~Brings-Winter's-Bite dies tonight.~

[hazlogs]

Shore Around Half Moon Pool

The shadowy canopy of evergreens recedes here, opening into a small clearing. Even the moss and ferns retreat, allowing grass to sprout underfoot--vibrant, green, luxuriant and seemingly soft to the touch. During springtime, small flowers--some purple and others blue or yellow--add to the spread of color. Immediately to the east, the ground rises into a small, rocky outcropping, at the base of which stands a large pool of crystal clear water; the barest rivulet of a stream wends its way south and west from the pool across the clearing, losing itself in the forest. This whole area has about it a sense of peace and silence. The air is cool and fresh, the scent of the flowers pleasant, the colors of the forest in seemingly perfect balance. Anything not pristine or natural seems almost a world away.

The half-moon shaped pool lies just to the east. A faint trail seems to follow the little stream southwest into the forest.

Salem, in Glabro, sits crosslegged at the edge of the halfmoon pool, cradling a plain wooden bowl. His expression is distant and thoughtful.

This hairy young brute seems barely human. He's around six feet tall and looks like a real bruiser, with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and lots of obvious muscle. His face is bony and feral, with a heavy shelf of brow and an out-thrust jaw; sharp fingernails, pointed ears, and overlong canine teeth add to a general impression of animalistic menace and potential violence that's enough to make most mortals blench. His thick, straight black hair is medium-length and shaggy, and though he's probably only in his mid-teens, he's already got a hell of a five o'clock shadow.

Rumpled blue jeans, battered sneakers, and black t-shirts are his usual attire, along with a black hoodie for the colder weather and a black denim jacket over that.

Jamethon comes in from the direction of the Caern, his mood an aggressive mix of anxious and passionate energies. He has his Chimeric spear in hand, primarily as a walking stick, but from the way he holds it high and tight, shows a sense of alertness.

This man, probably in his late thirties, is somewhere around six foot six. Not only tall, he has about three hundred or so pounds of mostly muscle on him. His beard is about three weeks grown in, worn on a face which is a haunted mask of concentration. His eyes, dark enough to seem black, are full of shadows and have a habit of quickly dancing in random directions. Hair grows down to his neck and is a wind-blown tangle of black and grey giving a wild aire to the Fenrir.

Jamethon currently wears a heavy black wool shirt under a pristine brown leather jacket and a pair of classic, heavy blue jeans. Around his neck hangs a copper disc set in with a shield cut piece of brilliant forest-green jade at its center (look jamethon's pendant). Completing the outfit are a pair of shit-kicker, steel-toed, heavy leather boots.

Scars on his forehead, just below his bangs, are the tips of a set of three jagged scars that travel up and back, the rest covered by the Fenrir's hair. A large myriad collection of scars adorn his visage at other various points as well (+detail Jamethon's scars).

Seems fitting that there's a light snow falling-- that it has been falling throughout the day.
The temperature has remained at an even 32 for the better part of the day, even long after sundown. Means the now-Shadow Lord Philodox arrives in appropriate attire, with a messenger bag looped over her shoulder-- presumably, with the change of clothes she'd been advised to bring.
She inspects the area on approach, more out of habit than anything like suspicion, and and offers both men a nod of greeting once she's within range, her own energy veering more towards the anxious, though it remains oddly subdued.
"Adren," she says to Salem. "Alpha," to Jamethon, visibly waiting for some kind of instruction.

Salem notes Jamethon's entrance with a sidelong look but remains seated until Sandra arrives. Pushing smoothly to his feet, he faces her and asks, quite seriously, ~Since there is no going back after this, I must ask if you are still determined to undergo Renunciation and let go everything that you were, including rank, renown, and name.~

The rankling that comes from Jamethon is barely noticeable at the mention of loss, but it is there. He plants the butt of the spear into the ground heavily, and waits for Sandra's answer.

Setting her messenger bag aside, Sandra steps forward, hands clasped loosely in front of her. To the question posed, she gives an affirmative nod, and says, "Yes, Scar-rhya. I'm ready."

Salem nods. Turning away, he kneels down at the side of the pool to dip the bowl into the icy water, filling it. Then he straightens up and turns back, facing both her and Jamethon, their one witness. Formally, he states, ~Tonight, a Garou turns her back on the tribe that Rited her. Tonight, a Shadow Lord rejects Grandfather Thunder. Tonight, a Shadow Lord dies, and a new Garou is born.~ To Sandra, he says, ~Remain in the form of your birth and remove all items you were not born with. Discard them as you discard your old life, step away from them as you step away from your old tribe.~

Jamethon steps back and around the two, to circle behind Sandra. His anxiety is still present, though he remains silent.

There isn't any hesitation, at the instructions are given. Carefully, methodically, from her coat to the shoes she wears, each item of clothing is removed, and set on the ground, away from the messenger bag. Last is a small necklace with the Shadow Lords' tribal glyph carved into it - a piece of bone, by the looks of it - the item discarded with some dignity, but without reluctance.
Without visible reluctance. It'd be hard to imagine anyone not having even the slightest bit of doubt, going up against the decree of an Incarna.
Nonetheless, she steps forward to approach when she's finished, wearing only the scars on her skin, from deep rakes of claws and teeth on her upper arms and left calf muscle, to a brutal shotgun scar on her left thigh. Tension laces through muscle in response to the cold, but with her jaw set, she seems intent on remaining still, and fighting the innate desire to shiver; to bring heat back to the surface of her skin.

Salem steps over to her and pours one third of the bowl's contents over her head -- freezingly cold water on a frigid night. ~A Shadow Lord dies tonight,~ he intones. Another third of the cold water is poured over her. ~A Fostern dies tonight.~ The final third is somehow even colder than the rest of the water from the bowl. ~Brings-Winter's-Bite dies tonight.~
And then he shifts up to Crinos and howls, a thunderous and discordant cry. ~Witness, Luna! Witness, Grandfather Thunder and his kin! Witness, spirits! Witness, Sept of the Triquetral Accord! This one willingly sheds her tribe, her rank, her name, her skin! Brings-Winter's-Bite is dead!~

This young werewolf is pretty lean compared to most of his kind and stands just under nine feet tall when fully upright. Yet despite his obvious youth and lack of battlescars, he does not move or act like an unbloodied cub but instead carries himself with the surety and skill of a much older, much more experienced Garou. His Shadow Lord breeding is obvious to those who can see it, from his thick black fur and barrel chest to his intense golden eyes.

Jamethon grips up and points the spear at Sandra accusingly, he joins in the howl. It is dire and mournful, not in any kind of synchronicity with Salem's.

Though it takes visible effort to keep her teeth from chattering, to keep from making much of any sound, Sandra-- manages. There's a sharp breath sucked in through her nose, and several rounds of audible breaths taken from then on out, but through her eyes squint and her brow furrows, she seems to make it through. It's only the last douse of frigid water that earns a full-on flinch, but she doesn't shy; just lets the moment pass, and keeps her lips tightened into a thin line to mute the chattering of teeth.

Scar lowers his muzzle from the howl and looms over the woman for several long moments. Then he turns to Jamethon. ~A Garou stands here, nameless and tribeless. Are you willing to take responsibility for her and bring her back into the Nation?~

Jamethon is silent now, and slowly lowers the spear, shifting back down to the human body as his posture and mood relaxes. He walks around now to stand before the nameless one, rather than behind and looks her up and down. He waits for a moment and shrugs. He considers aloud, "There is no need in the Nation for nameless ones. So I call you Twice-Bitten, once more of the Fenrir as your birth intended. Cliath, Philodox, Homid-born," he pauses and after a moment to let her really enjoy the cold adds, "Get of Fenrir. I pray you are prepared for what is soon to come for you. Twice-Bitten! Do you accept your name? Do you accept your place? Do you accept whatever is to come?"

As the Glass Walker stands over her, Sandra keeps her hands at her sides, the both of them gripped tightly into fists. Another measure of restraint, it seems, the both of them trembling just enough for the movement to be visible, the act of shivering no longer something that can be so easily ignored. All the same, she keeps her head lifted, careful not to make eye contact with Jamethon as he strides in front of her, her jaw clenched to keep the chattering to a minimum.
"Yes, Reflection's-Howl-rhya," she says, once given the room to speak, her voice understandably strained. "I accept my name, my place, and everything that is to come with it."

Salem shifts back down to homid and shakes the last drops from the wooden ritual bowl. "I leave you in Jamethon's capable hands, then. Good luck."

Jamethon nods his head in respect to Salem and steps away from the two. He turns back towards her and then explodes up to the Crinos form. The elder of the two Fenrir demands of the other, ~Be who you are, Twice-Bitten! Take the form of war and cry out your new name!~

The newly-arrived Fenrir surges up into her own war form, hackles bristling with the urge to shake free all the water still clinging to fur and skin, fingers hooked to show claws, lips curled to show teeth. Sucking in a deep breath, she throws back her head, and does precisely as she's told.
~I am Twice-Bitten-- Cliath, born and reborn to the Get of Fenris on two legs, under the judge's half-moon,~ is called out in a bellowing howl to the cloudy sky overhead, imbued as it is with an innate defiance of all that might oppose the announcement. And while there's a certain temptation to amend, to embellish, she allows the sound to last for only as long as is needed to make her point, and be sure that anyone on the bawn with ears to hear it is made aware.

Salem's smile is tight. He remains for as long as it takes for the new Get to finish her howl, then heads off, the bowl tucked under one arm.