It is currently 19:00 Pacific Time on Sat Feb 14 2004.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 48 degrees
Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
north at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.94 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 93 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees
Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (40% full).
Around the Lone Boulder
The sparse forest gives way here into a vast clearing, entirely devoid of trees
or heavy underbrush for great distances all around. Low, thick grass, a
palish green in color, grows everywhere underfoot; it sways ever so
gently in the chill winds that seem to settle in across this open expanse
with unusual frequency. The occasional darker shoot or dandelion weed
makes its way up amidst the rest, but the hilly territory is on the whole
a uniform color, reminiscent of a moor. Adding to the image is the
single, ponderous old stone, a grey-brown in color, settled uncannily in
the dead center of the expanse as if it has perched there alone since the
dawn of time. Grass grows up around the weathered boulder, but its
vaguely-flattened top clears the grass by a good many feet, at least
chest-high to a good-sized man. The sky, often grey, is a presence in
this sudden openness, appearing from amidst the treetops to arc high over
the grass and stone.
Woodland tracks lead off into the forest to the north and south, while the
boulder itself stands at the center of the clearing.
Joshua grunts once, nodding approval, or at least agreement with the elder's
sentiment. "Good. Now. I have something for you..." He pulls the notebook
off the top, handing it to the elder. "And I want you to write in it.
What you think. What you feel you know about dying. Death. Being dead.
Keep it to yourself... but use it to collect your thoughts. We can start
building from there."
The corners of Olga's lips turn down, she's confused, and not very happy.
"Wha's this all about, Josh?" she asks him, though the woman does extend
her hand to take the notebook from him, leaning over and almost slipping
off the big orange bag she's sitting on. "I don' think about death. Much.
No expert," she adds after, a little quietly. Olga flips open the book,
to an empty page, past the strange scribblings she can't understand. She
stares at it for a moment, and then her eyes reach up to him. "Pen?" she
requests.
Joshua came prepared, tossing a pencil on over to the elder as he stands up.
"Well, you asked. So this is how I do. Can't exactly tell ya any other
way." Josh responds gruffly. He bends over and picks up the Thermos,
adding. "Ignore the front page. Just a short prayer I wrote." He adds,
straitening out and sipping at the brew.
Salem steps out of the trees and into the clearing, a pale stone dangling from
a string in one hand; the stone swings, tugging noticably toward the two
figures near the lone boulder. He makes a striding beeline toward the
pair, pocketing the stone and string as he does so.
Olga lets the pencil hit against her chest, while she looks dumbly down at the
blank page, and finally lifts it. She taps its end a few times against
the page, and bites down on her lower lip, thinking. A few words are
scribbled out, and then a vicious scratching is heard as she decides she
doesn't like them, and mutilates them with graphite. "Can I have some of
that coffee?" she asks, after a few more moments.
Olga is tall, strong, and pale. Her face is long, her nose protrudes, and her
shoulders are hunched up, making her look a little like a bird trying to
warm itself in the cold. She is better dressed than one might expect from
her poverty: her clothes are trim and well-constructed, and though far
from fashionable, far, also, from tatters. She prefers layers of
clothing, wearing as much as possible short of sweltering. Her fine
blonde hair is always tucked neatly under something, be it a hat or a
cleverly tied 'kerchief. Olga has in fact so managed her wardrobe that
she looks more like one of the faux homeless, a rich kid in dirty boots
and patched jeans, than a real street person; with the difference that
Olga wouldn't be caught dead in dirty boots. She wears a long, stiff,
green army coat, which while presumably quite warm, doesn't suit her in
the least. She's almost always seen with one arm thrust up around a
shoulder, clutching the mouth of her heavy orange bag (look Olga's bag).
Olga is in her early twenties.
Joshua screws on the lid of the Thermos, tossing it over like he did the
pencil. "Nietzsche. You'll believe him and 200 years of thinkers." The
cub responds, as if that was the answer to her question. "But two
thousand years worth of philosophers and thinkers from Saint Paul to
Augustine to John Paul two... you won't buy a word they say. What is it
that makes Steve Bruce so much more believable to you?" The Ahroun
carries on, only dimly aware of the approaching Elder.
"What is this, a philosophy seminar?" Salem's deep, cultured tenor voice
carries easily across the distance -- a voice that, likely, is still not
familiar to Joshua as being his elder's. Though the tone is light, even
amused, he isn't smiling, and his mismatched eyes are cool.
Olga gives a bit of a start at the boom of the voice, eyes darting quickly to
their origin. Her lips are tight and thin, and she doesn't say anything
immediately, instead looking Salem over. "Don' know," she admits,
speaking rather quickly, and just loud enough for her words to carry, "I
jus' got here."
Joshua jerks back, head swiveling over to the source of the noise. Immediately,
his face tightens up and his head dips slightly. "Good afternoon,
Scar-Rhya..." He murmurs back. He looks down to his boots, head lowered
as he adds timidly. "... well, Theology 'ny how. Then I 'swas gonna get
into some other stuff from the CCCD, but... jus' talk'n 'n all..."
Salem returns Olga's look with a stern, flat stare, waiting until the Gnawer
drops her eyes before turning to Joshua. "Theology?" His eyes narrow,
arms folding across his chest.
Olga's eyes do drop: there'd been little challenge in them before, and Salem's
returned stare quickly forces them down. They beat a hasty retreat along
the muddy floor of the clearing, to rest themselves more comfortably on
Joshua, as he sits against the boulder.
"'s like philosophy, but fer religions." The cub mumbles, shoving his hands in
his pockets from his standing position against the boulder and not
looking at the Elder. "I won't talk about it if ya don't want me to,
Scar-Rhya."
Salem snorts. "I know what theology is, moon calf," he says impatiently.
"Perhaps you'd like to expand on it?"
Olga shifts her weight on her bag, drawing herself back a little, away from
Salem. She looks down, rather unpleased, and merely listens.
"Ya know... like Steve Bruce wrote a book called 'god is dead', but he was all
wrong 'bout how he disestablishes it 'n and around here." The cub's voice
quakes a little, fumbling with the bottoms of his pockets as he
desperately stares at his boots. "'n Nietzsche was wrong 'bout god, 'n
Gaia should be able to show 'uz that, but Olga-Rhya's thinks hes right
about there being no god 'n stuff."
Salem grunts. "Depends what you mean by God. Our creator? That was Gaia and
Luna. Gaia's creator? The Triat, Wyld's creation, the Weaver giving form,
the Wyrm, back then anyway, keeping things in balance. As for the Triat,
they're not entities so much as cosmic forces. No one knows what was
before them, if there _was_ anything before them."
Olga glances occasionally at the Fostern as he speaks, but for the most part
she keeps her concentration either on Joshua, or on her own busted
umbrella, lying there below the bag, at her feet. She's very quiet.
Joshua's responce is curt and quiet enough. "Yes, Scar-Rhya." He stares down at
his own boots. Nice boots, but very scuffed up.
Salem stares at the cub for a long moment, his frown deepening, then shifts a
glower over to Olga as though, somehow, this is _her_ fault. "Someone's
calling you," he says to the Bone Gnawer, tersely. "Why don't you go find
out what they want." Translation: get lost.
Her face still lowered, Olga flicks her eyes up towards Salem briefly, finally,
before dropping them. She gives him a quick, sloppy, three-fingered
military salute, and pushes herself off her bag. Olga hands Joshua his
notebook and his pencil, takes a step back from him, and with a grunt she
ducks down and lifts her bag, heaving it over her shoulder, snatching up
her broken umbrella before she stands. "G'bye, Josh," she mumbles,
turning in the mud, moving off out of the clearing without looking back.
"Good Night, Rhya." Josh mumbles after Olga, not looking up to watch her as he
leaves, falling silent as she does. He lets out a little breath, chewing
on the corner of his mouth.
Salem glowers at Olga's back until she disappears into the trees. Then, as he
turns back to the cub, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small
mirror. "You've learned how to reach across the Gauntlet, yes?"
Joshua nods once, still not looking up to Salem. "Yes Rhya. 've been there a
coupla times now." He frowns slightly, reading over the words in the
notebook before squeezing it shut.
"Good," Salem says, holding the mirror so that Joshua can see himself in it.
"Step across, then."
Joshua sets down the notebook, staring at the reflection on the mirror for a
long two minutes. Finally the cub breaks up into motes of color, fading
from the realm.
Umbra: Light Woods
These sparse woods stretch away, north of the place of power that is the Caern,
hemmed in on the west and north by unsubtle swaths of decaying,
web-covered grey that denote roads in the Realm. The entire area, all
around, is a vivid reflection of the physical world: colors are brighter,
scents are sharper, sensations more crisp. The trees reach upwards,
impossibly high, towards the heavens, while the airts of various animal
spirits wind crazily through the undergrowth; the land is replete with
life, a place where Spirit and Realm are still close together.
A number of landmarks punctuate the woods: a massive thrust of bright, almost
crystalline rock that juts upwards, out of a clearing, like a shoulder of
the earth; a pair of giant arcs of bone that glisten with fresh blood,
between which hangs a luminous bundle of ephemera; a bright clearing,
beneath a broad, steep cliff, across which wind spirits dance
incessantly. Faint pathways lead off in three directions.
Salem follows the cub into the Umbra, then slips the hand-mirror (dedicated,
apparantly) back into his coat. "Take hispo," he instructs. "We're going
for a run, and it's not going to be pretty. Follow me close, don't look
left or right. If you get into trouble, _say_ something. Clear?"
"Yes, Rhya." The tone is still dead of any real emotion as the Cub takes a
halfstep back. He falls forward hard shifting with practiced speed into
Hispo, paws thudding as he connects with the dirt. ~When ever you are
readied, Rhya.~
Salem scowls, then shakes his head and shapeshifts, taking the dire wolf form
with ease. On four legs, he barks at the cub, then takes off at a run,
heading roughly westward.
[Travel snipped.]
Umbra: Dark River Bridge
This looks like a scene from a vile dream. You stand upon a bridge of black
metal, flaked with huge patches of rust. Holes in the floor of the bridge
threaten to drop you into the murk below if you misstep. Great tangles of
webs surround the girders, filled with tiny pattern spiders sluggishly
wrapping more and more of the structure. The river below you is a black,
bubbling morass of vile fluids, a seeming flow of toxic mud. The eastern
shore is shrouded in shadow; the plant life there dead and shriveled.
Bizarrely, the western shore is as brightly colored as is possible in the
twilit Umbra, shining with the greens of plants and the gleam of icicles,
as if it is the only living thing still struggling to survive here. A
large fountain on that shore seems to be the source of its brightness.
The bridge stretches westward toward the greener shore, and eastward toward the
dark shore.
Scar and his cub are both in Hispo form, moving at a run across the bridge's
umbral reflection, the Walker Elder in the lead.
Rorschach pages: A sound grabs your attention. It's coming from under the
bridge. It's a low thruming vibration.
The dim tooth moon light dims mysteriously as a rare group of clouds begin to
darken the Umbral sky further.
Scar flattens his ears, teeth flashing briefly in a snarl. Head lowered, he
growls back at the cub following him, ~Neither right nor left! Keep
going!~
A low sound, a deep bass thrumming rises from the underside of the bridge.
There's an ominous sound of chitin-like skittering across steel and
concrete. Across the Weaver pattern that composes the Umbral bridge over
the Columbia.
Wolf-Heart grunts out that he hears Scar-Rhya, too fearful to -not- do what the
elder says as he huffs and bounds in behind Scar.
100 yards away, pale shapes -- blobs with legs at this distance bob and weave
and climb over the side of the bridge to its surface with an unearthly,
but exceptionally orderly coordinated movement of leg. Behind these two
blobs are an expanding web which casts a pale glow in the dim moon shadow.
Scar glances backwards briefly to make sure Wolf-Heart is keeping up all right,
then turns his attention forwards again. His ears snap up as he spots the
shapes and the web beyond them, and he howls out a wordless warning,
threat and challenge.
One of the blobs turns toward the howl, while the other seems to climb up and
into the web, working to reenforce the strands of pattern.
Wolf-Heart huffs after the Elder, head jerking up at the howl of challenge. He
jerks his head up, eyes going wide as he looks to the things ahead. But
the cub follows Scar, more fearful of the Elder than anything else.
Scar snaps his jaws once, then keeps going. He's not looking to start a fight,
but puts forth the appearance of one who will damn well _finish_ one if
necessary. As they approach the web, he scans for the thinnest part, or
the quickest way through, a hole, a gap.
Not much hope in that. As the two Garou approach, the blobs resolve themselves
into large pale pattern spiders. One is facing Scar; the other is working
tediously to reinforce the web they've started to build across the
bridge's surface. The spiders are enormous things; their pasty
maggot-white bulk has an unhealthy and unearthly cast about it in the
Umbral crescent moon. With eight thin, but sharply pointed legs and large
pincher shaped manibles they look like they could be tough customers. The
one facing Scar hisses faintly and starts to intercept.
Wolf-Heart's ears splay backwards as he looks at the things that block their
way. His tail tucks itself under his backside, no longer sure that he's
that afraid of Scar...
~Make _way_, you bloated web-spinner,~ Scar snarls at the spider that's moving
into his path. Not that he expects to intimidate the spirit, but a little
bluster and snarling never hurts. He lowers his head and puts on speed,
charging the thing with fanged jaws a-gape. Chicken, anyone?
The pattern spider seems inclined to play along with the Glass Walker elder.
Another faint hiss comes from the spider currently playing offense and
its jaws twitch and pinch together mechanically, like a robot run amok.
For all of its ghastly bulk, it covers a lot of ground deceptively
quickly.
Wolf-Heart grunts and groans as he speeds up to match the Elder's pace, blindly
following in behind the Philodox. But he doesn't want to be here, and it
shows. He can't see the spirit for Scar in front of him.
Right at the last minute, Scar puts on another burst of speed and dodges to the
side, one forepaw lashing out to smack one of the giant spider's many
legs. As he strikes at it, the Philodox evokes an old Ahroun trick -- the
one that knocks an opponent down with a touch.
The half moon nicks the pattern spider as it attempts to make a little
Garou-kebab out of the Walker. With the potent gift's ability, the spider
is knocked over on its back with a shriek. Almost immediately the other
spider climbs out of the web and starts to close on the two Garou.
Scar veers to intercept the second spider. ~Keep going!~ he roars to the cub.
~Toward the park! I'll catch up!~ There's a fatalistic, eager gleam in
his good eye as he charges the beastie.
Wolf-Heart does exactly as his Elder bids, an easy task since he doesn't want
to be there. The Ahroun doesn't veer off with Scar, instead keeping his
forward charge to the wall, readying himself to jump over it.
The flipped over spider's legs twitch and "walk" furiously, as the spirit tries
to right itself. Meanwhile its ally speeds toward Scar, making another
high pitched whine -- sounds a little like a car's horn. The philodox
closes for the same manuever, dodging at the last moment and trying to
touch the spider; but the Garou is knocked aside by a wicked looking leg.
A second leg punctures through the half moon's arm and with a snarl, the
older Garou feels pain flood through his left arm.
A short howl of pain escapes Scar, who shifts to Crinos and slashes at the leg
pinning his left arm. Good thing he's right-handed.
Wolf-Heart doesn't stop, keeping to the Elder's order despite the Howl. Using
rage boosted speed, the Ahroun attempts to leap and clear over the wall,
taking to the task with feverish intent.
The young Garou blurs as he gains ground and his powerful hind limbs push him
up up and just over the edge of the web barrier. Scar, meanwhile,
transforms into his form in the blink of an eye. His war-form's sharp
claws make a vicious slash at one of the spider's limbs and it connects.
With a long hiss, the spider back off from the older Glass Walker a few
paces. It's manidibles work slowly, as if considering its next move.
Scar rolls quickly to his feet with a snarl, the flesh-puncture in his left arm
bleeding freely. He glares back at the pattern spider for a moment, then
turns and makes a dash for the wall of webbing. Like the cub, the Elder
burns with the power of Rage, using its speed to fuel his leap over.
Wolf-Heart keeps to his run as he lands back down with a thud. Paws scamper as
he launches himself forward, bounding his way down the Bridge. The cub,
as he runs, curses loudly ~What park was he talking about?!~
And it's just in time, too, since the flipped over spider has regained its
footing. The spirit tandem watch the Garou flee, but seem content to
continue building/mending their pattern webs.
Scar lands on all fours on the other side of the webbing, glances back, then
runs down to the western edge of the bridge, calling the cub's deed-name
(or a shortened version of it) as he goes.
Wolf-Heart slows as he hears his name, pulling to a skittering stop and turning
to face Scar.
Scar catches up, bleeding from his left arm but otherwise looking hale and not
even out of breath. ~We're good,~ he growls, flashing his fangs in what
could almost be called a grin. ~And nearly there.~ With a gesture to
follow, he lopes bipedally off into the thickening webs of the city.
[More snipped travel.]
Umbra: Harbor Park
The Umbral ground beneath your feet here is lush with vegetation, an oasis of
life amidst the concrete and webbing of the scab. Trees stand proud and
tall here, their branches full of leaves. Shrubs line the outer edges of
the park, tangled with encroaching webs. The fountain stands out boldly
from even the surrounding area, the sleek lines sharper and more
pronounced. Clean pure water roars and cascades from the figure in the
fountain's center, falling into a cold clear pool that looks quite
inviting. Spreading out from the fountain, the rest of the park is a
green veldt that seems to radiate life and strength. The river banks the
east shore of the park, bridged by a massive rusty bridge. On this shore,
the glade seems to have spread out on to it, vines winding around the
supports. Further across the river, the bridge melds into the scab again,
flaked with rust and covered in webs. The river itself is clean within a
few feet of the shore, but black ooze seems to encroach menacingly from
the murk of the rest of the river.
A walkway leads out of the Glade-like atmosphere of the park from just north of
the fountain. Eastward, the dark span of the bridge stretches over the
vile river. Dark streets lead west and southwest into the blighted Umbra
of the city.
As they run, it soon becomes clear what park Salem was speaking of. It's the
one truly bright, vibrant spot in this part of the spirit landscape --
more bright and vibrant than its realm counterpart, in fact. Harbor Park.
The Walker Elder slows to a jog as they arrive, then to a walk.
Wolf-Heart follows, now back behind Scar as they jog. The cub is more than just
a tad winded from the journey, not quite up to the riggor yet. His jaw
hangs open as he huffs greedily for air, between breaths squeezing out a
short question. ~Here, Rhya?~
Scar nods his massive head. ~Here.~ He takes a brief sniff of the air, then
leads the cub over toward the fountain. ~Harbor Park. Not as powerful as
a caern, but a powerful spot nonetheless. A glade. A safe point within
the city.~ He looks down at Joshua. ~As you may have been able to tell,
the city Umbra is far more dangerous than the forest's.~
Wolf-Heart indicates he understands, still gasping for air. Finally he starts
forward after Scar to the fountain, still breathing hard. ~I have noticed
this, even if the Forests' Umbra is not a park either. What where those
spiders, Rhya?~
Scar drops into a crouch near the fountain, resting without relaxing. Even
here, the Philodox remains vigilant. ~Pattern spiders. Servants of the
Weaver, keeping the structure of the bridge whole. Not our friends,
really, since they don't like being interfered with. But not our enemy
the way Wyrm spirits are.~ He glances at the wound in his arm, then
shrugs. ~Being Glass Walkers, we're often accused of being for the Weaver
rather than for Gaia, but the Garou Nation is often hostile to what it
doesn't understand.~
Wolf-Heart stops near the fountain, finally caught up with his breath. ~Why are
we here, Scar-Rhya? And why take the Umbra? Surely a... a box with wheels
would have been faster than running here. Far less dangerous as well.~
~Car,~ says Scar, giving the cub some urrah-created vocabulary. He stretches
his left arm, flexes the fingers of his left hand... as if assessing the
damage. Seems to be minor. ~And because you needed to see. To experience
it for yourself. And because I wanted to show you this place.~ He looks
at the cub keenly, head cocked. ~Plus, it's been a while since I've been
here myself, so it's as good a place as any for us to talk.~
Wolf-Heart doesn't sit down, instead pacing in a tight circle, eyes flicking
around as he takes in the place. He softly repeats the word for Car,
mentally filing it away for future use as he does. Without looking back
to Scar, the Cub rumbles back ~Talk of what, Scar-Rhya? Is there
something that you can only tell in this place?~
Scar shakes his head in an irritable sort of way, like a dog beset by buzzing
gnats. ~Gaia's tits, boy, sit down and stop pacing.~ He shifts his
weight, then shrinks down into hispo form with a low rumble. ~Just talk.~
He squints. ~About Storm-Singer, among other things. Has he been
bothering you since the Moot?~
Wolf-Heart comes to a stop, sitting on his haunches abruptly. ~No Rhya. Nothing
since the moot. Storm-Singer-Rhya seems angry over my reaction to his
poor handling of...~ The cub rumbles for a second, before mangling the
word for ~Gun~ He seems aware of this, though, and irritated that he did.
~When I took the Weaver Box with the eye to him, he was cold and hostile,
overly so when it was a matter of Caern Rules.~
Scar grunts, lying down with his weight slightly shifted to his right side. His
head remains up, ears cocked. Still alert under the dimming moon. ~I'm
still uncertain of him. But time will tell.~ He huffs, then changes the
subject. ~You did well, by the way. At the Moot.~
Wolf-Heart's eyes flick around, not coming to rest on Scar as he listens, too
busy looking at the area around him. ~Thank you Rhya.~ He responds almost
mechanically, before his head catches up. ~... what did I do well?~
Scar looks rather dourly amused. ~Telling your tale. The Rite of Wounding. Got
burned badly, didn't you. But you survived.~
Wolf-Heart flicks an ear dismissively, still not looking to the Elder. ~Not a
Galliard. It was all I could do to even speak, much less make any sense.
Whispers was much better Tale-Speaker than I was.~
Scar cocks his head, looking at the cub intently for a moment. He snorts. ~Take
a compliment when it's offered, why don't you.~
Wolf-Heart finally does look to Scar, if only for a bare moment before he turns
his entire head back downward, ears splaying. ~Yes, Rhya.~
Scar looks wry for a moment, then shakes himself a bit. ~It was your first
Moot. What did you think of it?~
~It was what I was told to expect, Rhya~ The cub answers simply, pinning his
tail firmly against his side. ~... and there where many more Garou than I
expected. I thought it was going to be smaller.~
Scar cocks his head, mismatched eyes narrowing for a moment. Then he huffs.
~Everyone comes out of the woodwork for a Moot, yes. Which is good. Isn't
wise to avoid them.~
Wolf-Heart responds that what he didn't think there where so many ape-wolves,
still not looking up to the Elder as he slips into lupine communication.
He had never met seen many of them at the Caern before.
Scar's eyes narrow. ~Ape-wolves?~
Wolf-Heart cringes a little. ~Garou.~ He explains, trying to shrink out from
under the look.
Scar growls in a mildly irritated kind of way. ~Who told you that term? Apes?~
~No one.~ The cub whimpers back, lowering himself further to the ground in
embarrassment.
Scar rumbles, the sound like deep, distant thunder. ~I dislike that term. Nor
do I want to hear you use it. It's a term used by the ignorant and the
backward, trying to mock and separate themselves from half their
heritage. The term is _humans_. Not monkeys. Not apes. Humans.
Understood?~
~Yes Rhya.~ Wolf-Heart whimpers. The cub is now practically laying down, nose
in the umbral dirt and ears splay back against his skull. ~I understand.~
Scar looks at the cub's posture, teeth flashing in an irritated grimace. ~Rrgh.
Yes. Good.~ He stares at Josh. ~Is there anything you wanted to ask me?
Talk to me about? Now that you have my undivided attention and I don't
sound like a joke?~
Wolf-Heart's paw covers his nose for a moment, the cub remaining silent before
he indicates he does. ~There aren't any Glass Walkers out at the Caern.~
He starts slow and hesitantly. ~... and Defiant-Storm-Rhya says that I
need to know my Tribes ways to rite. Which is why I asked
Defiant-Storm-Rhya to ask you to come out some time, so I could ask you
what I need to know about the tribe, and about it's ways and anything
else I need to know for that matter.~
Scar huffs. ~Our ways. Yes.~ He cocks his head, peering at the cub with his
good eye. ~First... you've been around a bit. You were at the tribe-house
for some time and talked to several of the family. What do you think our
ways are?~
Wolf-Heart blinks, Looking at the Elder's feet now. ~I was tribe-house for only
three periods of seven days. It was not long; I've been at the Caern for
five of them, soon to be six.~ He wrinkles his nose, adding ~Deadeye-Rhya
said Those who Walk on Glass Adapt and Thrive. Bone Gnawers only survive.
And... The-Kin-who-works-with-weaver-boxes said that recently the tribe
has grown very strong ties into the Stone-Hive; that we've always been
among humans.~
Scar grunts, though looks irritated at 'stone-hive'. ~That's correct. Cockroach
is an old spirit, from before cities, before humans, before wolves. He
changes as he needs to and lives everywhere, wilderness and city both.
But he's wise to the city. Very wise. He knows the Weaver without being
_of_ the Weaver. That is our way. We know the Weaver, but we are of Gaia,
no matter what the other tribes say. And... yes. We have always watched
and followed the ways of humans. We watched them make tools and adapted
those for our use. We watched them make the first city and marvelled. We
moved in and took them as our kin to protect them during the Impergium.
No other tribe understands the city as the Glass Walkers do.~ He cocks
his head. ~Many of us admire humans, even. I certainly do. Do you know
why?~
~I have a guess, but it is more than likely not what your answer is, Rhya~ The
cub responds flatly, not stirring from his location. If he has a reaction
to the irritation, he doesn't show it. ~So no, I do not know why.~
Scar gives his head another of those quick, irritated shakes. ~You're such a
fucking little coward sometimes, you know that?~
Now that gets a reaction. The Ahroun pulls back, only his hind end rising into
the air as he holds himself back. Barely. ~I would thank Rhya...~
Wolf-Heart growls back. ~To refrain from calling me that.~
Scar pushes to his feet, lips pulled up from his front fangs in a lupine
grimace. ~You are. A coward. Dancing away, refusing to confront me.
Hiding behind 'submission to the elder' even when I ask you a direct
fucking question. Back at the boulder, too, with the fucking Bone Gnawer.
Talking about God. Told you what I thought, what I know, and all you
could do in response is back off, pissing yourself like a fucking omega.
What the fuck are you afraid of, you pissant little whelp?~
Wolf-Heart pulls is lips back, head tilting up from the ground to face the
Elder with a similar gesture. ~It is not my place to confront you. You
would not like what I have to say in reply, so I do not say it. What do
you want me to do, tell you something that I think is true, even though I
know it is going to anger you?~
Scar snaps massive jaws. ~_Yes_, you puking little bastard. I want you to show
some fucking backbone. You think I'm full of shit, tell me I'm full of
shit, but tell me _to my fucking face_. I won't promise I won't get
angry. I probably _will_ get angry. I'm a Garou, it happens.~ He snarls,
then sits down, forcing some outward semblence of calm. ~I don't need
mindless drones or yes-men. I need soldiers who can think, and who aren't
afraid to talk to me. I'm not saying that you can treat me like your
bitch or best buddy, because I'm neither, but you need to pull your thumb
out of your mouth and _talk_.~
Wolf-Heart rears up, front end rising as he gashes his teeth once. ~That coming
from you of all people. Wouldn't even talk to a brand new cub who was
scared out of his mind and confused by all the droppings handed to him.
Too busy being silent to even explain the basics. You want to know where
I got the ideas I did about the Garou? I got them from a lack of any
other information. You are the one who needs to pull his paw out of his
mouth. Shakes the Earth Rhya has been more forth coming than you, and he
doesn't say _anything_.~
~'Shit', Keeps-the-Wolf. The word is 'shit'.~ Scar snorts. ~You had plenty of
people explaining things to you. Shakes the Earth. Both kin. Deadeye.
It'd be enough for most cubs, but not _you_. No, you had to keep trying
to run away, fuck with the network,~ -- all these strange new terms; the
Elder's fluent in the modern vocabulary that his adopted tribe has added
to the language -- ~and obsessing with ghosts. What did you want? Me to
hold your hand and wipe your ass?~
~Only one Kin, who didn't even bother after the first lesson. Shakes the earth
said nothing and still says nothing, and I didn't even meet Deadeye until
long after I was locked up.~ The Ahroun Cuts back, not backing down his
position. ~I've been passed around more than a Gaian, who the other
Elders Joke that I'm ready to rite _as_ one. But only _once_ have I
recived any real lessons from you. Is it too much to ask that you just
open your jaws and /talk/ once in a while?~
Scar's eyes narrow. He paces a few steps toward the cub, bristling. ~Which
other Elders.~
~Guards-The-Flame-Rhya. Defiant-Storm-Rhya.~ The cub responds, still with an
edge to his tone. But it's considerably less, as if he's suddenly
regretting mentioning that. Wolf-Heart Doesn't, however, back down for
the moment.
Scar snorts and shakes himself. ~You won't Rite as a Gaian. That much is
certain. You'll Rite as a Glass Walker and an Ahroun.~ He's pacing a bit,
but then turns back to glower at the cub. ~Guards the Flame asked me to
take you, but I refused. You might be a whining little brat, but you're
_our_ whining little brat.~ With that, he abruptly shifts into his birth
form and, scowling, stalks over toward the fountain. "Shift. We're
crossing back."
Wolf-Heart squats back on his haunches, setting his jaw. ~First you accuse me
of not talking. Now you accuse me of Whining.~ He then shifts up and out
of Hispo and back to Homid, not looking much more pleased in that form.
"I've noticed that that's all that seems to come out of your mouth," Salem
retorts, stopping at the fountain and turning back with a scowl.
"Mumbling, whining, and angst." He shakes his head, then peers briefly at
his reflection in the water -- not crossing, just staring for a moment,
past his own eyes.
"Yeah, well you just told me to tell you if I think you're full of shit not
even two minutes ago." Josh cuts back, standing up. "So you asked me what
I wanted to do when I rited. I answered truthfully, you fly off the
handle. You ask me why I couldn't just accept the wolf. I answer, you get
pissed. I see a trend there, so I stop answering and get this. Christ
almighty, there's no winning. Every fucking time."
Salem turns away from the fountain and stares at the younger Garou, flatly.
"Poor baby. His Elder doesn't like him." He mutters a couple of words in
Serbian and gestures the cub toward the fountain impatiently. "We're done
tonight. There's more I was going to tell you, but not tonight. Coast is
clear, so cross over, and I'll drive you back to the farmhouse."
Joshua snorts, walking over to the fountain, replying flatly as he goes. "Well,
you asked. That's my answer, Rhya." The Ahroun stops at the rim adding
his own little bit, an incomprehensible mixture of Japanese and German,
before Staring down at the water to cross over.
You paged Joshua with 'That's pretty much it. Salem drives Josh back to the
Farmhouse in the old Yugo and drops him off, all without saying anything
more. @Whee. :>'.
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