It is currently 08:16 Pacific Time on Mon Feb 2 2004.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 38 degrees
Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
north at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.70 and steady, and
the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees
Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)
In the Swirling Wind
The rugged walls of the canyon grow narrower to the northeast, forcing the
gusts of winds that it catches to rush down into this small clearing.
Here the breezes meet with the drifting mists off the waterfall's spray,
becoming swirling bits of haze that dance and whirl like merry ghosts.
Occasionally, the canyon's rim pushes swifter air into the caern,
breaking up the dance and sending the mists, scattered, back to their
source.
The old growth forest surrounding the caern has been hewn down out to 150',
leaving only stumps as tombstones for the mighty trees that once
sheltered the caern. The ground has a light covering of grasses and weeds
and wildflowers and occasional sapling trees, but nothing larger than
that.
Swirling in the area is some of the mist sprayed up by the waterfall to the
south. To the west, a rock slab juts out of the ground at an angle. the
caern's center is to the southwest; the rest of the valley extends
northeast, toward the mountains.
By the steam vents, Olga returns the hug just as closely, as much at least as
is possible from her position lying in the rising vents of steam. "Yeah,
it went okay," she says to her, dropping back down to the earth when the
Cub moves back, closing her eyes again. "Damn, was hell, though. I mean,
I'd go through it again, it was, mmm, useful. But it was hell."
The gaunt, starved form of the Wendigo tribe's newest addition picks a careful
path down into the caern. Almost immediately, the breezes that play in
this part of the caern tug and ruffle the Metis' light gray fur.
By the steam vents, Emma grins at her Gnawer friend, and gives a nod, "I am
just glad you are back and safe and sound. I'll give ya a treat Olga, I
won't even complain about anything to you today!" She chuckles and ohs,
an excited look on her face. "Check out the boots and coat. Signe bought
them for me, cool huh?" She does a little half twirl to model them,
spotting the approaching newcomer as she does.
Atcen, having reached the bottom of the trail, lifts her head to stare over at
the pair by the steam vents, her ears cocked forward and her pale blue
eyes intent and cold.
By the steam vents, "They're very nice, Em," Olga says sincerely despite the
fact that she doesn't open her eyes or raise her head or even twitch,
just letting the wet warmth roll over her. "Sit down, eh? Take a load
off. Hear things haven' been goin' too well for people, while I've been
gone. I take a little vacation, everythin' goes right to shit, eh?" Olga
says with a slight smile playing across her face. She wouldn't seem to
have noticed the new Cub.
By the steam vents, Emma doesn't sit just yet, instead watching the sickly wolf
as it watches them. "We got company here Olga." This is mentioned dryly,
before she then takes the Gnawers suggestion and sits down on a dryer
spot of ground. "And yeah, things could be better. Could be worse too I
suppose."
Atcen bares long, yellowish fangs as Emma stares at her, then prowls closer,
moving into the center of the caern. It's a bit of a change from the shy
cringing that the Get cub saw when they first met -- not cocky or
anything, just a little more aggressive.
By the steam vents, Olga snuggles into place, putting both her hands under her
head to provide some comfort against the hard ground. "Yeah?" she
questions Emma, curiously, sniffing futilely a bit in her Homid form,
doubly useless as the steam vents carry any scent which might otherwise
have reached her up and into the sky. "Who's it, eh?" When Emma sits down
Olga reaches out gives her a little pat on the back, and then returns to
trying to nap. "Anybody I need t' worry about?" she mumbles, unworried.
By the steam vents, Emma meets the fang-bared stare of the other then huffs,
"Nah, it left." She stretches her legs out and leans back a little
against a rock, "So tell me about the adventure?"
Atcen, however, certainly has _not_ left; she lowers her head to the level of
jutting shoulderblades and growls.
By the steam vents, Olga heard that at least, and she's finally roused enough
to prop herself up on an arm and peer out through the mists at the source
of the growl. She spends a moment in quiet consideration of the form, and
then demands, "Well, what's the matter, eh? What're y' growling for?" She
turns to look at Emma, and says quietly, "Y' know her?"
By the steam vents, Emma wrinkles her own nose at the growl. "It didn't leave.
No fucking peace and quiet, I swear. Can't I just relax one day and not
have someone snapping at my tail? And no, only saw when they came to drop
it off with us." She sits up a little more too now.
Atcen rears up onto her hind legs, stretching swiftly into the war form -- a
close to nine foot tall version of her starved-looking lupus form,
bipedal and with bigger claws and longer teeth. The pale eyes blaze.
Angry, pale blue eyes blazing, she snarls at Emma. ~I am not an it! I am
the child of winter, I am the spirit that comes when starving men turn
cannibal, I am _Atcen_ of the Wendigo, and I _am not an IT!~
By the steam vents, Emma growls slightly as the Wendigo rises up into her war
form. "Would you rather I call you an it, or a mistake then? Or maybe
just bitch, that's less insulting in at least one of the forms, and
pretty accurate it seems for the others." She stands up then as well,
though keeping her form stilled at homid. "I liked you better the other
day I saw you. Forgive me for starting to think it's bullshit that people
can drop off their problems at this Sept."
By the steam vents, Fat-Ripper's face displays intense displeasure, perhaps
merely from the fact she's now irrevocably woken from her nap. She lets
out a low yawn and shambles up to her feet, and her skin stretches and
sprout fur, her grow out and vicious, and her muscles stretch, and the
woman ends up in her Crinos form. She takes a few steps towards Atcen,
her gait slow, walking along on all fours, staring up at her with hard
eyes. ~You're a Cub?~ she asks her blankly, nose twitching to pick up her
scent.
Atcen flattens her ears, thin shoulders hunching. Her claws twitch the air,
wanting to cut something more than empty space. She eyes Fat-Ripper, then
shies her gaze away from the Gnawer and glares at Emma again. ~Cub of the
Wendigo and NOT an IT.~
By the steam vents, Emma has set her teeth into clenching as she meets the gaze
of the Wendigo cub. "Olga, tell her to knock that shit off, since she
won't likely listen to me. I am tired of putting up with rowdy upstart
little cubs." She huffs. There, happy, she said /her/.
By the steam vents, Fat-Ripper removes her eyes from the Wendigo Cub's when she
drops hers, and glances back to Emma as she answers. The Bone Gnawer
stands on all fours, fast-moving steam making her fun float a little in
the updraft. She snorts once and shakes her head. ~I am Fat-Ripper,~ she
introduces herself to Atcen, looking at her. ~Theurge Cliath of the Bone
Gnawers. It's good to have another warrior at the Sept; but drop out of
that form, Cub. Now.~ Her eyes glare across at her.
You have shifted to Glabro form.
Over six feet tall in the near-man form, Atcen still looks more starved than
brawny; her gaunt body possesses a ropy, whip-thin build, with no fat or
spare flesh. Her thick, straight black hair is boyishly short, roughly
cropped as though with a knife. Large hands and feet, both with long,
thick, pointed fingernails, suggest that she still has more growing to do.
Pointed ears and needle-sharp yellow teeth give the young Glabro a ghoulish,
predatory appearance that's emphasized by her hungry look and the pallor
to her coppery complexion. The unkempt hair is dry and looks like it
would tangle easily if it weren't so short. Underneath thick black lashes
and a craggy brow lurk pale blue eyes, cold as winter.
Atcen's bony form is clothed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of faded blue
jeans. Her feet are bare.
Atcen, her ears still laid flat, shrinks down slowly into the near-man form;
she continues to glare frostily at Emma.
By the steam vents, Emma does not drop her own eyes from the staredown as she
remains jaw-clenched and silent. Her hands ball up into little fists as
she waits for something, (something not her) to give.
By the steam vents, Fat-Ripper lets out a slow, dissatisfied exhalation of
breath, and snorts, giving her head a little shake. ~I guess that'll do,~
she mutters at the Wendigo. She twists her head around to look at Emma,
putting her own face out to block her stare, replacing Atcen's blue eyes
with her own yellow canine ones, glaring at the Cub. ~Fire-Dancer, do
_not_ call Metis `it`. Do _not_. How many times do I have to tell you
that? Have you forgotten I look after one myself? Your words hurt as much
as claws. Grow up. I'm going back to sleep,~ Fat-Ripper declares,
flopping down still in her Crinos form onto the hard ground. ~Oh, and
you, Atcen,~ she murmurs lazily, closing her eyes, ~bare your teeth at a
friend of mine again and I'll throat you.~
Atcen stiffens at the Gnawer's threat, nostrils flaring. With a swift, sudden
abruptness, she turns to go, but in so doing spots the hefty,
forearm-length stick that she left in the caern last evening. With a
swift, abrupt impulse of anger, the Wendigo cub snatches up the broken
branch, whirls around, and hurls it -- she's a lefty, go figure -- in
Emma and Olga's general direction. And then she runs off without
bothering to see their reaction to this display of tantrum.
[...]
Two Eagles Bluff(#3332RJ)
To the northeast, the foothills climb upwards into the steep, snow-capped crags
and mountains. Here, the tall summer grasses bend in sporadic waves as
the wind dances on the bluff. The evergreens and aspens give way to an
open field that lends itself to a panoramic and picturesque view to the
south and east. A small stream wends its way unobtrusively through the
eastern edge of the mountain's crags, the scent and sound of trickling
water clear on the hesitant but almost incessant breeze. Wildflowers
litter the green of the grass, coloring them with touches of violet and
bright oranges, yellows and blues. Tucked in along the sloped wall of the
forested foothills to the northeast is a well-worn section of ground.
Up on the bluff sits a solumn young lad, hair and leggings soaked through and
dripping onto the ground. Before the boy is the firepit, set into a nice
cook fire over which a pot sits, contents releasing steam up into the
chill air. Beside the young wendigo cub are the remains of several
filleted and gutted fish, half wrapped in large banana leaves.
Long black hair, with curling strands crimped like hair that has known braids
for a good portion of their existence, crowns this young teenaged Native
American's high-cheekboned face. The braids appear to be long gone and
instead the whole of the mass is pulled back into a thick pony tail bound
near the scalp and again at the tip with thin handmade twine. Eyes that
are cold, not from lack of emotion, but rather an obvious fear of it. His
expression tends a tone of righteousness; face tilted up slightly and
narrowed eyelids. The youth's body is one that has never experienced
laziness, from either need or desire it has been well worked and is in
prime condition for his age. This lends attractiveness despite the
unpleasant expression he gives to the world around him. Skin well tanned,
though not as dark as most other Natives, his complexion seems almost
hereditary rather then gained from exposure to the sun. Covering his legs
are hand sewn leather pants, of difficult to determine origin, though cow
hide is a definate possibility. His torso is hidden as well by a tunic of
a rough hand-made quality. A lack of shoes reveal large feet that wear
the callouses and dirt of travel for long periods of time over rough
terrain. Aside from that the Wendigo only wears a necklace of thread and
multi-colored beads accenting his skin.
Atcen skulks in from the trail, her ears laid back and her head slunk down
level with her bony shoulders, her whole manner sullen but curious... and
hungry. Stopping some distance away, she stares at the boy and his fish,
her frosted eyes intent.
Michael seems lost in thought, or in the way he sits still, perhaps meditation.
Or as his eyes are closed, it is possible he is just asleep. Soon
however, as the wolf approaches, he opens his eyes and stands from his
place. Just now seeing the visitor he crosses around to stand between the
wolf and his food, hand held out in a gesture meaning 'stop'. "Gray ghost
of the flesh, stay where you are and I will bring you the scraps I can
spare." He leans over and picks up the leaves, fish still inside complete
with the heads and a decent amount of torn flesh on the bones. The young
man starts walking forward, slowly, holding out the meal for the presumed
wild wolf.
Atcen bares yellowish fangs that are rather sharper-looking than that of most
wolves, long, needling flesh-tearers. Her growl is low and raspy, tongue
flicking in and out. Who are you? I am the Spirit of the Cannibals, those
who eat each other in the starvation-winter. I am ~Atcen~, and I am
_hungry_.
Michael seems at first startled by the wolf, taking a full step back at the
opened mouth. But then taking on the glabro form his confidence returns
with the added strength and mass. His voice is a growling grumlbing in
tone now, "You are the... the one Leonard said had come. I didn't quite
believe everything he said. Come, to the fire, you can eat your fair
share as one among our people." His expression remains one of being
unsure, though his head is till held high, eyes seeming to look down at
the other with undecided thought. But he does turn his back as he walks
back to the fire, taking the half-wrapped fish with him.
Atcen makes a disgruntled grumbly noise and skulks forward, shifting up and
into human form as she does so. "Who you?" she demands again, stiffly.
Though she's dressed far too lightly for the weather, she shows no
discomfort... and does not come too close to the fire.
Michael turns as he sits again, placing the fish once more at his side. Closer
now, the visitor who could only before smell the boiling fish can see the
stew made from what appears to be healthy portions of salmon, potatoes,
carrots, and onions. "I am Darkfeather, warrior moon of the Wendigo and
child of the Okanagon. Direct descendant of Claws-Of-the-Bear, hero of
the Forest and Sky." If the name is known to Atcen or not, it is obvious
it is an important one to Darkfeather, the reverence with which that name
is spoken easily apparent.
Atcen squats down on her heels at the very edge of the area that the fire
warms, her lower lip jutted out in a sullen kind of way. "Atcen. Gibbous
of Wendigo." She stares at the stewpot intently.
Michael lifts his chin once more to peek into the pot, his nods. "You look
hungry enough to eat the pot. Foods cooked enough. We can eat. Turning
slightly, though the action seeming largely ungraceful from the glabro
formed boy, he retrieves a stacked set of bowls. Taking two of them and
leaving behind a third he sets one down in his lap as he uses the
handmade carved laddle to fill the bowl. He holds it out in a reverant
fashion, head slightly bowed as he offered the meal to his visitor.
"Enjoy this offering, Cannibal Spirit of the Wendigo." Words spoken, if
observing closely, a grin has formed on the bowed face of the ahroun.
Atcen's too-pale eyes narrow; she stares frowningly at the Ahroun as if
searching him for signs of mockery. She makes a brusque 'hmph' noise as
she accepts the bowl from Michael, and then retreats back a couple of
steps to hunker down again, quickly setting the warm bowl down on the
snowy ground in front of her. She sticks her hands into the snow as well
and gives Michael another frown.
Michael looks back up, quickly forcing the smile down as he does. Filling his
own bowl the smile resurfaces with a short giggling laugh, which sounds
quite strange from a glabro body. Melting down into the human form
Michael holds up a hand, "I don't mean to insult you, Atcen. I just... it
is. The name fits you. And the way you came up to meet me. It is better
for me to laugh, then for me to think you actually possess the savage
hunger of Great Wendigo. No Garou should. His hunger and our rage in one
body would soon find itself using the Wyrm's ways to feed an unending
appetite."
Atcen, having cooled her hands, scoops up some of the snow around her and drops
it into the bowl of stew. "Elder named me it," she tells the other cub
flatly, when he's finished talking; there's a sense that she didn't
listen to most of it, or didn't understand.
Michael stares with a blank expression now, soon giving a quick shake of his
head and a shrug. He returns to attend his stew, watching the other cub
he shrugs once more. Placing the bowl down he turns it as he presses
down, putting it into a little crater that melts around the ceramic. He
seems content to wait for the food to cool, yet remains silent as his
people are during a meal.
Atcen, meanwhile, stares down at her bowl as the snow melts into it and cools
it from warm and piping hot into a more lukewarm temperature. Only then,
despite her obvious hunger, does she pick the bowl up and start eating
again, scooping out morsels of food with her fingers and tipping the bowl
up to drink the broth directly from it.
As the other forcibly cools her meal to an adequate temperature for her to eat
it, the ahroun cub remains almost in study of his bowl. His tiredness
shows however, as eyelids begin to droop slightly, right before he
catches himself and sits up straight suddenly, opening eyes wide. He
grumbles now, and grabs a small handful of snow, packing it tightly and
placing the nugget of packed ice into his bowl. When the steam lessens
enough to stop billowing up from the bowl he sets into it himself, much
in the way of Atcen, fingers finding the pieces of fish and vegetables,
then drinking down the remainder once the solids are gone.
Atcen's bowl is very soon emptied; she even licks out the inside to get every
last bit. That done, she pants a bit, a grayish-pink tongue exposed to
the cold winter air, and pushes her hands back into the snow.
Michael takes a big longer than the ravenous girl across from him to finish his
meal, licking the bowl clean with perhaps a little less gusto. Once
finished he looks again at the pot before him, not a large one nor
particularly small. "Had my fill... was hungrier more than I could eat.
Theres another three or four good bowls of stew in there, if ya want
another. Sunny or Leonard will finish whatever is left behind."
Atcen stares at the stewpot, then warily takes up her bowl and approaches it,
getting far closer to the fire than she would like to, it seems. She
glances sidelong at Michael. "Sunny?"
Michael nods to Atcen's question, turning his head slightly as the galliard
steps up to the stewpot, looking away. "Yeah. Sunny. Bleeding Sun of the
Wendigo. She's kinfolk, never seems to leave us for very long when she
does go. You'll see her soon enough I figure."
Atcen gingerly uses the ladel to get herself another bowlful of stew, her lips
drawn into a tight grimace, pulled away from her teeth. She's sweating
visibly, even from that short amount of time, and retreats as quickly as
she can to her previous place -- setting down her bowl and dropping snow
into it.
Michael seems almost too aware of the oddness of the visitor, his body shifting
uncomfortably as Atcen retrieves her meal. He doesn't comment on it, but
from his constantly shifting eyes and more than occasional sighs
something troubles him. "You..." he finally speaks, "Don't like fire
much?" The question is somewhat guarded.
Atcen, her hands buried in snow, eyeballs him. She nods guardedly. "Hot."
Michael swallows deeply, his discomfort not quite alleviated just yet. "Yeah...
it is." He murmurs, looking back to his empty bowl he takes a wadding of
snow and uses it to scrub and clean out the bowl, leaving it sitting
upside down near the fire when he is done while the other eats. He looks
up to Atcen eventually, eyeing her with an almost exaggerated and
forceful patients that can be read on his face.
Atcen pokes a wary finger into her stew, which is no longer steaming.
Satisfied, she takes up the bowl and begins eating again, just as
ravenously as before. Aware of his attention on her, she watches the
other cub with too-pale blue eyes.
Michael breaks the silence as the other is nearing finishing her food with a
simple question, asked with an anxiety that from what he has said before
seems uncharacteristic of the youth, "What brought you here, Atcen?"
Atcen pauses in the process of licking out her bowl again and stares flatly at
Michael. "Elder ~White Bison~ comes, and me." Her frown deepens. "Mother
is dead."
Michael nods first to the name of the elder, but stiffens quite visibly at the
mentioning of his fallen mother. "I... my mother died too. Right before I
was sent here. Seems to be part of the journey to these mountains. I came
alone though."
Atcen narrows her pale eyes, her stare hardening. "~Brings the Buffalo Home~
_want_ _you_, I think."
The words Atcen speaks seem lost on Michael, he stares for a moment then shakes
his head. "I... don't understand."
Atcen snorts, then reverts to the Mother Tongue, speaking the gutteral words
quickly and fluently, her tone resentful. ~You came alone when your
mother died, but I bet Brings the Buffalo Home wasn't angry when _you_
came.~
Michael shrinks down to the lupine form now, to better speak the tongue. ~You
have not been here long. Brings the Buffalo is /always/ angry.~ His tone
is defensive yet lightly tinged with humor.
Dark brown fur, patched through with lighter pigments marks the heritage of
this young Wendigo cub. Around Darkfeather's peering eyes the fur
brightens, becoming almost a greyish brown like a corona around the sun
seen by squinting eyes. Tail most often seen stuck out behind him,
showing off a kind of anxiety that is common to the young Garou who have
not yet, made it to their Rite of Passage.
Atcen makes a 'hrmph' noise and gets up, bowl in hand, to brave the apparantly
swelteringly uncomfortable heat around the fire in order to get herself a
third helping of stew.
Darkfeather gives a lupine chuckle as Atcen takes a third helping. ~Not good to
have too much at once, even on a hungry stomach.~ He shrugs off the
question as he asks it, obviously not caring about the answer too much.
~But Brings-The-Buffalo. Well, he thought I would be a burden when I came
here. Made an effort to prove my worth, and think I have. This place is
as much a home as where I come from. I think if you prove yourself a
worthy warrior of Gaia, he will accept you.~
Atcen gives Michael a scowl at the warning, then concentrates on the careful,
delicate process of getting hot food without burning herself. She does,
however, only fill the bowl halfway this time. "Three moon," she tells
him as she retreats back to her spot. "Then I ~Rite of Passage~."
Darkfeather licks at his lips, teeth showing for a scowl, the ahroun's rage
almost visibly peaking out from beneath his seemingly near calm demenor.
~I will soon be on my Rite of Passage. Elder has told me of this... but
think now with you here, he will have me wait for us to go through it
together.~
Atcen hunches her shoulders at the show of teeth and scowls back for a moment,
then hunkers down over her snow-cooling bowl of stew and stares into it.
"Not _me_ make this way for you," she mumbles.
Darkfeather continues to stare at the one he has fed for a few tens of seconds.
He then shakes his lupine head, ~I do not know what he plans. Either he
will, or he won't. I am not going to guess... I'm not good at guessing
anything he'll do.~
Darkfeather circles around once, breathing settling into gentleness as he lays
upon the snowy ground. ~I've been hunting for long time now. Need sleep.~
He growls out as his eyes close, ~Please leave some for the others.~ he
gets out quietly as he drifts off to sleep.
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