So there apparently was a new pack in Nova Scotia. Well, actually, there were two, but Strelein could not give a rats ass about the newest one. Cave dwellers, how archaic. He had heard that a pack for artists had formed and the redhead had instantly perked his ears to it and mentions of it. It was hard to miss; people were leaving Cours des Miracles to head to Cercatori d'Arte. It was not hard to see why; Cours was a court and Cercatori was a studio. Artistic talent was the focus there rather than the make up of a court here. Regardless, Strel cursed at the timing of all this; people were leaving and Strel was sorely tempted, just because there seemed to be less of a court feeling to the pack now. Oh how tempted he was. But he knew that to leave it would be a slap in the face of Vigilante, and he needed to be sure he could live with the choice. He had to go see what this pack was and how it ran. It was high time too, since it had been around long enough to be established properly. He could call it a scouting mission.

He took with him a peace offering of sorts, a welcoming gift; a bolt of fine fabric, shimmery and silky smooth. There had to be some kind of tailor in that pack that could use it to get started. Strel had no help when he started, but who knew, maybe he would be helping someone else. Maybe. Thankfully, Cercatori was not far from Cours, just a hop over the Ethereal Eclipse and then he would be on the borders. He doubted they had many militaristic aspects at all in the pack of artists. But he was not threatening. He was just here to talk. Really. He really hoped that there was nothing more to this pack and that he would not be tempted away from Cours. He had been there for two years that upcoming summer. How could he leave now, even if it had all changed so much in so short a time?

Pausing at the borders, as he had a habit of doing, Strel just kind of waited. He was never good at this. Once he knew people in a pack, he tended to just waltz right in and just look for them, and explain to a passerby that he was visiting so and so and they would vouch for him and his creditability. But here, he knew no one. Well he knew a couple of people, but he had not been close to them and they were the ones who had left Cours des Miracles of their own will. Maybe a howl? Strelein raised his maw a bit and let out a short call, asking for a leader of sorts to come. He did not mention his motives though. Hopefully that would not make things more difficult. He was not in the mood for a fight or anything of the sort; he would probably lose and lose soundly. But these were artists. Artists did not fight. Well. Unless they were artists in their military tact. Oh god, that would be bad. So bad.

Strel felt like he was waiting a good while, but that was because he was holding the bolt of cloth like the idiot he sometimes happened to be. Tapping his fingers almost impatiently on the roll, the noise muffled by the material, he sent his lavender hued eyes roving his surroundings. A log nearby caught his attention. Brushing off the light dusting of snow, he planted himself on it with a sigh and a light thud,. It creaked and groaned beneath his weight, but did not break or crack into shards of decaying bark, merely letting the snow fall in a lump at the base. Strel flattened the bolt across his lap, resting his elbows in the softness of the cloth. Burying his face in his hands, the redhead wondered what the person coming was like. Well, if someone was coming that was. Oh, god, what would he do if no one came? Then what? Oh, lord, the shame of it all.

Soon, later than he thought though, he heard footsteps in the brush and a figure approach. Wary, Strelein stood with the cloth held at his side, kept up with just the strength of his upper arms applying pressure. He looked like a jacked up idiot come a calling with stolen goods too big for him to bother with. Grumbling slightly, he fumbled with the bolt as he set it down on the log, grimacing as he realized that there was still snow on some parts of the log, like the parts where his rear did not sit. His ass was huge, but not that huge. Looking calm, nonchalant, Strel jammed his hands in his pockets as he watched the Cercetori d'Arte member approach. He wondered which of the leadership deigned to deal with someone not interested in joining.

It was a guy, a huge guy. Like the Russos. Was he related? Nah, he had no lilt. But neither did Mars and mars was a Russo, but he did grow up on the west coast of the continent. Maybe Shawchert was a secret Russo bastard child? Nah, no way. They did not seem like the kind of lot to make a pack based around the arts. They were fishermen, sailors, not artists. Okay, well, Mars had, but he had abandoned Cours for Cercatori. The stranger was looking at him oddly and the redhead gave a nervous look; he did not like tall, big looking strangers looking at him funny. It made him uncomfortable and concerned, namely because he did not know why they would look at him like that. Like he was sizing up Strel.

Swallowing a bit harder than he usually did, Strel nodded his head slightly. "Well, not really help. I just kind of heard of your pack from someone, not sure who," he began, moving toward the side to show the full length of the bolt. "I heard it was a pack of artists and I thought I'd bring a bolt from my private stash for whatever budding tailor was in your pack." The redhead was still a little wary of giving away the valuable stuff, considering he had found this stuff himself, still sealed in some kind of plastic wrap to keep the rot and water out. It had not even been dusty. And now he was giving it away like some kind of paper craft or a cheap common toy. "That and to hear what your pack is all about, really."

Strel gave a thoughtful look to the leader of the pack of artists and art enthusiasts. "Where were you guys when I came to this place?" he said, jokingly. If they had existed at the time, would he have really gone for the pack of artists or for the kingdom akin to Europe's courts? Nah, with artists, he would have been competing with others for his ranks, for his trade, and that just did not sit well at all with him. As much as Strel liked his profession, he did not enjoy competition for clients and then the whole deal with stealing ideas and inspiration.. eh, it was beyond not worth the risk and hazards. His muse could not handle such pitfalls. In Cours des Miracles, at least, no one else was like him, no one was nearly as obnoxious and artistic as him. Well, okay, maybe some where, but no where in the same category as him.

"But any amount is a good start, I think. Every pack starts with just a few people. So long as you push through winter, right?" he countered, trying to shed some light on a gem in the situation. "Besides, if you guys make it through, you'll have a base and then tons of potential. But anyway..," he tapered off, taking the cloth in arm and protruding it to the leader of the artists. It was good silk, it really was. And Strel was losing out by handing an entire bolt of it. Granted, he took a few lengths of it but it would run out so much faster than if he had the entire bolt of it. Whoever got it had better be so damn grateful for it. If the redhead heard otherwise, he would so ignore trespassing tradition and strangle them with the silk.

Strel shook his hand, and looked down into his arms. "No, it's a gift, not a trade. You probably have no real stores of creative material and I thought, considering I've been established for almost two years, I'd help out whoever in your pack can sew or use it." He knew it was being generous and that was why the look on his face was so smug, but he hoped that the other man did not take it as horrible hubris. "Besides, I can always find more and I have my own delightfully large storage of several bolts, among things." But.. he was still curious. "And if anyone needs help with tailoring, you can send them to me, I'll be happy to help, to a point, of course."

Fingering the edge of the cloth, Strel looked straight at Shawchert, eyes looking curiously at him, at the other man's dyed pelt. It was red, much like his. "So, how is your new pack? How is it? Are you all faring well. I know some of our people came your way here. Are they well?" He hoped they were, and they were happy. Some of them had not really belonged in Cours, and if they were better off here, all the power to them.

Strel shrugged a bit, shoulders rolling, usually prone to not visiting others much, not if he knew no one there. "Depends," he began, trying not to sound like he was about to blackmail this guy. "If I don't know anyone, I tend not to visit. But I guess business relationships can work too. I can always meet your people, since I do vaguely know of two of them." He was not familiar with Mars or very well with Orin, but it was no reason he could not just come to check up on them, as a worried old member of their previous home, even if they had not felt they belonged there.

The redhead laughed a bit, nodding along. What pack ever planned to fall apart? It did not sound like something that anyone would want to put in their schedule. But festivities? That fascinated him a little and he focused on it. "Festival? Is that what you're going to do?" Strel was most definitely intrigued. "What are you planning on doing?" From what he could grasp, it was not going to be a private shindig, but a public party bash for the other packs. That was a little troublesome, considering the tensions among certain packs. And others were probably going to be very tense with others. Or was he just over thinking? But plenty of folks would bare fangs at others who were not welcome near them. If they were indeed putting out public events, then he hoped they were prepared for fights.

"By all means, send them my way. I spend most of my time just working on clothes or boozing, so it would be a nice change." But Strel figured that he should have mentioned his private personal life was a good chunk of that, but public relations did not need to know his life love. He nodded at the leader of the artists' pack, glad the man did not consider him a safety breach or a hazard. That was nice. Because it was far from true. "Sure, I should be glad to know what I'm going to invade," he joked lightheartedly. "And I hear a good leader knows what's going on. Last I checked, Vigilante was just that, vigilant."