there all along, you see a battered old pickup truck and a brown haired, freckled young man in worn jeans and an old US Army fatigue jacket leaning against the hood.  Arms crossed.  Eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses.  A medicine bundle dangles around his neck.<br/><br/>"Oh.  He didn't say anything about cocktail waitresses."  Bit of a drawl on him.  He sounds younger than he looks.  "You must be Lady Luck," he grins, and there's a hint of mischief in it.  "We be of one blood, ye and I.  But that ain't why I'm  here.  Got a message for you, I reckon.  Your name Keysworth?"<br/><br/><strong>Los Angeles</strong><br/><br/>"I do not know, Your Worship," the guard admits.  "He does not look like a G-man.  He does not act like a G-man.  He is...too young.  I will bring him to you."<br/><br/>Rising, the former ganger retreats.  A few minutes later, he returns, escorting a young man of mixed Caucasian, Hispanic, and Native American blood--freckles across his broad cheeks, brown hair gone a bit wild, dark eyes that hold mysteries.  Comely enough, but he needs a shave.  His surplus Army jacket does not seem to cause him any discomfort from overheating, but he has unbuttoned the shirt underneath.  Jeans and boots, both well worn and quite broken in, seem to make him a traveler of some sort.<br/><br/>He glances at your throne room, your entourage, and something like amusement seems to hit his eyes.  His bow is just this side of mocking.  When he speaks, his soft drawl requires a bit of attention to fully understand...but however teasing his gesture, his words are sober.<br/><br/>"I trust I am in the presence of the Lady Sophronia?  I bear tidings from the First and Last Man, for your eyes alone."<br/><br/><strong>Silverville</strong><br/><br/>Irina, the Man looks upon your companion without any sign of distress.  He smells...he smells different than other Two-legs.  He smells of ancient sand and heat and parchment and resin dust.  Beside that, it is his eyes that draw your attention.  They seem full of stars.  They do not roam your body, as the eyes of Two-Legs so often do.<br/><br/>"We be of one blood, ye and I," he intones, a protocol that the Pack recognize even though the man-words seem clumsy to them.  "I bear a message for the Den Mother from the hand of the Eldest."