Meeting the Righ

[hazlogs]

[17 April 1997]

Steven makes his way north into the clearing, carrying along a violin case;
this one newer than the other he brought some days ago. He is silent as he
walks, looking around the grotto.
Violin music fills the grotto, as it has almost since the day Erik arrived.
He's playing Vivaldi tonight, a celebration La Primavera, spring.
Steven moves towards the source of the music and listening as it flows from
the violin. He looks content to wait, taking a seat nearby, laying the case
carefully to the side.
Absorbed in the music, Erik is wholly unaware of Steven's presence. Solo, he
plays through the joyful main theme to the mimicry of spring itself, the
violin voicing the high trills of birds, the murmur of a running stream,
then the low quiver of thunder and high-noted flashes of lightning.
Steven can't stop himself from breaking into a smile as he listens; this
action is nearly unconscious on his part, an inborn appreciation and
acknowledgement for skill and talent, regardless of who possesses it. He
starts to nod, finally clapping lightly as Erik comes to the end of the
movement. "Well played," he says before he knows what he's doing. Abruptly,
the smile disappears, and he stands, gathering the case as he does so.
Erik's tall body jerks slightly, as much surprised at the praise as by
Steven's unnoticed arrival. He ducks his head, bowing, and lowers the
borrowed instrument.
Steven says "Eamon's given me the afternoon off, so I could deliver this out
to you. We just got it back yesterday. Did you have trouble keeping the
loaner in tune?"
Erik shifts his weight slightly, kneeling as he places the loaned violin
carefully back in its case. "It requires near-constant tuning," the Galliard
murmurs, "but... it was not a trouble, sir, no."
Steven watches Erik put the loaner back into its case, his expression neutral.
"I thought it might. There's an extra block of rosin in this case for your
bow, too." He holds out the other case towards the Metis. "Here," he says,
"test it out. I just barely had a chance to tune it myself."
Erik bows again, gratitude in his body language as he accepts the other
violin. Kneeling on the ground, he opens the catches with swift, gloved
fingers and takes the instrument from its case, turning it over with
reverant hands. "Beautiful..."
"Isn't it?" Steven asks, looking at the violin. "Excellent work." He bends
over to collect the other case. "I'll make sure this gets back to the shop."
Erik nods, the greatest part of his attention already on the violin. Lifting
it to his chin and wielding the bow, he plays a quick scale, stopping
mid-way to adjust one of the strings. Belatedly, he remembers, and ducks his
head again to Steven. "Thank you."
Steven returns a half-grin to Erik, which again, quickly fades. "Sure," he
says, "but make sure you thank Eamon too. It's his money you're playing,
really."
Erik nods again, hastily. "Yes, of course, I shall." He pauses, then says,
hesitantly, "Mr. Paolin stopped by the other night, sir..."
Steven's eyebrows lift, and he crosses his arms. "Did he now?"
Erik shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "He... he said that we'd
come to teach me the ritual of dedication," the Metis says slowly. "As... as
part of an... agreement?" He pauses. "I already knew... er, know, the rite,
rather."
Steven nods slowly. "It was part of a bargain, yes, when we came to rescue
you. But you know it already?" He shakes his head a little, with a small
chuckle. "Huh."
Erik exhales a breath and shrugs, rather embarrassed. "Instead, I showed him
the ritual to greet and praise Luna, at his request."
Steven looks at Erik quizzically for a moment before he speaks. "Is Vincent a
good student?" he asks with a grin.
Erik hesitates a moment, gathering his thoughts and the proper words. "Mr.
Paolin is... terse. But he learned the rite quickly."
Steven seems mildly surprised, and mostly amused by this. "Terse." He snorts.
"That's Vincent, alright." He gives his head another small shake and says,
"Well, I expect the Righ to show up soon. I asked him what the hell he
wanted us to do with you. For what it's worth, I told him we should send you
back to where ever you came from, but he felt like it would be too much of a
risk -- the cops are still trying to locate you." He stares at Erik. "So.
You're here with us. For a while."
Erik freezes, whatever mild ease he might have been starting to feel
evaporating, the tall body suddenly tense. His fingers tighten slightly, and
unconsciously he draws the violin closer to him. "The... the Righ?" His
voice quavers slightly, like Vivaldi's birds after the thunderstorm.
Steven continues to stare at the Metis. "What's the problem? Don't you want to
meet him?" There is a rough edge in Steven's voice.
Erik lowers his head, shoulders hunched and fidgeting slightly. Anxiety clouds
his angelic voice. "I..." He stops, tilts his head to glance, briefly, at
the other Fianna. "Nerves," he manages finally, weakly.
Steven laughs loudly, finding this situation very funny. "Nerves?" He points
his finger at Erik, saying between smaller chuckles, "With a voice like
that, you're nervous?"
Erik shrugs, his body still tense and awkward with tension. "Er..."
Steven stops laughing suddenly, his face drawn into a frown. "Well, you should
be. Righ's not one for Metis."
Erik shifts his weight again. The other's sudden shift in mood has confused
him and done nothing at all for his sense of peace. "I... I never expected
so, sir," he replies after a moment, warily.
Eamon emerges from the woods to the south, at the fringe of the clearing
around the grotto.
Steven nods tersely at Erik. "Good. Don't get your hopes up too high. I'm not
to keen on the idea of you being around here, I already told you that --
but, it's also too dangerous to let you leave the area right now." He sighs,
still holding a faint frown on his face.
Eamon wanders into the grotto and looks around to see who's around.
Erik nods to Steven. At Eamon's arrival, the tall Metis bows and holds up the
repaired violin slightly. "Mr. Fitzpatrick.... ah, thank you."
Steven turns, following Erik's shifted attention, and waves at Eamon.
"Evening," he says casually to the Ragabash.
Eamon smiles and nods. "No prob."
Steven turns back to Erik, recrossing his arms. "How long have you been
playing violin anyway?"
Erik turns his attention back to Steven. "Er... all my life. Since I was a...
child."
Steven's response is a slow, silent nod of his head. "And your teacher was...
another Galliard? A human? Kinfolk?" he asks after a moment of intense
consideration.
"Kinfolk, sir," answers the Metis.
Eamon says "What part of Eire are you from?"
Erik tilts his head sideways and down, looking at Eamon from behind the mask.
His tone carries a note of chagrin. "I'm not. I was born in Massachusetts,
Mr. Fitzpatrick. But my Uncle's pack..."
Steven gives another measured nod of his head before he speaks. "Your
instructor is to be congratulated on making something useful out of you.
Your playing is... impressive, to say the least." The praise is given
reluctantly, but it sounds sincere. He glances at Eamon and then back at
Erik, uncrossing his arms and picking up the loaner violin's case again.
"I'll be on my way then." He gives Eamon a nod on his way south. "See you
later," he says as he passes by the ragabash.
Eamon nods to Steven. "Remind me later that I wanted to talk to you."
Erik bows slightly to Steven as the other leaves.
Steven stops and turns back to Eamon, a small grin creeping into his face.
"Oh?" he asks, curious, before he continues, "I'm not in all that eager to
walk back into town. What about?"
Eamon says "Nothin', really. It's kinda personal, if you know what I mean."
Steven shrugs. "Okay. I like to drop by the Rat and Raven most nights. I'll
probably be around there, later tonight, if you want to talk then." He
grins. "I'll even buy you a drink."
Eamon grins. "I'm there."
Steven chuckles and resumes his walk south. "See you then."
Steven has left.
Erik retreats slightly to another part of the grotto. After a moment or two,
the voice of the restored violin flows through the air, the notes slow and
sweet.
Eamon says "So, how's it playing?"
The music stops as Erik glances over. "It's beautiful," he murmurs. "Thank
you, sir."
Eamon chuckles. "Wouldja stop callin' me that? Sheesh. Just call me Eamon. I
hardly rate a sir, even if I am fostern. Listen, I'm not like most of the
other guys, okay? I don't utterly hate all metis. I really don't care one
way or the other."
Erik gestures vaguely with the hand that wields the bow of the violin. "If...
if you say so, sir. Er, Eamon."
Eamon nods. "I like to form my own opinions, not just hate somebody just
'cause everybody says to."
Erik hesitates, then nods with wary neutrality.
Eamon says "Well, anyway, nice talkin' with you, Erik. Seeya around."
Eamon waves and heads out of the grotto.
Eamon walks into the woods to the south, disappearing between the trees.

[Later.]

Brian emerges from the woods to the south, at the fringe of the clearing
around the grotto.
Shea is perched in her tree, with a recorder in hand, fingering the stops idly.
The violin's soft voice weaves its quiet way through the air of the grotto,
some unrecognizable tune in a minor key and a Mozart influence. The
musician, Erik, stands off to the side, unaware of the Righ's arrival.
Brian heads out of the southern woods with long and purposeful strides. His
expression, though cool and grim, is touched by a bit of the fury that the
waxing moon brings, and, unusually, the hem of his coat is brushed back over
the hilt of his klaive, thus revealing the weapon to the world. The violin
music gives him pause, but does nothing to lighten his mood. After standing
still for a few moments, and giving Shea a quick nod of greeting, he clears
his throat loudly.
Shea looks to Brian, and returns the nod, along with a light salute with the
recorder in hand. She glances then toward Erik, and the violin, but says
nothing.
The music halts in mid-phrase and a slight screech. Glancing up, Erik suddenly
goes stiff with anxiety and a touch of blunt terror.
Despite the northerly climate, the weather's a bit warm for a coat this time
of year, so Brian's absent rolling-up of his sleeves is perhaps due to this
fact. He stares at Erik for a while, without saying a word.
Shea's eyes pingpong between Alpha and metis, without comment, for another
moment or two, until -she- clears her throat, and slips down from her nest
of branches. She tilts her head a little toward Brian, a silent hint to
Erik. With luck.
Erik finally gathers together his half-tharn wits and manages a bow toward
Brian, awkward in his nervousness. "R-righ," he stammers, the quaver marring
the otherwise perfect timbre of his voice. "I... uh." Green eyes flick,
helplessly, to Shea, and then back to Brian, quickly over his face and then
down, never meeting his eyes.
The moment Erik's gaze slips downwards, Brian clenches his right hand into a
fist and drives it towards the newcomer's belly in a savage punch.
Shea, to her credit, only flinches a bit, then tucks the recorder into her
back pocket, and her hands into her front.
The Metis' breath is expelled in a sharp 'woof' as the punch connects. Folden
over, he stumbles back and trips over an exposed tree root, landing hard on
his back.
Brian clenches and unclenches his right hand a few times, as if to stretch the
just-stressed muscles and bones. "That," he says mildly, "is for being a
shithead. We have a Litany that contains a word or two about this thing
called the Veil. Maybe you've heard of it?"
Erik remains on the ground, catching his breath. The violin is unharmed in the
fall, mostly because the Galliard has shielded it from the ground with his
body. Now he holds it close to his chest. "Yes... Righ," he gasps.
"I'm pleased," Brian says genuinely as his hands return to his sides. "It
means that you were at least taught correctly, and that the explanation for
your stupidity is your birth and nothing more. However, since we like to try
to be honest with each other around here, why don't you start by introducing
yourself to me, and telling me if there's anything else wrong with you
besides this idiocy of yours."
Erik sits up, slowly, still holding violin and bow to his chest, not daring to
look up from the ground. "Erik, Righ. Erik Sings-in-Shadow. G-galliard of
the Fianna, Cliath of rank." No mention of parents or ancestors, which is
probably not surprising. His throat makes an audible 'click' as he swallows.
A vague gesture is made toward the mask. "I'm a monster."
Shea interjects, "Says he's got the face of a man long dead, Righ. I haven't
looked t'see if it's so."
Brian wrinkles his nose in disgust, and unconsciously takes a step or two back
away from Erik. "I am called Heartsfire, also Echen Mac Conaill, and among
humans I am Brian O'Flannery. I am the grandson of Conaill ui Suillibhean,
and was born beneath the full moon. I bear scars given me by Silvernails. I
led the Garou of the sept of the Wheel Renewed against the Black Spiral
Dancers of the Hanford Hive, and again on one of the only successful Great
Hunts in all of North America. I lead the Fianna as well as the sept." He
pauses just long enough to draw breath and then demands, "Now pick yourself
up off the ground."
Erik obediently gets to his feet, breathing raggedly.
Brian begins to pace a circle around Erik. He continues to inspect the metis
closely -- as if perversely interested in catching a glimpse of what lies
beneath the mask -- but keeps his distance, coming no closer than perhaps a
yard or two. "You've worn out your welcome in the city, for the foreseeable
future," he says. "For as long as you stay in the area you will stay in the
woods, whether that means the grotto or the bawn itself I don't particularly
care." He pauses to let that sink in, and then goes on, "Steven tells me
that you've a fair singing voice, and you seem to know how to play that
fiddle. So to make up for your fuck-up in town, you're going to compose a
song about the importance of the Veil. And then you're going to find the
elders of the other twelve tribes at the Wheel. And you're going to explain
that the Alpha has asked you to sing this song for the benefit of all the
tribes' cubs. If they permit it, you're then going to sing your song. As
frenquently as asked."
Erik ducks his head, nodding with and saying nothing but a meek, "Yes, Righ."
There's no hint of resentment in his tone, not even a breath of a thought of
defending himself or making excuses.
Shea tsks, and shakes her head. "For pity's sake, Erik. Stand up, would you?
Stop shrinkin'. The worst's over, your sentence is cast." Her voice drops to
a murmur, to add, to herself it would seem, "Can't stand people shrinkin'
from their own shadow."
Erik jumps slightly, but straightens up a little, his head tilting as he
glances in Shea's direction. Shifting his weight from one boat-sized shoe to
the other, the gangly figure turns his attention back to the Righ, waiting
to see if he has anything else to say.
Brian gestures southwards. "The caern's in that direction. Big clearing in the
woods. Hard to miss if you're Garou. You're not to enter the caern itself,
not for any reason. You may wander the bawn so long as you introduce
yourself to anyone who asks." His hands clench into fists again, and for a
moment it seems like he might resort to slapping Erik around a bit more, but
finally he exhales a breath and says, "I have nothing else for you."
Erik ducks his head to Brian, head tilting slightly to one side like a wolf
bearing its throat. Then, after bowing to Shea, the Metis scuttles off into
the surrounding forest, rather hastily.