Squeamish Hunting

[hazlogs]

It is currently 10:11 Pacific Time on Tue May 5 1998.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (61% full).
Currently on this windy and crisp spring midmorning in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 65 degrees Fahrenheit (18.3 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the north at 28 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are hazy with a definite 
  chance of precipitation.

Easily weighing over a hundred pounds, this large specimen is powerfully 
  built, both tall and broad-shouldered. His fur is white like an arctic 
  wolf's, with silver highlights running through it; his eyes, like all true 
  wolves', are amber in color. His manner tends to be relaxed, but never quite 
  calm. His moods shift quickly, as do his posture and scent: from playful to 
  serious, dominant to submissive, all dependent on who and what is around him.

At dawn, Nightflash is dozing in the woods near the farmhouse. His scent is 
  easy to pick up, and tracking him down should present little trouble.
Voice-of-Trees hobbles through the forest from the direction of the farmhouse, 
  slowly. Though the connection to his Totem grants him some extra ability in 
  moving through the trees, his missing limb and general unfamiliarity with 
  wolf form both act to handicap the Fianna. Edgy, nervous, clearly uncertain, 
  he makes his way, sniffing at the ground.
It is probably fortunate that a wolf's sense of smell is far superior to his 
  sense of sight. Nightflash catches, and recognizes, the scent of the Fianna 
  long before the wolf is close enough to truly see the disfigured form. When 
  he does, he cannot supress his revulsion at Voice-of-Tree's appearance, but 
  at least he recognizes him and does not take him for a Wyrm creature.

Voice-of-Trees(#2989Pce)
Grotesquely thin and ugly, Voice-of-Trees is a living spectre of lupine death, 
  standing three feet at the shoulder on three gangly, spindly legs, the right 
  foreleg ending in a stump at the elbow. Corpse-pallid skin is stretched 
  drum-tight over stringy muscle and too-obvious bone, the pale hide bald but 
  for a few thin, irregular patches of dull black fur. From a wolven death's 
  head gaze brilliant green eyes, apprehensive in their deep, misaligned 
  sockets; a number of small, regular scars encircle the left. Discolored 
  fangs are visible within the long muzzle, and an area of scar tissue covers 
  the beast's lower left foreleg.
Nothing should look like this and live, but there he is, moving with the 
  cringing hesitation of a career omega, hobbling slowly with the loss of the 
  one foreleg. He smells very faintly of evergreens.

Voice-of-Trees's ears flatten back against his skull, the ratlike tail tucking 
  between his hin haunches as he lowers his body in apology to the other, eyes 
  averted.
Nightflash walks over and nuzzles the other wolf in greeting. Welcome. I see 
  that you have little experience walking in this form.
Confusion is evident in the Metis Fianna; the revulsion he's familiar with, 
  but the nuzzle and welcoming catches him off-guard. Large, splayed paws 
  shift restlessly on the forest floor. I do not look anything like a true 
  wolf. I was never taught.
Nightflash agrees that this is so, but it is no reason for you not to learn. 
  This form has other benefits. Speed, and the ability to track. You will 
  often find yourself tracking something, as a guardian. You found me easily 
  enough.
Voice-of-Trees's head bobs in a human-style nod, slowly. Yes. I did. He 
  shivers slightly in the cool spring dawn and shifts his weight again like a 
  restless foal.
Nightflash will work more slowly, then. Before you can learn to hunt, you must 
  learn to run. The white wolf sets off at a trot, faster than walking but 
  nothing like a full sprint. He quickly circles back around so that 
  Voice-of-Trees can observe.
Voice-of-Trees lifts his head, ears shifting forward as he watches, shifting 
  his paws and turning slightly as the other Garou comes back around. 
  Hesitantly, he starts limping after Nightflash, the grace of his bipedal 
  forms turned awkward and unsteady.
Nightflash realizes that it is more difficult without the fourth leg, but it 
  can be done. He draws his foreleg up to demonstrate. It is not uncommon for 
  a wounded wolf to have to run on three.
Voice-of-Trees limps doggedly along, an obedient pupil if not a confident one. 
  He agrees that it is hard. He clearly still has doubts that one can hunt 
  like this.
Nightflash gives a dismissive earflick. Hunting is a matter of knowing. It 
  takes more than the loss of a leg to starve a wolf who truly knows. I admit 
  that dinner may not be as appetizing, but you will not starve.
Voice-of-Trees dips his head in meek acceptance and continues limping along at 
  something resembling a trot. He eventually finds some sort of rhythm and 
  sticks to it. It still isn't near what a lupus or other ferally-experienced 
  Garou would accomplish, but he hasn't fallen down yet or tripped over 
  himself.
Nightflash keeps it up for about an hour. Sometimes he'll slow to a walk, 
  sometimes he'll pick up the pace, but in general, he maintains the simple 
  trot. He explains at some point that for most wolves, this is the normal 
  mode of travel, and a true wolf can keep this up for half a night. Our kind 
  can often go much longer.
By the end of the hour, Voice's grayish-pink tongue is hanging out of his long 
  muzzle. The in-and-out movement of his ribs is all too visible, like the 
  breathing of a lizard.
Nightflash finally calls a stop. Rest, I will bring you food. Now that you 
  know how to trot, you should practice it as much as you can. Running will be 
  more difficult, but still quite possible.
Voice-of-Trees stumbles to a halt and collapses on the ground, panting. He 
  bobs his head a little and indicates agreement and strong gratitude.
Nightflash trots off into the forest for a bit.
Voice-of-Trees lies half-sprawled upon the ground, ears swivelled back as he 
  rests, waiting for the other's return.
It takes several minutes, but Nightflash returns with a mouse in his jaws. He 
  drops this in front of Voice-of-Trees and trots off again into the woods.
Voice-of-Trees blinks a few times and sniffs at the mouse, his ears moving in 
  uncertainty. He noses the small dead animal a bit and then gingerly nips at 
  the tiny carcass.
Nightflash returns more quickly the second time with another mouse. This one 
  is alive, if a bit stunned, and after dropping it, he holds it down with one 
  paw so that it can't escape.
Voice-of-Trees noses at the dead mouse again and then takes it in his jaws, 
  holding it loosely within his mouth. He glances at Nightflash and then, with 
  a visible effort of will, crunches down on the tiny corpse. His ears flatten 
  as he chews and swallows the mouse, trying desperately hard to control his 
  revulsion at the taste of blood and and the feel of the tiny body crunched 
  and mashed. There is a curse to having an overabundance of empathy and 
  imagination.
Nightflash looks very pleased, indeed. You will grow accustomed to the taste. 
  If you spend more time in this shape, you will even come to like it. Do not 
  be repulsed. Eating is only natural, and this is far cleaner than anything 
  you could eat that came from the hands of man.
Voice-of-Trees swallows again. The Fianna still looks rather ill from the 
  experience but makes no protest.
Nightflash notes with good humor that you need not swallow the bones if you 
  prefer not to.
Voice-of-Trees was, clearly, unaware of this fact. But it's obviously 
  something he will remember in future.
Once the Fianna is finished, Nightflash indicates the second mouse, which is 
  still pinned beneath his paw. Every now and again it struggles weakly, but 
  otherwise it remains still.
Voice-of-Trees cringes slightly. You want me to kill it?
Nightflash does. Voice-of-Trees, there is no evil in killing in order to eat. 
  Bite the head of the mouse. Kill it quickly, without pain.
Voice-of-Trees pushes to his paws and limps over to the pinned mouse, his tail 
  tucked between his legs. He clearly does not want to kill it. It's small. 
  It's helpless. Even to eat, he does not want to kill it.
Nightflash doesn't attempt to threaten or intimidate the other Garou, but he 
  seems quite clearly bent on this lesson. Everything must kill in order to 
  live. Everything you have ever eaten was killed, by yourself or another. 
  This is Gaia's way. You may pass to the other side, after, and thank the 
  spirit of the mouse for feeding you, if it will help.
Voice-of-Trees bends to the other's will. Perhaps the suggestion about the 
  mouse's spirit helps. In any case, he brings his muzzle down to the weakly 
  struggling little animal and, with an apology in beast-language, bites the 
  mouse's head to kill it. He flinches visibly.
Nightflash steps back with a satisfied chuff.
Voice-of-Trees opens his jaws and lets the corpse drop back to the ground. He 
  stares at it morosely. I should eat that, too. Since it's dead.
Nightflash thinks you should, yes, or the mouse's sacrifice means nothing.
Nightflash bumps against the Fianna again and rises. Do not be ashamed or 
  afraid of what you did. You have done nothing wrong.
Voice-of-Trees attends to the Gaian's words, but still feels unhappy abou the 
  killing. He studies the carcass for a moment and then nips at it, teeth 
  biting through the tiny skin. He attempts to eat it without resorting to 
  crunching the bones as he did before, but this takes too long, and finally, 
  just to get it over with, he simply snaps it up.
Nightflash will see you again this evening. Get some rest, or join your pack. 
  The Fury was asking after you.
Voice-of-Trees swallows again, sunken eyes closing as he lies down, feeling a 
  little weak from nausea. He manages a sincere thank you to the Gaian.