It is currently 18:21 Pacific Time on Mon Apr 19 2004.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 50 degrees
Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
south at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 86 percent. The dewpoint is 46 degrees
Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (0% full).
Bawn: Western Forest(#3018RA)
Tall Sitka spruce and sequoia crowd around and above you. Many of the trees are
old, their branches twisted into impossible shapes, trunks broad and
draped with lichen, mosses and creepers. Tendrils of moss hand down from
them like green spiderwebs, snaring the unwary with cold, ghostly
fingers. The patches of younger growth are dense and pale, needles tinged
with silver. Matted undergrowth huddles sullenly in the occasional small
clearings, clutching with thorns and burrs at the legs of those who would
pass. Deer seldom venture here, but the forest is full of rustlings, and
tiny glints from wary, watchful eyes.
The forest spreads out to the east, bounded on the west by Sunrise Road. From
farther to the west, one can occasionally hear the distant sounds of the
town of Kent's Crossing.
Silver-Tongue looks at her with a little growl as he tugs on the arm, though he
lets go when she asks. He doesn't hang around though, bounding backwards
and too the side, staying out of reach. Who you? His ears are perked and
his tail is curled over his back, ready to run or pounce.
Atcen makes her way through the forest at a steady, ground-eating lope, a
starved gray she-wolf with her grayish tongue hanging out. She pulls up
short, sniffing rapidly, then makes her way toward where Silver Tongue
and Eve are.
Eve inspects her arm for damage, then shrugs and drops it down into her lap.
"Someone who is allowed to be here same as you. Eve
Walks-The-Darkened-Path. Cliath and Theurge of the Bone Gnawers. You?"
[Atcen]
This not-quite fully adult wolf bitch is a starved, unhealthy-looking beast,
too tall for her scant flesh. Her dry, unkempt pelt, light gray,
stretches tight over bone and muscle and sinew, showing clearly the jut
of ribs and spine and hip. Large paws, each toe tipped with a blunt,
yellowish claw, suggest that Atcen has yet more growing to do.
Within her long muzzle are needle-sharp fangs that have an unhealthy yellowish
hue, and from deep sockets within her lean wolven head burn pale blue
eyes, cold as the frost.
Silver-Tongue flicks his ears shifting his attention from Eve and the newcomer,
still looking somewhat suspicious. Silver-Tongue. Moon Dancer and Cub of
Unicorn. His muzzle tilts up, exposing his throat. Forgive,
Walks-The-Darkened-Path-Rhya?
Eve waves off the cub. "Don't worry about it." The Theurge doesn't seem
terribly conserned or upset, which might have something to do with the
moon.
Atcen lifts her head as she steps forward, her tail rising slightly as she
introduces herself. I am Spirit of Cannibals in Winter, gibbous-moon cub
of Little Brother. Pierces the Ice is my teacher.
Eve wrinkles her nose up a little, as she looks over the new arrival. "Geeze,
kid, you're skinner then I am. I have half a sandwich, if you're hungry."
Silver-Tongue bristles his fur up a little, a bit un-nerved by her name and
appearance. He sniffs in her direction carefully, searching for sickness.
Why hungry? Not hunt well? He shifts from paw to paw a bit, chuffing.
Silver-Tongue help you. If want.
Atcen looks interested at Eve's offer of food and waves her tail briefly, but
the other cub's words only net him a snarl and a snap of teeth; she
shoves toward him, not so much to attack as to -- very roughly and firmly
-- assert her dominance over him. I am named after the spirit of hunger
and winter, I am Winter's child, I am _always_ hungry. I am metis, but I
probably hunt better than _you_.
Eve rolls her eyes. "Oh, stop with the posturing, Winters-Child. The Gaian was
only trying to be helpful. Something the Tribe is known for." Diging
around in her outter shirt, the Gnawer locates the sandwich she mentioned
eariler. Removing the plastic wrapping, she holds it out to the Wendigo.
"Still interested in this?"
Silver-Tongue growls and snaps back, his hackles raised and fangs bared,
rejecting her assertion of dominance. He splays his paws out, ready to
take her charge. Listen to Elder. She smart.
Atcen ignores Eve for now -- or at least doesn't reply to her -- and pulls up
short, standing in front of the other cub with her head, ears, and tail
high. Helpful? Maybe. But Little Brother knows about the kind of help
that Wyrmcomers bring. You, homid-cub, you who _must_ be homid because
you talk like one who can barely walk on four legs. Submit. I am your
better.
Eve rolls her eyes, balances the sandwich on a knee and watches the pair of
cubs.
Silver-Tongue snarls at her, hackles still raised and fur fluffed, appearing
larger than he is. His head cocks a little as she mentions the Wyrm,
bristling at her insults. You. You are metis. Silver-Tongue knows you
must be. Your mind is sick. Think you are better. He lets out a Lupus
snicker at her, ears perking.
Atcen bristles right back and takes another step forward, initiating a
staredown. Her manner is supremely confident. How long have you been
Garou? Can you fight? I have been trained by Pierces the Ice, a great
warrior of the north. I defeated an Ahroun cub in battle without taking
more than scratches. I have been Garou longer than you, will probably
Rite before you, and can tell stories better than you. So, yes, I am your
better, so submit.
Eve yawns and closes her eyes, waiting for the pair to work things out on their
own.
Silver-Tongue keeps his gaze locked with the emaciated cub, ears perked,
listening to her. His own posture and attitude is that of a stonewall. He
obviously isn't in the mood for taking her macho posturing at the moment.
He listens, then chuffs out his own response. Questions and lies. Not
worth answering sick Metis. Body weak with hunger. Mind weak with disease
of Litany breach.
Atcen huffs. I will _show_ you 'weak'. Submit, or I will make you see how weak
you are, Forked-Tongue-of-Silver.
Silver-Tongue snorts. Metis trap. I beat you now. You cry to Elder. Elder maul
me. Think I stupid? Insults and lies bad attacks. You say sorry. I
forgive. All happy. Understand?
Atcen snorts and shifts, slowly, up to hispo form. No, Forked-Tongue-of-Silver.
You will either show throat and submit, or _I_ will beat _you_. Or you
can run away, and I will tell everyone that you are a coward, I will tell
_everyone_ the tale of Forked-Tongue-Who-Runs-Away-Whining.
This dire wolf bitch's appearance harkens back to the Ice Age, to a time of
endless ice and snow and famine. Around four feet tall at the shoulder,
Atcen is a whip-thin killing machine with a dry, unkempt pelt of light
gray that's stretched tight over bone and muscle and sinew; she's a
creature without spare flesh or fat. Huge paws, each one armed with
viciously sharp claws, suggest that she still has more growing to do.
Within her long, powerful muzzle are needle-sharp fangs that have an unhealthy
yellowish hue; her claws are the same color. From deep sockets within the
brutish wolven face burn pale blue eyes, cold as the frost.
She's winter's own pup -- a gaunt, hungry beast of winter.
Silver-Tongue follows her shifting into hispo, mirroring her. Listen,
Winters-Child. Apologize. I will not tell of
Winters-Child-Who-Hates-Her-Race. No others will know how you hate help.
How alone you will die. Refuse your race? You will fall to the Wyrm. You
will attack your brother. Fear and hate are in your heart. They will take
you as sickness. Like rot in tree.
Atcen snaps her massive jaws together. ~You talk too much, monkey,~ she says
curtly, and then lunges forward, teeth bared.
Silver-Tongue focuses and makes a supple motion, moving rapidly to the side to
avoid the first lunge of the enraged metis.
Atcen, for those with the wits to perceive it, is not enraged. She's perfectly
in control of herself, and cussedly determined to show the other cub
who's boss.
The Metis' lunge seems to be a feint and she is fully prepared to follow
Silver-Tongue's dodge. Atcen moves faster then should be possible, not
only dodging the Gaian's attack, but spinning around and sinking her huge
fangs into Sly's left shoulder.
Atcen, having gained first blood, doesn't rest on her laurels. She yanks
herself backwards, seeking to pull her teeth clear of Silver-Tongue's
shoulder along with a goodly amount of his flesh.
Silver-Tongue growls as the fangs sink into his shoulder, Rage flowing through
his blood as he snaps at the other Garou, aiming for the side of her neck
to keep her in place.
Atcen yanks and pulls, causing even more damage to Silver-Tongue's shoulder.
Yanking away enough flesh and bone to expose a white knob of bone
underneath, while blood freely stains the grass beneath the two cubs. Sly
did what he could to avoid this, but his first bite failed, only
rewarding him with a mouthful of fur. The second bite struck flesh and
now Acten is bleeding as well, but it is a minor wound. Eve is sitting a
sort distance away and passivly watching the two, prepared to step in if
things get too ugly.
Atcen bounces out of claw-swipe distance, just out of it, and spits out the
mouthful of Sly's flesh. She starts to circle around him, snarling,
~Submit or else, Forked-Tongue-Monkey.~
Long distance to the room: Atcen notes that those who come in physical contact
with Atcen probably notice how chilly her flesh is. Twenty degrees lower
than normal body temperature.
The howl of announcement clearly belonging to Kills-Wisely of the Wendigo
sounds from the east side of the bawn.
Silver-Tongue lifts his throat with a growl. He stays silent and ignores her
insults, fur bristling, his blood dripping.
Eve cracks her knuckles. "Well, now that you two have gotten that out of your
system..." The Gnawer looks at Silver-Tongue's retreating back, then
lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "Jerk. Still interested in this
half-sandwish, Winters-Child?"
Atcen snarls at the other cub's reluctant and, to her eyes, insincere
submission. Triumphant but unsatisfied, she shakes herself and sinks onto
her haunches. After lifting her muzzle to howl a response to
Kills-Wisely, she turns to the Gnawer. ~Spirit of Cannibals is a better
name, Walks-the-Darkened-Path-rhya. Winter's Child is an older name. And,
yes, I will take what you offer.~ Her manner toward the cliath is much
more polite, bristly and irritated as she is.
The wind blows in from the south with a slight chill, carrying with it a
certain Wendigo's scent as the two talk. A little later, from the
southeast Kills-Wisely is spotted, loping in Atcen's direction with
speed, but generally looking unhurried.
Eve sets the sandwich down about a foot away from where she is sitting, not
wanting to demean the wolf by making her take it out of her hand like a
dog. Its roast beef and actually less the 48 hours old. Wonder of
wonders. "Okay. Was just sticking to the other one because its easier,
but I can avoid being lazy if I want to. Can just call me Dark, if you'd
like. Far less complicated."
Atcen snaps up the sandwich, making it vanish with an alacrity that would put a
Gnawer to shame. ~My other name is shorter, but cannot say it in this
form.~ She licks crumbs and blood from her chops, then shrinks down to
lupus and goes over to greet her tribemate in a politely and properly
submissive way, cub to cliath.
Kills-Wisely gets close enough now to eye the one he has been scenting this
whole time, a familiar but only slightly so, scent. As Atcen approaches
he raises to a stiffer and more dominate posture for only so short a time
as to kind of 'get that out of the way'. A quick barking chuff of
greeting is given to the Wendigo cub as Kills-Wisely begins to walk once
more towards where Atcen sat moments before, not bothering to check if
the cub is in tow.
Eve sighs and stands up as the wolf aproaches, justing off her pants as she
does so.
Atcen follows Kills-Wisely back over toward Eve, looking at her curiously. Are
you leaving?
Kills-Wisely eyes Eve with equal curiousity as to her leaving or staying,
though he does not make any obvious communication on the matter.
Eve slips her hands into her pockets and nods. "Yea. Its a long way back to the
city." She looks over at the new wolf and inclines her head in his
direction, before starting to walk away at a decent clip.
Kills-Wisely growls gently at something that seems to bother him. ~That was
familiar urrah. But... not.~ He looks to Atcen as if perhaps the cub has
an answer to his confusion.
Atcen has no real answer to that. She flicks an ear and gives the lupine
version of a shrug. Her name is Walks the Darkened Path. She is a
crescent-moon of the Bone Gnawers.
Kills-Wisely seems even more perplexed at this description, perhaps appearing
to hold some disbelief but then physically shrugs this off. ~The affairs
of the urrah are strange,~ is all he says further on the matter. He turns
to the bleeding Atcen, ~And...?~ it is said in question as the wolf
gestures towards the blood.
Atcen snorts. A cub of the Children of Gaia named Silver-Tongue. Forked-Tongue,
I call him. He would not accept my dominance and we fought. I beat him,
but his submission was not proper. He showed throat and growled, and then
ran away like a coward. Dark-rhya witnessed.
Kills-Wisely growls at the name first, then further and louder at the
explaination of his actions. Will speak with his elders. Forked-Tongue
will learn by them or by me.
Atcen's tail waves faintly, her pale eyes turning fierce.
Kills-Wisely looks to the slightly bloodied cub and his tone turns to approval.
Growling turning to a single chuff, ~What of you, Winter's Child? You
rite soon... are you prepared?~
Atcen growls faintly and briefly, then huffs a sigh. Pierces the Ice has said
now that Turtle and I will not rite until the summer. She wishes to teach
us more, and she wants Turtle to be prepared so we can rite together. The
cub's ears flatten. It will be very hot.
Kills-Wisely does not seem pleased with this, hackles half-raising at the
concept. ~I understand your impatients. I too, for a time, was to wait
for other cubs before my rite. But I came before Leonard and spoke to
him... I am ready, and I am ready now. I will rite.~ He looks off in the
distance, perhaps the way that Leonard traveled, ~He simply nodded, and
we prepared the sweat lodge.~
Atcen sits down and scratches at her side. Except for the time and that it will
be hot... I'm glad to rite with Turtle. I like her.
Kills-Wisely thinks on this for some time and then sits back himself. ~It is ok
to like your fellow cubs. What I do not think is alright, is holding
yourself back. Do /you/ think you are ready to rite, Child?~
Atcen pauses, ears cocking backwards. She eyes the other Wendigo. Maybe I am.
Maybe I am not. But Pierces the Ice is older and wiser.
Kills-Wisely scowls deeply at the cub's words, ~You are not ready,~ he remarks
with less than indifferent tone. His attention turns back towards the
east, and standing once more he faces the bluff, ~Why are you so far out
here, cub?~
Atcen bristles a bit, her ears flattening properly now. Displeased, she tells
him that she has free run of the bawn, even to the ~farmhouse~ if she
wants, but she usually doesn't want.
~If that is your answer.~ His tone has become less friendly than a moment
before, ~And how well do you hunt?~
Atcen gets up, moving away slightly with her tail closer to her haunches. As
well as my wolf-born mother taught me. Why?
Kills-Wisely growls, though it is the sound of one being worked up more than
anger or dissatisfaction, ~And you can fight?~
Atcen cocks her head, looking wary, unsure as to exactly what the other is
getting at. Yes, though I have not yet fought the Enemy.
Kills-Wisely has been looking away towards the bluff all this time, but now
does his neck turn and his eyes gaze measuringly at Atcen. ~You know lore
of our people?~
Atcen asserts that she does, though not as much as others.
Kills-Wisely turns his whole body now, prowling slowly towards the cub as his
eyes bore holes with ever-strengthening gaze. ~And... do you think you
can kill?~
Desiree walks into the bawn, making her way back towards the bluff. She seems
to be frowning conciderably as she walks along, making sure to keep alert.
Atcen clearly dislikes the other's aggressively dominant manner, and she
responds in a perfectly lupine kind of way. She backs off and crouches,
tail lowered and ears back, her lips pulling into a submissive's
appeasing grimace. Of course I can kill. I kill everytime I hunt and
succeed. Why are you asking me all of this?
Kills-Wisely sniffs deeply with his nostrils and looks suddenly towards the
direction of Kent Crossing. ~Inhale... scent deeply. You do not need to
smell the wyrm to catch that putrid air on the breeze. It is distant, but
tonight... we hunt corrupted animal flesh, and we do not eat, we kill.~
Atcen's ears perk with interest. We hunt? Hunt Wyrm?
Kills-Wisely doesn't bother answering in any fashion aside from a quick chuff
before begining a run towards the woods closer to the crossing and
somewhat away from the old warded boundries of the bawn.
Kills-Wisely pages to the room: Not a huge fan myself. Basically, there is a
forest cat, that in hunger ate some tainted meat and while sick was taken
by a small wyrm spirit. Nothing difficult to kill but definatly a fight
you'll earn yourself a small collections of painful scratches from.
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