It is currently 14:24 Pacific Time on Tue Feb 24 2004.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 49
degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the south at 14 mph, with gusts up to 31 mph. The barometric
pressure reading is 29.69 and rising, and the relative humidity is 71
percent. The dewpoint is 40 degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (27% full).
Atcen clambers up the trail onto the bluff, using a long branch as a walking
stick and humming to herself in a disjointed kind of way.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (27% full).
Turtle's curled up at the mouth of the cave. She's not asleep, but she does
appear to be resting. The approach of the other cub brings her ears up
and alert. Then she jumps up and pads toward Atcen, greeting her with a
lowered nose and a sniff.
Atcen bares her yellowed teeth at the other cub in a grin and squats down to
bump her head lightly against Holly's muzzle. Since beating Joshua and
the talk they'd both had with Jacinta, the metis has been a lot nicer to
the other cub. "Still stuck here?"
Still, Turtle says with a softly whined growl. But, at least I am allowed to
explore the surrounding grounds. I thought, perhaps, you could help me.
Teach me. To hunt. Turtle watches for Atcen's reaction.
Atcen thinks about that, her tongue poking out to touch her upper lip. Then she
frowns. "Jacinta-rhya anger at me, maybe," she says slowly. "Cub not
good, teaching."
Turtle does not mean big-laws. I just mean hunting. Catch squirrel. Pierces
Ice-rhya cannot get mad at that.
Atcen thinks about it some more before nodding. Setting down her improvised
walking staff, she shifts smoothly into wolf form. Squirrels are hard,
because they climb trees. Rabbits are easier. If we had a real pack, we
could get a deer. Deer are _very_ good.
Turtle's ears go up again. Deer? But thay are...big? She offers, padding
alongside the other Wendigo. Eager and excited, she's nonetheless ready
to try. Where are the rabbits?
Atcen sniffs the ground, then starts padding away from the cave, toward the
stream.
Turtle hesitates, watching Atcen intently before attempting to imitate her. She
moves toward the stream as well.
[...]
Rainbow Lake
Long and narrow, the lake stretches a mile to the north and south, right at
the heart of the woodland. Tall, silver beech trunks mix with the even
taller evergreens and dominate the mountain valley. Where the canopy has
been broken by a fallen tree, a riot of brambles and nettles have
erupted, clinging to anything and everything and fighting for light among
the thick forest. Underfoot there is a deep bed of mulch and last year's
leaves, muffling any footfall.
Other plants have found a foothold where the beeches make way for the line of
water. The edges of the lake are overhung by a wall of dark myrtle, their
scent hanging sweet and heavy in the air, giving the place a dreamlike
quality. The waters of the lake itself are a clear, unruffled indigo,
dropping into bottomless darkness, with otherworldly reflections of the
sky floating above the depths. Rainbow flashes of light play about the
reeds and weeds that break the surface here and there, throwing colors
into the air.
Part of the valley around the lakeside to the south is clear of trees, and
often here in the brush and grass a small herd of three woods buffalo can
be seen.
Atcen follows the stream, leading the other cub until they come into the valley
by the lake. Then she lifts her head, ears cocked forward.
Turtle nearly bumps into the other cub before noticing she's stopped. When she
sees the tense nature, she too coils up. What is it? she asks, sniffing
about.
Atcen licks her chops. I bet there are _fish_ in that lake.
Fish? Turtle says, confused. Then, she too licks her chops. I suppose we could
hunt fish, just as well. She moves forward, splashing into the shallow
edge of the nearest shore.
Atcen chuffs eagerly, wagging her tail. Fish is _good_! She reverts to her
birth form and wades into the lake, slouched low and keeping her tail and
hands from the water. Looking back to Holly, she asks, ~Did they have
bears where you lived? Before?~
Some, Turtle answers, her tail twitching back and forth slowly as she wades a
little further into the water. So far she's not spotted any fish, but she
gets a snortful of lake-water because of her sniffing. After sneezing,
she adds to her comment, I'd only seen one, before. In the wild. It was
from a distance. Why do you ask?
Atcen watches the water, frost-pale eyes searching. ~Bears catch fish. Mother
and I watched them sometimes, and they taught us. Me. Though it's easier
when the salmon spawn.~ The metis sighs wistfully. ~Many and many fish
then... but we would let the bears have the good spots... to honor Great
Bear himself, Mother said.~
Turtle stares at Atcen after that. They taught you? she asks, ears splaying in
surprise. Cocking her head, then, she adds, You'll teach me?
Atcen nods. ~Taught by doing. Not by speaking. Mother told me to watch them and
do as they do. And, here. You do as I do.~ She focusses on her task,
which seems to consist mostly of standing very still with her left hand
in the water, clawed fingers open.
Turtle watches Atcen carefully. She stands perfectly still, too, and then
eventually decides to take the war form to mimic Atcen again. Crouching,
she becomes perfectly still once more, with one claw in the water. ~Like
this?~
Atcen glances back and grins, flashing needly fangs. ~Like bear.~
Turtle offers Atcen a toothy grin in response. ~But there are no salmon now.
How long will this take?~
Atcen huffs. ~There are other fish. They're just not as stupid as salmon when
they spawn. So it takes longer.~ She looks over the lake. ~There _should_
be fish, anyway...~
Turtle grunts in response and continues to wait. She waits, and a shimmer of a
fish is seen beneath the wink of sunlight on water. But just as quickly
it swims away. ~this is taking too long,~ she says. ~I'm hungry.~ With a
leap, the crinos Wendigo leaps several feet out into the lake where the
fish should be by now. All she accomplishes, though, is making a big
splash and muddying her talons and muzzle.
Atcen splays her ears, tongue lolling in amusement. ~When you hunt, you have to
ignore being hungry. Because hunger is stupid and if you listen to it
you'll do stupid things, like pounce too soon. Got to _wait_. Ignore
being hungry.~ She takes in a breath as a fish swims near her submerged
hand, and quick as a wink she snatches at it -- and holds the wriggling
fish aloft with a triumphant yelp.
Turtle mimics Atcen again, but this time it's in a teasing, exaggerated way.
She mimics her spouting preachily about waiting--creating a fairly
amusing image since she's covered in lake water and mud. But seeing Atcen
catch a fish stops her short. Ears pricked forward, she yelps in triumph,
too. Her playful mood proves unhelpful, though, as she pounces on Atcen
to fight for the fish.
Atcen, caught off-guard, loses her footing and both cubs go down into the water
and mud, thrashing with much splashing and yelps and growls. In the
melee, the fish gets away and swims speedily for quieter waters... along
with every other fish in the nearby vicinity.
In Crinos, Atcen is nearly nine feet tall, and she still looks more starved
than brawny; she's a whip-thin killing machine with a dry, unkempt pelt
of light gray that's stretched tight over bone and muscle and sinew, a
creature without spare flesh or fat. Large hands and hindpaws, both armed
with viciously sharp claws, suggest that she still has more growing to do.
Within her long muzzle are needle-sharp fangs that have an unhealthy yellowish
hue; her claws are the same color. From deep sockets in the lean wolven
head burn pale blue eyes, cold as the frost.
She's winter's own pup -- a gaunt, hungry beast of winter.
Turtle starts laughing, leaping off Atcen to chase the fish. ~You let it get
away! Dummy!~ She bounds through the shallows of the lake to deeper
water, and then back a bit. ~Come on, mighty warrior!~ she goads, tongue
lolling.
Atcen gets up, soaked through and sputtering, and snarls at the other cub. ~I
thought you were _hungry_! Now we'll _never_ get any fish here!~
Turtle gives Atcen another toothy grin followed by an affected shrug of her
massive, hunched shoulders. ~Yes we will. We'll just have to wait. and
tell hunger to take a jump in the lake.~ Taking her own advice, she makes
another leap, just to make a big splash in the lake.
Atcen stares at Turtle for a moment, then snorts and shakes her head. ~You're
_crazy_. Crazy, _crazy_, crazy.~
Turtle snorts in response. ~Not as much as the Walker of Glass the other day.
Why was he so angry at what you said? The other Urrah did not get so
mad.~ she continues to play in the water, mostly still trying to get used
to the strength and power of using such a form.
Atcen shakes herself like a dog, then lumbers out into deeper water. ~I don't
know. Pierces the Ice Rhya said that afterward, he lost himself to his
wolf-mind again. _Again_. He is all broken. Do you know, his elder almost
culled him?~
Turtle's ears lay flat on her skull. ~He did? That bad, huh?~ Her antics calm
some as she thinks about this new news. Tentatively, she asks Atcen, ~You
think Brings Buffalo would do that to us?~
Atcen looks away, her ears going askew. ~If he had to. He will to me if I don't
pass my Rite of Passage next moon. Because I am Metis.~ Her tail droops,
dropping into the water.
Turtle watches the metis with open curiosity. Without hedging or false
politeness, she asks Atcen, ~Does it bother you?~
Atcen scratches her belly where Joshua sliced her open, though the wounds have
now healed. ~I don't want to die. So I will try not to fail.~ She shrugs,
then, looking at the other cub with pale eyes that are really still too
young for such a burden.
Turtle shakes her shaggy, massive head in an all too human gesture. ~No, I
meant, does being a mule bother you? Does it anger you?~
Atcen blinks. ~...No...~ She pauses. ~Maybe. I wish I had been wolf-born, like
my mother.~
Turtle's tongue lolls again, her darkly golden eyes glittering with that
insatiable curiosity. ~She was a friend of White Bison's, yes?~ she asks,
crouching in the water, becoming still again, like before. The muddy
water begins to slowly settle again.
Atcen moves a bit away and resumes a waiting posture as well. ~Yes, though
White Bison was very old even when Frost Hunter was a cub. I don't know
who sired me, though.~ She shrugs.
Turtle indicates she understands with a minimal twitch of her ears. she watches
the water. ~White Bison is impressive, yes, and not just in age. She
scares me. Just a little. What moon was your mom?~
Atcen's eyes are on the water and her submerged hand. ~Ahroun. A very strong
warrior.~
~And you are ahroun,~ Turtle says idly, muzzle lowering a little as,
eventually, a little silver fish wanders nearby. ~And Pierces Ice.~
Atcen snorts. ~No, I am a Galliard. Near-full, not full. Strong in rage almost
like an Ahroun, but we're mostly supposed to tell stories and pass news.~
Turtle and Atcen are in the war form, hunched like two bears in the slow
current of the shallows of the lake. They seem very still, statuesque.
Turtle's ears flatten against her skull, a slightly embarrassed
expression in her eyes. ~Oh. I forgot. What you did to the Walker of
Glass. I guess I just..Sorry.~
Atcen huffs. ~No...~ Then she grins at Turtle. ~But I did do well on him,
didn't I? I would say that the Glass Walkers don't know how to teach
their cubs, but Pierces Ice has been teaching him to fight, and me too,
so I just think he's broken. Maybe all Glass Walkers are weak like that,
because they depend on the Weaver so much. Even their Elder is not
_really_ a Glass Walker.~
Turtle cocks her head at that. ~How can he 'not' be one and still be one?~ she
asks. The movement of the fish is lost in this lapse of concentration. At
least she remains mostly still.
White Flaw's scent, clear to a crinos' nose even before his physical presence,
may seem somewhat familiar, as though the wolf has been, if not here,
then in the immediate area.
~He used to be a Shadow Lord, but did something stupid and they kicked him
out.~ Atcen summarizes the tale Salem told at the Moot. ~Then he was
Ronin, of no tribe, for a while, and then he joined the Glass Walkers.~
Distracted suddenly from fishing, she stands up straight and sniffs the
air alertly.
Turtle's ears splay. She may be in crinos but she is still getting used to the
form. ~Now who's chasing the fish away!~ she growls, looking for the
quickly darting and departing silver flashes under the water.
White Flaw approaches the lake from the southeast, cautious and mostly hidden
in foliage. He stops, leaves rustling around him, as he catches sight of
the two crinos, and becomes still.
Atcen rumbles softly. ~There's a wolf here somewhere. Can't you smell him? I've
smelled him before, but never so _near_.~
Turtle lifts her muzzle from the deliciously distracting fish. Her ears come
forward again, and her massive nose starts to work. Getting past the
overwhelming scent of the lake itself, she catches what Atcen is talking
about. Now, she too straightens out of her crouch. Water runs off the
crinos fur in a slow, small waterfall that ends when Turtle gives a small
neck shake. Her eyes fix on the movement at the shore.
White Flaw becomes stock-still, and the scent of fear wafts from him while he
watches, hoping not to be seen by the larger predators in the lake.
~He's afraid of us,~ Atcen says, and starts moving slowly toward the shore,
dropping to all fours and shifting down to lupus as soon as she gets into
shallower water. Her manner is curious but cautious.
~That,~ Turtle says as she falls in next to Atcen, ~I can smell.~ She too blurs
down into the smaller former. It takes her longer to finish the shift,
though, and by the time she's in the wolf, she has to lope a few strides
to catch back up to Atcen.
White Flaw remains still, though an ear twitches as the others change form -
unsure whether to be less or more afraid. Muscles tighten in his
haunches, ready to bound away in retreat.
Atcen, once she's reached dry land, doesn't try to approach closer. Instead,
dripping, she wags her tail and makes friendly welcoming noises to the
hidden wolf. Come out come out.
Turtle is less friendly. But she's not aggressive, either. Mostly, she just
appears curious. She keeps herself facing the stranger, eyes where they
can see him.
White Flaw crouches low as he steps down toward the lake, side-stepping so that
he can see and be clearly seen. Came, thirsty, to drink. Is yours? Will
go.
Atcen looks at Turtle, then back at the strange male wolf. Her tail waves
again. It's not ours. You don't have to go.
[White Flaw]
This silver furred wolf is tall and broad of chest, though almost too thin
around his ribs and middle. It is as though he has been surviving on a
sparse diet for which he works very hard. His green eyes take in the
world around him, but seldom remain still and almost seem to avoid
contact with others. Still, his gait and manner have a sure and noble
bearing. On those occasions when he is still, there almost appears to be
something more to him, something familiar and yet unknowable. A single
scar covered by short white hairs runs vertically over the middle of his
chest.
Turtle looks from White Flaw to the lake. No, not ours, she agrees, although
there /is/ a somewhat possessive stance to the wolf--like she wouldn't
mind it being her lake.
His tail still tucked, the Silver Fang side-steps closer to the water. He keeps
a wary eye on the cubs, particularly the more healthy, possessive-looking
of the two. Will drink. Will go. Will not take from you.
Atcen stares at White Flaw with intensely curious pale eyes. I have smelled you
before. Where are you from? Where is your pack? Do you have one?
White Flaw drinks deeply, paws in the water so that he can still watch the
others with his muzzle to the lake. Raising his head, he shakes, though
little water clings to his fur. Come from over the mountains. Mate, pack,
there. Came... Came home? Smelled home.
Atcen's ears skew; she cocks her head, looking puzzled. Smelled home? You came
from here?
White Flaw whuffs softly in assent. Here, almost here.
Turtle becomes a little more bold. Coming out from Atcen's dominant shadow, she
walks towards the leery wolf to circle and sniff him more closely. Born
here? she asks, half of the stranger and half as a question/explanation
offered to Atcen.
Atcen settles back on her haunches while Turtle examines the stranger.
White Flaw takes a step backward into deeper water as Turtle approaches. Born.
No. His ears splay outward and back, sodden tail tucking tightly once
again. Home, here. Near. Smells .home. Much of his manner is uncertain,
but this last is a statement with finality about it.
Turtle backs up a little at the wolf's skittish behavior. She gives Atcen an
odd look, puzzled.
Atcen looks baffled as well, but tells Turtle to back off. ~He can't think like
we think,~ she adds in rough Garou speech. ~Wolves don't know about
things past like we do. Mother said this. Wolves live in _now_, never
_then_ or _tomorrow_.~
Turtle retreats just as Atcen asked, though her curiosity keeps her close by
and her nose continues to work.
White Flaw's ears flicker and twitch while Atcen speaks, focusing on her voice
entirely during her final comment. Now. He agrees, and, as Turtle moves
aside, takes the opportunity to break away - bounding toward shore and
the safety beyond.
Atcen blinks at the wolf, then barks -- Hey! Wait! -- and then turns to Turtle,
eyes wide. He understood me!
It takes Turtle two seconds before she understands the significance of it.
Then, she bounds after the fleeing wolf. she offers up her own bark to
get him to stop, and then she simply concentrates on the chase.
Atcen, likewise, leaps up to chase after White Flaw.
White Flaw darts into the trees, instinct only controling his flight. Behind a
tree, over a rock, under the branch, through a break and back down into a
narrow valley.
Turtle's instincts kick in, the wolf offering a short growl as she leaps over
the rock only moments behind White Flaw. Whether or not she catches him,
Turtle is loving the simple act of running him down.
Atcen's competitive spirit sparks up along with Turtle's instincts, and she
sprints forward, loping along to one side to flank the wolf.
Trapped in the valley, one cub on either side, White Flaw gives up. Skidding to
a halt on the leaf-strewn ground, the Silver Fang gives a great whine and
then rolls onto his side. Will go! Won't take yours. Sorry.
Turtle slows but does not stop. she begins to pace back and forth on her side
of the Silver Fang, keeping him penned, keeping him inside of and between
her and Atcen. She lets the galliard question him, though.
Atcen, her tail raised high, trots over to stand over the submissive wolf. You
are not just a wolf! You understood me when I spoke the Mother Speech.
You must be Garou!
The panicky wolf is only half-aware of the postures and statements of the
others. Am White Flaw. He gives another small whine, the dip of his tail,
still damp from the lake, twitching slightly. Smelled home. Will go!
Atcen growls deeply. Still. Be _still_. You will not go. You understood me, and
so you must be Garou.
Turtle watches, her own excitement growing. Maybe he is a cub, like us.
Sometimes I know things and don't know why. Maybe he's another cub of
ours, she offers, crouching over the bellied-up Fang.
White Flaw calms his body, turning to the side to better look at the other
wolves while still remaining prone and openly submissive. The
conversation confuses him, and the tension and fear remain in his scent
and posture.
Atcen looks at Turtle. I think you are right. An elder should be told. But you
can not go to the Bawn. Do you think you can keep him here while I run to
get one?
Turtle looks down at White Flaw, gauging his temperament. Confidently, she says
I can keep him here. You go. Then, like a good watch dog, she gets a
little closer and asserts her dominance much as she's seen Atcen doing so
often.
Atcen backs off, tail waving at her co-conspirator and partner. Then she whirls
and takes off as fast as her long legs can carry her.
[...]
Bawn: Central Forest
The forest is dark and quiet. No, not quiet. Listening. The ancient firs rear
up all around, branches interwoven in a dense roof of dark green. Fallen
needles lie in a thick carpet on the ground, heaped up around the drifts
of undergrowth clinging to the scarce patches of light reaching the
forest floor. Every sound seems muffled, and the sharp scent of pine
hangs in the air like the clouds of midges that swarm ceaselessly beneath
the branches. Even the many deer who roam here seem to step more quietly
than usual, and the songbirds seldom sing.
The forest spreads out around you in all directions.
After running all the way from the lake in the mountains, Atcen is quite
winded, but still she pushes herself into a jog as she paces the bawn,
chasing the scent-trails of Garou. Every so often she gives a yelping
cry, a call for assistance that indicates no danger, just urgency.
In response to one such yelp, a silvery-white muzzle pokes around a low-lying
shrub and a loud bark knifes through the evening air. For the love of the
mother WHAT?! The bark is good-natured, but carefully engineered to seem
annoyed as well.
[Chance]
You see a handsome wolf, right out of some story book. With a long, graceful
muzzle and lustrous silvery fur, this wolf commands attention. His lower
legs, covered in black fur, make him appear to have stepped in pools of
ink. Not overly large, this wolf seems very comfortable with himself and
his place in the Wyld. The intelligence and craftiness behind the
sparkling blue-amber eyes is unmistakable.
Atcen pulls up short and lies down, ears flattening in surprise. She hesitates,
then launches into rapid explanation. Slow As A Turtle and I were
fishing, and a wolf came, but he's not a wolf because I spoke the Mother
Speech and he understood me and we think he's a Garou and maybe a cub and
can you come, Rhya, please? Slow As A Turtle is guarding him.
The muzzle turns slightly to gnaw on an errant branch of the shrub before
stepping out into the open. The blue eyes glitter with good humor. Very
well. Take me to this cub. If it is what you say it is, then you are a
credit to our sept indeed!
Atcen thumps her tail against the ground -- a sucker for praise -- and bounces
to her paws with renewed energy to lead Chance in a race back to the lake.
[Back to Rainbow Lake]
White Flaw can't decide whether to run or submit, and in the end does neither.
He remains crouched, ready to run, trembling slightly from the tension in
his form. While his ears remain backturned, his lips relax to cover his
teeth once more.
Atcen is clearly flagging by the time she returns, leading Chance to the spot
where she left Turtle with the strange silver wolf; the metis' tongue
hangs pantingly out of her long muzzle and her ribbed sides heave with
each breath.
Chance' on the other hand, doesn't seem the least bit winded, though clearly he
hasn't been running for quite as long as Atcen. As he pads up to the
other two wolves, his lips part and a tongue lolls. ~Hello, White Flaw. I
see that you were easily captured by the great hunters of our sept!~
Turtle remains crouches by White Flaw like an opposite book end. Though coiled
and tense, she seems relieved when the others show, and she immediately
backs off a pace or two.
White Flaw leans onto his side, lifting his right foreleg to paw at the air
between him and the other Silver Fang. His head tips back as well. Came,
drink. Said would not take. Said would go. They chase! Am sorry! Will go!
Atcen, seeing that Chance already knows this wolf, flops down onto her side to
catch her breath.
Turtle comments idly to Atcen while the two silver wolves talk, If he /is/ a
cub of ours, he is slower in the head than I was in the legs.
Chance snarls quickly to Turtle. ~Silence. He is a Silver Fang and he deserves
your respect~ He turns to the other, speaking in the wolfen tongue. Get
up. You are a friend here. They did not know. Drink from the stream. You
are friend.
Turtle, surprised and somewhat frightened by the unexpected outburst, shows her
teeth and growls defensively. Instinct kicks in again and she assumes a
more submissive posture to Chance before backing away from the two silver
wolves more completely.
White Flaw rolls again onto his belly and slowly, with cautious eyes on the
cubs, rises to his feet. Tension leaches out of him as seconds pass and
he gives a mighty shake to rid himself of the last of it. Green eyes pass
over Chance and the Wendigo cubs, returning eventually to the other
Silver Fang. They are your pack?
Chance starts to growl something, but stops at the howl. ~Come with me, all of
you.~ With that, he turns to trot back into the woods, stopping briefly
to see if they are following.
White Flaw watches the two cubs warily, but follows after Chance.
Turtle glances at Atcen. The cub has started to habitually look to the metis
when unsure, it seems. then, she follows along.
[...]
Burial Mounds
This wide clearing in the midst of short, dark pines is rough with wild grass
and bare stone. The air is a bit cooler up here in the foothills than
below, and the majestic peaks of the nearby mountains rear up over the
eastern treetops. There is a vine-covered boulder standing under the edge
of the somber evergreens to the east. The air here is prenaturally still
and the grass waves not at all for there is no breeze that blows through
the pines. It is silent, no call of bird thrown from the treetops to
dance gaily in the open spaces. Occasionally chill fingers run up your
spine.
A faint path leading downhill to the west is the only exit from the clearing.
White Flaw follows Chance, wary and tense.
Taslyn settles in next to Megan and sits two bottles in front of her. One of a
good old scotch, the other with a cork and a wax seal melted on it... But
no label. She cracks the seal on the scotch and takes a deep draught from
the bottle.
Fights-For-Hope stands tall before a ritual mound, upon which is placed a long
flat stone which has carved into it the glyphs for Fianna, Homid, and
Theurge. The stone's glyphs are stained red and the slight scent of blood
it gives to lupine noses isn't needed to tell that it is such a substance
was used. As the Garou gather into the clearing, the Get settles from the
crinos form back to the breed he was born to, and walks around the mound
to stand behind it, facing out to the congregation.
Megan takes a long drink from her can of Bass, deep enough that she seems to
finish it, before putting it aside quietly and casting a narrow-eyed
glance at Fights-for-Hope, quiet as she waits.
Leonard comes into the clearing carrying a woven blanket of many colors folded
over an arm. Behind him approaches Kills-Wisely in lupus, the young
cliath is quite somber in mood.
Two members of Griphus arrive, both in homid. Layne trepses into the clearing,
eyes downcast, arms hugging her jacket close. A plastic grocery-bag
dangles from one hand. Seeing her tribesmates near the tree, the Fianna
crosses toward them, swiping hair from her eyes before kneeling. The
Gnawer, Olga is close beside her when they enter the copse, but hands
back as the Philodox joins her kin, pausing to eye the other arriving
Garou before hefting her bag up higher with a grunt.
Taslyn reaches down and caresses the bottle with no label. She reaches down and
peels away the wax from the top of the bottle. She then uncorks it and
gives the bottle a sniff. She nods quietly to herself and looks at the
others that have arrived.
Turtle remains at the edge of the gathering, sticking close to Atcen's side and
looking a bit overwhelmed.
Atcen nuzzles the other Wendigo cub in a familiar, comforting way and then
watches the procedings alertly.
Eamon quietly makes his way into the burial mound area, a grim expression on
his face. He heads over to the Fianna contingent and nods to them. He
produces a flask from his jacket, unscrews the top and takes a swig.
As more enter, James casts his gaze over those who have come, and simply nods.
"Welcome brothers and sisters. We gather to remember and honor our fallen
brother. Luke Cassidy. Perseverant. Warrior theurge of the Fianna and
Fostern. My pack brother and alpha. All of our fallen comerades are with
us still, as Gaia brings them to their home, where they will carry on the
battle." James gestures out to the gathered with a sweeping hand, "Let
those who have personal dealings with Luke step forward now, and make
those offerings so his spirit will remember his family and his friends."
White Flaw pauses at the edge of the clearing, hackles rising and ears turning
backward, fear coming off him in waves. He stays close to Chance,
however, though he looks as though he may bolt at any moment.
A lone red wolf trailing in after James has begun to speak- she circles to the
outside of the watchers and sits primly behind some Wendigo, content to
take a back seat view of the Gathering.
Final-Hour is here. He lingers at the needled fringe of the short dark pines,
muddy, and solemn. He nods almost imperceptibly, and moves on in
approach. In his mouth he carries an antler, tines up.
Aubrey steps forward from out of the shadows with a small personal item and
places it on the memorial for Luke. The Fianna Theurge sniffles quietly,
rubbing at her nose before slipping back and waiting for others to make
their way forward.
Megan pushes to her feet, a hand carelessly brushing against the seat of her
pint to remove any needles, but she's more focused on digging something
out of a pocket of her jacket and reaching for the earthenware jug. She
pours out a bare shot-glass full of the liquid in the jug, a liquid which
releases strong fumes that don't take long to pervade the clearing and
sting the noses of any Garou present in lupus, a scent strongly
reminscent of raspberries and alcohol. She approaches the memorial and
pours the liquid onto the ground without a word, but then drops to a
crouch to touch the stone before returning to her spot under the tree,
and finding a bottle of Tullemore Dew out of the non-empty paper sack.
Taslyn steps close to the mound. She takes the bottle that she brought from her
home sept and pours half of the bottle onto the mound. She sniffs a bit
as well and lifts the bottle to her lips, taking a deep drink and then
lifting the bottle in a silent toast. It is then that she walks back to
her place beneath the tree and hands the bottle to Megan with a gesture
of share with all.
White Flaw sneezles at the strong chemical odors pervading the area. He steps
backward, closer to the treeline and possible escape.
Layne withdraws from the plastic bag, a bottle of whiskey--and to those more
familiar with the stuff, a rather expensive one, at that. The bottle is
unsealed, the top unscrewed, and the Philodox takes a rather heavy pull
of the liquor as Fights-for-Hope begins to speak, nostrils flaring. The
scent of the Faerie Brew Megan pours overrides even that, though, and her
eyes water... The alcohol seems only partially responsible. Slowly, she
rises, stepping toward the mound, and places the bottle near its base.
While the offerings are brought forth and delivered, the Get ritemaster stands
vigilant above the precedings. Occasionally he nods, and as Megan passes
by he murmurs something about "saving a bit of that for him." Many more
come up and place their offerings, some share a drink with the fallen
Fianna, some draw blood which they let drip on the mound, others leave
behind a silent tear. When all have come forward except for Luke's own
packmates, James lifts one hand and in the other he has drawn a ritual
knife. They are brought together in a vicious but quick strike and a
spray of blood covers the mound in a spattered line. Leonard walks to the
front and with a single movement unfurls the many colored blanket to
cover the center of the mound. Then Final-Hour makes his way to the
mound...
Atcen glances sidelong toward White Flaw and sidles over closer to the skittish
one, circling to block off his escape.
Eamon breathes deeply in through his nose, apparently savoring the fumes. He
takes another swig from the flask and glances over at Megan and the other
Fianna. "Great, thanks, steal my idea." He pours the remaining contents
of the flask over Luke's mound. He pauses a moment, staring at the mound,
then sighs and shakes his head, returning the flask to a pocket inside
his jacket.
Olga rifles through her bag a little noisily, pulling out a large flanel
blanket. Wrapping it over her wide shoulders, she hunches down, watching,
eyes wide.
Wolf-Heart doesn't sneeze, but his nose definitely wrinkles at the alcohol in
the air. The white cub is held by morbid curiosity, though, despite the
all the foul gases.
Megan takes the offered bottle from Taslyn with an appreciative grunt, the
store-bought brand being put aside so she can take a long shot of the
moonshine. Her expression screws up as the alcohol hits her throat, but
then relaxes, and she offers the bottle over to Eamon. Trevor is here as
well, and takes a swig from his own drink as he watches Jamethon and
Leonard.
White Flaw crouches at the edge of the clearing, cringing as escape is blocked
by the Wendigo cub. A small whine escapes a throat tight with fear and
wide eyes stare at the varied gathering.
Final-Hour pads forward. A twitch of whiskers betray his detection of the
liquor's strong scent and the smell of blood. His shoulderblades glide
strongly beneath his scarred silver pelt. In his mouth he carries the
shed antler of a mule deer. It is likely that the stag dropped this
antler in seasons before, and that it had lain among the leaves and pine
litter for a time. The teeth of small rodents have chiseled away at it.
Still, it is of an impressive span, with its elegant tines and the horny
ridged knob where it connected to the skull of the deer. This is what the
Silver Fang gives to his fallen alpha: the chewed crown of a forest
prince.
Eamon nods and takes the bottle from Megan. He takes a generous sip from the
bottle and passes it along to Aubrey after a slight grimace.
While Final-Hour comes forth, the Ritemaster Get looks directly at the whining
Lupine that appears ready to escape, his eyes convey great annoyance, but
he turns once more to nod to his packmate and his offering. "Now!" He
cries to the gathered, "Are the words for all to hear, let them speak
true so that Great Stag and Gaia herself will bare witness to the fact
that Luke was honored among her children. Those who wish to speak, step
forth before the mound now, and address the Gathered."
Four-Leaves continues to watch silently, tailtip flicking. When White Flaw
whines, her eyes dart to the cub in a mildly reproachful glance that goes
unnoticed.
Layne steps away from her tribesmates quietly, arms crossed over her chest,
eyes fastened on the mound. In a light, human voice, but something loud
enough to be heard by those gathered around, she says, "Luke and I came
to the sept at the same time, grew and learned together as cubs, and
rited as a team. He was a friend, a brother, a competitor...and managed
to help keep me sane when the world turned upside down. Duty distanced us
over the years and the competition turned from cubs'-play to something
real and serious. But Luke managed to keep on track and push forward;
when I called him Jeadagh, it was well-earned, and won't be forgotten.
But closest to my heart is Runs-at-Dawn. He runs with Stag, now..." The
Fianna Philodox murmurs something in Gaelic, then adds, "Good Hunting,
Luke," before returning to the others.
Fights-For-Hope nods to the words given as if he, as Ritemaster, was the
conduit by which Luke would hear the words. He stands patiently, his
right hand still dripping blood slowly down its fingertips.
Megan steps up after Layne, a faint smile incongruously turning up the corners
of her mouth. She shifts up to glabro, so the smile becomes pointy, and
after looking at those gathered, looks at the marker. ~I watched
Perseverant come to this Sept a raw cub, but a boy older than his
summers, and I was here when he became an adult. He was my student, and
although we often...disagreed, both then, and later, he was still family.
The way he died was no manner for a Garou to die, but perhaps through the
power of us gathered here, he will return in the circle for another
chance to attain the glory he aspired to. Run always at the Dawn,
fostern, and may you always find Stag at the end.~ Then she, too, returns
to the company of her tribe.
Olga shifts uncomfortably, brow furrowing; she mumbles something under her
breath when the manner of Luke's death is mentioned.
Final-Hour speaks for his fallen alpha. He praises the bravery and decisiveness
that characterized the young Theurge. He was young but promising, and
distinguished himself in Honor, Wisdom, and Glory. The Ahroun underwent
two totem quests with Perseverant as his alpha. The first quest led them
to the mystic and mythical last resting place of a most ancient hero:
Falcon's-Silver-Talon, of the First Tribe, a mighty king from the time
before Man made Wheel or bent Animal to his will. There in that weird
tomb, though, the old king did not rest: a bane of corruption twisted his
majesty's ancient bones, and allowed him no rest. The pack fought against
him and his legendary blade; there would have been little hope. Their
deaths would have been glorious. But Perseverant discovered how to break
the curse; through his cunning and courage, he led the pack to victory.
More importantly, he put to rest the tortured bones of that mighty king.
Final-Hour is no Galliard. He can make no song for Perseverant. He can
only repeat the deeds that will make the name of this Fianna honored to
the Silver Fangs. He followed Perseverant into a second totem quest, and
when chosen, Scourge was truly created. He regrets the twist of fate that
laid his alpha low; he knows the Theurge would have accomplished great
things. It must be Gaia's will that he should return so soon to Her; the
ultimate designs of the Mother cannot be known. In the last times to
come, we shall see him again, as all warriors will return.
"All of you are my brothers and sisters, although, there are only several who
are as close to being a brother to me than Luke ever was. He was not only
a brother but also a teacher, a protector, and a friend." Aubrey follows
her eyes through the crowds until she spots Layne and smiles lightly
towards the other Fianna. "From Luke and Layne, I learned the meaning and
understanding of being Fianna. There is so much that I could say but that
conversation is between just Luke and myself, therefore, good-bye my
brother-you will forever be in my heart." The young Fianna slips back
into the shadows quietly and watches.
Fights-For-Hope again nods as his packmate speaks, then once more to Aubrey's
words. He gazes out once more, catching the eye of another desiring to
come forth and speak.
Chance looks over at the newest Silver Fang, as if gaging his responses to the
solemn occasion. A test, perhaps.
White Flaw crouches silently at the edge of the clearing, frightened and
uncomfortable, but unmoving.
Eamon steps forward and stares at the mound again. "It's hard to believe he's
gone. Luke exceeded my expectations of him, rising as high as he did so
quickly. He was always an asset in battle. I could always depend on Luke
to watch my back. I wished he had died in a more honorable fashion, but
tonight isn't about how he died, but how he lived. Every garou should
aspire to live as he did." He steps back and rejoins his tribemates.
Layne catches Aubrey's glance and returns the smile somberly, raising slightly
what appears to be a half-drunk bottle of wine. The Philodox slips back
into shadow.
Storm-Singer pads forward slowly, shifting to the form of man as he regards the
members of the departed pack leader. His voice is somewhat hesitant,
which most will acknowledge is unusual for him. "Few Shadow Lords relish
the thought that they may have equals among the many tribes under our
Mother's watchful eye. Luke and I once fought each other to a standstill
in the barn at the old farmhouse over a trivial matter that did not seem
so trivial then, and on that day my respect for him was born. As with all
things that are born, that respect grew. He was a noble and brave garou,
from a tribe of noble and brave garou. I mourn his passing as I would a
tribemate. Fare well, Runs-at-Dawn. May Thunder darken the paths of those
who thought ill of you, wherever they may be, for you were worthy... and
someday your spirit shall again earn you loyal followers as it did in
this life." Turning as he shifts back to lupus, the Shadow Lord melts
back into the gathering.
Fights-For-Hope again nods, and stiffening as the Warder steps forward to
speak, his posture eases visibly when Jarred is done. He seeks out
another in the crowd...
Taslyn holds her hand around her scotch as the moonshine makes it's rounds. She
steps up and swallows. "I came here to get away from my past. One of the
first people I met was Luke. He welcomed me and made me feel like I was
one like any other. He and I had many talks after that night, mostly from
stupid questions I had. He never looked down on me and always gave
advice." She raises her bottle. "Thank you, Luke. Thank you for being my
friend and listening and welcoming me. Thank you for being the first
Alpha that approved of me as a person. You will always be in my memories
and fondest thoughts." She takes another deep sip from her bottle and
then returns to the tree with the other Fianna.
Karl steps forward and begins his own speech. It is clearly ad lib. "Luke
taught me much about being a Theurge, of spirits, and the Umbra. He
taught me of... Well, he taught me lots of things," Karl says, trying to
keep his words from over-running and getting boring. "He was someone I
looked up to, as a Garou, an Elder, a teacher. As a man. I will not
forget his teachings..." the boy's eyes well up with salt-water, "I will
not forget him-" His throat constricts and as he blinks a tear runs down
his left cheek. He coughs to clear his throat and manages, more
collected, "His knowledge will live on through me, and from me, those
that I come to teach." He turns and returns to his place in the croud to
wipe his tears.
Fights-For-Hope gives a narrowing of his eyes as Tas speak, but as irritated as
he becomes he follows her words with a simple nod, obviously content on
letting those gathered say their words without being interfered with.
Then comes the cub, Karl... his words bring a smile to James' face,
though it is a tight lipped one that is quickly erased as James speaks.
"I have had the luck to have been able to make my peace with Luke
recently before his death. But I have words for you all... words you will
heed and bare upon you as if they were spoken by Luke himself. Let all
here consider Luke's death to have been a lesson to those who follow him.
He died, as Megan said, in a manner unfitting to a Garou. Let this remind
us, that all that is of the flesh, can die. Let us remember this in the
scab among the Weaver as we do in the forests among the Wyld. We shall
all remember that to be careless is to die. So, for those of you who live
in the scab, or spend enough time there to consider it a home..." He
pauses, with a sharp breath his next words are deep in tone, serious as
anything he has spoken so far, "If I should /ever/ hear of one of you in
a vehicle without your seatbelt on, you better hope you die in some kind
of horrifying car accident, else you will have elders to speak to for
mocking Luke's lesson." He takes a few short calming breaths now and
bones grow and pop up to the Crinos form. ~Does anyone else have anything
to say?~ The Get ritemaster questions the crowd once more.
Chance blinks at the stern warning. Twice.
Wolf-Heart tilts his head and squints in confusion.
Eamon's mouth purses, almost as if he's fighting the urge to laugh. The
expression disappears quickly and he goes back to looking as stoic as
ever.
Olga tries to hide irritation, glaring hard at her boots, and pulls her blanket
closer.
Dane nods at the ritemaster's words. No doubt he agrees fully.
Final-Hour looks on, watchful, and somber.
Aubrey watches Jamethons, expression remaining unanimated.
Four-Leaves closes her eyes, ears flicked forward and waiting.
Fights-For-Hope looks about once more and nods. ~If this were just the Get
gathering for one of our honored fallen, we would now invite one of those
among the gathered who is the same auspice as the fallen to combat the
Ritemaster to first blood... honoring the ritual with our rage and the
essence of life that remains. I think Perseverant would have been
ammused, but this is not the right time for such things.~ He looks over
the gathered again and continues with a lower growling, ~Should one of
you among the crescent born wish to grant Luke the honored after we are
finished, I will meet you.~ Fights-For-Hope takes a calming breath, as he
occasionally seems on the verge of being overly worked up. This done he
continues, ~We now release the honored fallen to go with our blessing
back to the Mother. May we meet again, Brother.~ And now does the Get
ritemaster release his howl into the air, it is powerful and loud, though
not in any way 'pretty'.
Megan lifts her head back and adds her howl to Fights-for-Hope's, made more
enthusiastic by the effects of all the liquor she's imbibed during the
ritual, but musical nonetheless.
Taslyn lifts her head as well and joins in with the howl.
Wolf-Heart howls along with the chorus, more due to compulsion than any real
thought.
Storm-Singer raises his own muzzle to the stars and lets a haunting howl erupt
into the night.
Chance lets his howl join the others.
Karl ripples up into Crinos to howl out his cry.
Final-Hour howls. His deep voice pays honor to the fallen Theurge.
Eamon shifts up to join the others in a long, ululating howl.
Despite the nearly abject terror that has been his through most of this
gathering, there is also recognition here, and as the others raise their
voices in the howl of farewell, White Flaw joins them; his own howl a
resonant dischord that fills a void.
Aubrey shifts and howls with her every breath to the heavens. Her tone full of
intensity and power of emotion.
Dane shifts into crinos to join the howl.
Layne releases a startlingly loud and feral howl from her homid throat,
allowing the mostly-empty wine bottle to drop with a thunk as she rises.
Atcen likewise tips up her muzzle to howl, adding her voice to the chorus.
Four-Leaves' ears flatten and she throws her head bacl, every posture of body
language radiates sorrow and sympathy, but she does not join the howl.
The Ritemaster continues his howl. It doesn't seem to be meant to sound
beautiful, and as the others join in his own voice grows in volume till
his throat seems to be strained near to a breaking point. He doesn't stop
there either, his throat grates out a howl that carries with it a
sorrowful rage so deep that just to release it seems to draw upon rage as
if he were using it to gather greater strength. Blood forms in his
clenched fists and drips thickly to the ground as his claws dig deeply
into palms. The howl is ended with him bowing over forward, coughing out
a glob of blood onto the ground from his massive effort. This done he
turns the gathered again and with a very horse crinosed voice rumbles,
~We have gathered, and our honored brother has heard us. Let us never
forget.~
Wolf-Heart, having watched the ceremony all the way through, paces out the area
as silently as he arrived. And away from all the booze.
Storm-Singer sits on his haunches and watches the others leave.
Leonard and Michael join in the howl, taking on the crinos to do so. Once the
howl is over Michael turns to head back onto the bawn without any other
word. Leonard moves forward to place his hand upon the blanket covered
mound in reverence for a good period of time before heading off to the
Bluff.
~I'll drink to that,~ Megan calls out to Jamethon's words, raising her bottle
of whiskey, the edges of her words blurred by what she's already had
tonight. ~Anyone else who wants to celebrate in Fianna fashion, there is
more here.~
White Flaw drops back to his crouch as the howl ends, fearful eyes darting
across those leaving as they pass as well as to the others who stay.
Storm-Singer moves over to the silver wolf cowering at the periphery and sniffs
it curiously. Who are you.
Taslyn retrieves the bottle of moonshine from the last person that held it. She
lifts the bottle and takes another sip from it, leaving a scant amount in
the bottom of the bottle. It is this that she walks forward and places on
the mound, a final gift as it were. The first and last drink of a shared
bottle. She returns to her scotch and sits next to Megan, hanging her
head for a moment... her eyes look up and scan over the others in the
gathering.
Atcen edges away from White Flaw when the Shadow Lord approaches; she watches
her tribemates leave, but doesn't follow.
Fights-For-Hope seems more than interested in a drink, as he oh so very slowly
melts into the glabro form, apparently not quite comfortable in going the
rest of the way to the homid with his tension so high. He steps over to
Megan and simply gives a wordless gesture of his head towards the bottle.
As he waits his attention drifts over to the crouching fearful lupine,
and his voice creaks out, "You," he points to the wolf, "Please come
forward. I do not think we have met."
White Flaw cringes, dropping low and only looking up at Storm-Singer with a
sideways glance. Am White Flaw.
Four-Leaves opens her eyes and watches as the Shadow Lord approaches; she is
still seated near the Wendigo. She cants her head curiously at
them...then changes her mind and trots to another grave marker, lying
down next to it and peering at the dirt.
Chance stands at that, shifting to his homid form. "Apologies, Jamethon. He's
one of mine, but he's brand new. I can't figure him out for the life of
me, but I wanted him to come. I knew Megan-Rhya would be here. I know
this should be more formal, but... well.. what the hell."
Megan drapes an arm over Taslyn's shoulders and squeezes the opposite one in
sympathetic affection, looking up as Jamethon approaches. It takes her a
moment to realize he is asking for the bottle, but does offer up the
bottle of store-bought whiskey to the Get of Fenris. She looks over at
White Flaw, then double takes, peering puzzledly. "Isaac?" she asks,
still looking at the unfamiliar lupus.
Atcen shifts upward into homid form, squatting on her heels. She pipes up.
"Turtle-and-me saw him by the lake. Think he was wolf. But I speak Garou
to Turtle and he..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Un-der-stood."
Valoran nods. "He claims he came from over the mountains and has pups and a
mate off somewhere."
As the one who announces herself as White Flaw appears to already be engaged
with the Warder, James just shakes his head and takes the offered
whiskey, letting the potent alcohol drown his sore vocal chords he clears
his throat. "Thats better," he rumbles as he looks to the recently
appointed elder of the Silver Fangs, "Just be thankful there were no
problems, they would have been on your head as well as his." As Megan
calls out a familiar name to him, evidenced by his eyes narrowing in deep
thought.
Taslyn looks up to Jamethon and her eyes scan him over a bit as she sips at her
scotch. She ponders for a moment and then sips at her own bottle. She
smiles widely at Megan and looks back up to Jamethon. "Yeah, I'd take you
on. But I'm only a half. Besides... You'd kick my ass, Jamethon-Rhya."
She chuckles a bit. "Still, might be a good fight." She laughs a little
more.
Fights-For-Hope looks over to Tas and gives a huff, the sound seems to be good
natured as he takes another swig.
Final-Hour lingers a time. For a moment, his scattered attention comes to rest
on those by the fearful Fang. To him, most men and women are perpetually
strangers, but this one bears noting for the reactions of the others who
concern themselves with him.
White Flaw lifts his head as Megan speaks, ears and head turning to her with
familiarity. His tail untucks enough to thump against the ground once.
Ravenfeeder? Am White Flaw. Am ... am home?
Storm-Singer goes back to watching the others, his dark eyes not missing
anything.
Karl is still here, and he now approaches James. "If you'd prefer a Theurge
though, I am willing. I might not be as much of a challenge, but I'll
give it a shot if you like. For Luke."
After a few minutes, the red Gnawer gets to her paws and starts padding around
the mound, careful to avoid any contact before loping away into the woods.
Jamethon raises a finger to silence Karl, a quick look telling him to wait just
a moment as he regards the seemingly confused wolf.
Megan blinks owlishly at White Flaw, the rest of the conversations falling to
the wayside of her attention. It does take her a moment to respond,
though. ~Yes. This was your home, Isaac.~
Layne seems lost in her own world, on the ground, leaning back against the
tree... One hand holds a long stick, tightly, which she uses to gouge out
lines and circles in the dirt. She looks contemplative, at least in part.
She's rejoined by her packmate, who resettles herself--and her bag--near
the Fianna. Layne offers a drink, which the Gnawer gladly accepts.
Valoran looks pretty damned shocked. The name clearly has no meaning to him,
but he has the good grace to look sheepishly at the Alpha. "I'm sorry,
Megan-Rhya. This isn't the place for us to be having this conversation. I
though he was just a new strange wolf... *very* strange, as it happens."
He glances over to the other Fang.
Storm-Singer gets up, after hearing the answer to the tiny riddle, and trots
off to resume his duties.
Atcen cocks her head slightly to one side, pale eyes darting from Septmembers
to White Flaw and back again. She shifts her weight forward, using one
hand to steady herself in her crouching stance, and observes alertly.
White Flaw half-rises as Megan acknowleges his question. Head down and
shoulders hunched, he glances between Chance, and Megan, uncertain and
confused.
Final-Hour is watching Valoran; his green eyes rest upon the young man, a
yellow shine on them from the natural way that the eyes of animals glint
in the dark. With a blink of eye and a single twitch of a brow whisker,
he looks on to White Flaw.
Megan makes a gesture towards White Flaw to reassure him, or, at least, it's
intended as such, but turns to address Valoran. ~I have not seen him for
some time, either, there is no apology necessary. He and I were cubs at
the same time,~ she adds.
At this, Atcen's eyes go wide indeed.
Valoran returns Final-Hour's glance before nodding respecfully to Megan. "Thank
you, Alpha. I think that if you would grant your permission, White Flaw
could stay on the Bawn. He seems averse to being anywhere near the city,
or I would bring him to Falcon's Rest..."
Jamethon takes in Megan's words and the puzzled expression on his face deepens.
He looks to Whtie Flaw once more, "Can you... take on the homid form
Issac?"
White Flaw listens to the words flying over his head with some degree of
recognition, though obviously a lack of complete understanding. He is
calmed by Megan's gesture and Valoran's tone, but looks at Jamethon with
a curious twitch of his ear and no other sign of comprehension.
Jamethon seems only irritated at the answer from the confused Fang, answering
in a quick tone only moments away from exasperation, "Have you forgotten
what you are?"
Megan bares the faintest hint of pointed teeth at Valoran's question. ~It is
not for me to grant permission for someone to stay on the Bawn. The
Warder,~ she points to where Storm-Singer disappeared, ~just left.~ At
Jamethon's rising ire, she says to the Get, ~Easy, Fights-for-Hope. He
may just have well, at that.~
Atcen studies White Flaw with renewed interest and curiosity. The strange
silver wolf just gets more and more fascinating.
White Flaw backsteps, still in his low crouch, away from the raised voice. Am
White Flaw. Came home. He tries to answer the question put to him, as
best he can.
Valoran glances after the departed Shadow Lord, then back to Megan. "But he's
mean, Alpha. Must I?" The flicker of amusement passes over the Ragabash's
eyes. "I've heard he gnaws on impertinant Silver Fangs as after dinner
mints. Especially those of us from the *lesser* tribes." He winks.
Taslyn sips from her bottle and just watches, staying quiet.
Megan levels a Look at Valoran that some may realize is tempered mildly by the
Silver Fang's pure breeding, followed by another shot straight from the
bottle of whisky. She glances between Jamethon and White Flaw, awaiting
the Get's reaction.
Jamethon lets his eyes slip over to Valoran after another long sip of whiskey,
"Mind your humor about one who possesses the honored role of Warder. That
mean Shadow Lord spoke well tonight of one outside his tribe." His quick
'rebuttal' to Val done he looks back to White Flaw while shaking his
head, "Well, you have come to the right place. Our totem is the Lady of
Enigmas, and you appear to be just that." He gives Megan a quick look
now, "Are you sure this... this is Issac?"
Taslyn decides that her time would be better spent walking for a little while.
She rises quietly and wanders out of the area, her bottle in her hand.
She takes one look back and a sip from her bottle before she disappears
into the trees.
White Flaw licks his nose, confident enough to straighten a bit more as he
watches and listens to what passes over his head.
The Get theurge sets down his whiskey and melts down to the lupus form. He then
takes a deep breath, as if about to howl, but before he does Fights looks
to White Flaw, ~I am going to call the Warder if he is still near enough
to hear me,~ He offers as if not wanting to startle the lupine into
running away, though his tone carries some ill-humor. This said he tilts
his head back and howls out to the Warder, a familiar thing to one who
has perhaps been a closer friend to Jarred than many in his own tribe.
Megan rips a snort at Jamethon's defense of Jarred. ~And Storm-Singer does not
need you fighting his battles for him.~ She gives a belated wave to
Taslyn as her tribemate departs, then shifts down to lupus herself and
pads towards White Flaw, sniffing deeply.
Jamethon finishes his howl and snorts right back at Megan, ~If he was hear, I
would have sat back and watched him 'chew' on the poor lad quietly, of
course.~
White Flaw rolls onto his back as Megan approaches, tail tucked firmly between
his back legs. He does sniff at her as she comes close enough, though,
and his jaw drops open in a somewhat subdued lupine grin.
A few moments pass without an answer. Then, a not-so-faint howl is heard in
response and within a short time the Shadow Lord pads back into the
clearing, shaking what appear to be droplets of water off of his pelt. He
looks at Jamethon, then at the Alpha. ~How can I be of service.~ Another
glance is spared for the former Sept-member, but only that.
Jamethon simply gestures with his muzzle to the wolf that the Alpha is
currently in the process of sniffing at in a form of answer.
Firewatcher noses White Flaw gently, then lifts her muzzle and lays her ears
back at Jamethon with irritation, her own pure breeding heightened in
this form. He is as I recognized. And he is without taint. The Fianna
does not confuse the situation by saying anything further, simply
standing near the object of contention.
White Flaw remains where he is. His only movement is to pull his legs
underneath him, tail curling around his haunches.
Valoran hunkers down a bit to squat, his hands folded slightly as he watches
the Alpha, the Shadow Lord and the Get Theurge curiously. Gesturing with
his chin to where the other Fang sprals, he calls out, "He needs a place
to stay. I can't take him to Falcon's Rest. He doesn't want anything to
do with the world of man at this point, or I would have seen to it he
gets shelter. Will you give permission for him to stay on the bawn? He
clearly prefers his wolf-form."
Storm-Singer gives the new Silver Fang more serious attention at this request.
Padding forward, the Lord looks down at White Flaw with something between
indifference and curiosity. ~You wish to sleep upon my bawn, White Flaw?~
Firewatcher's ears flatten at Storm-Singer's use of the first-person possessive
pronoun, but she remains where she is and otherwise silent as she watches
the interaction between the Shadow Lord and White Flaw.
White Flaw's head turns to focus on Storm-Singer, ears pulling forward with
only a single twitch. Stay. Want to stay home. Yes.
Atcen chews on her lower lip.
Jamethon considers the conversation between the Warder and the visitor from the
past, but remains silent for now.
Storm-Singer considers the request for a moment or too, but apparently doesn't
see anything wrong with the arrangement. ~I grant you permission to stay
upon the Bawn, White Flaw, as you were a member of this sept from times
past and are known to its present Alpha. Your only obligation while
staying here shall be to keep your eyes and nose alert to anything odd or
dangerous and report such things to me immediately. Welcome back to the
Hidden Walk, Once-Isaac.~
Firewatcher's posture relaxes faintly at Storm-Singer's announcement, her
tongue going out to lick her nose absently.
Atcen continues to stare at White Flaw with great curiosity.
White Flaw watches Storm-Singer intently while he speaks, apparently getting
the gist of what is said as his tail thumps against the ground again.
Jamethon takes on the homid form after Jarred passes his judgement, taking back
up his whiskey for another drink.
Storm-Singer turns his great shaggy head to the side and sneezes once,
randomly. ~Very well. I'll be at the waterfall if I am needed.~ Looking
up to Jamethon, the Shadow Lord gives one thump of his tail as a
farewell, solemnly, then stands and trots off into the darkness.
Jamethon raises his glass in a salute to the Warder before another drink is
taken. "I'll find you if I need to," he replies with a slight wryness in
his voice.
Firewatcher stretches, then shakes out her fur when she straightens. She casts
a sidelong look at White Flaw, then looks back to Jamethon. You must
speak to him simply and directly. Like a lupus.
White Flaw lifts his gaze up to Firewatcher, ears pulled forward with a hopeful
expression. I stay, yes?
Atcen shifts her weight, her bony body bulking -- slightly -- into Glabro form.
The Metis cub pipes up hesitantly, ~Was he really a cub when you were,
Firewatcher-rhya?~
[Atcen, Glabro]
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 ripped t-shirt that's an off-shade of white
and a pair of faded and torn blue jeans. Her feet are bare.
Firewatcher noses White Flaw. Yes. The Warder says you may stay here on the
Bawn. You must Guard it. Yes?
White Flaw's posture stiffens with some pride. Guard. Yes. White Flaw guards
home.
Firewatcher bumps White Flaw's shoulder with her own in a lupus gesture of
intimacy, then whuffs at the metis cub affirmatively. Yes, he was. I
passed my Rite of Passage a moon or so before he did.
Jamethon considers Megan's word during another quick sip and when the whiskey
is pulled away his frown is shown. He waits for Atcen to be answered by
Megan before looking to the alpha once more, "You said 'Like?'... a
lupus?"
Atcen's expression hints that she probably has more questions, but she keeps
them to herself for the moment.
White Flaw licks at Megan's passing shoulder, clearly pleased by her touch and
his current situation.
Dane quietly studies White Flaw, then nods and slips out to take up his own
duties.
Firewatcher glances at White Flaw, then shifts up into homid deliberately, to
address Jamethon. "Isaac is...I don't know of a better way to describe
it, but he's a bit slow. I think the politically correct term nowadays is
'mentally challenged'. He knows what he's about. But you start talking
higher concepts or get too complicated, and he's going to lose you."
White Flaw settles down, this time into a comfortable - rather than cringing
and submissive - position, forelegs crossed in front of him, chin resting
where they cross. Content, even as the world goes on around him.
Jamethon raises an eyebrow and seems about to speak again, when he instead
brings the last of his drink to his lips. Finishing up he looks back to
the Silver Fang and just sighs, "Small wonders," he mutters before
pushing to his feet and turning towards the Caern. "I will be patrolling,
as usual. Find me if you need me."
Megan grins with genuine amusement at Jamethon's retreating back, then says to
those remaining, "I'm heading home myself. If anything comes up...howl.
I'll probably hear it."
White Flaw lifts his head from his paws, whuffing softly as Megan starts to
depart.
Megan waves to those left, then steps out of the forest herself, shifting back
to lupus to make her departure.
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