The Formation of Synthesis

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:08 Pacific Time on Tue Apr 30 2002.

Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 68 degrees
Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
northeast at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.89 and steady, and
the relative humidity is 50 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit
(9 degrees Celsius.)

Umbra: Harbor Park

The Umbral ground beneath your feet here is lush with vegetation, an oasis
of life amidst the concrete and webbing of the scab. Trees stand proud and
tall here, their branches full of leaves. Shrubs line the outer edges of the
park, tangled with encroaching webs. The fountain stands out boldly from
even the surrounding area, the sleek lines sharper and more pronounced.
Clean pure water roars and cascades from the figure in the fountain's
center, falling into a cold clear pool that looks quite inviting. Spreading
out from the fountain, the rest of the park is a green veldt that seems to
radiate life and strength. The river banks the east shore of the park,
bridged by a massive rusty bridge. On this shore, the glade seems to have
spread out on to it, vines winding around the supports. Further across the
river, the bridge melds into the scab again, flaked with rust and covered in
webs. The river itself is clean within a few feet of the shore, but black
ooze seems to encroach menacingly from the murk of the rest of the river.

A walkway leads out of the Glade-like atmosphere of the park from just north
of the fountain. Eastward, the dark span of the bridge stretches over the
vile river. Dark streets lead west and southwest into the blighted Umbra of
the city.


Rides-Fire bares his teeth as he stares toward the bridge, obvious in his
desire that the pair of wolves do more than guard tonight. Andrea, though,
seems unworried that the two lupus may desert the proceedings. She continues
to unpack a small canvas bag, laying dried vines in the center of a cleared
area.

John stalks quietly toward where Andrea works. His hands are sunken into his
coat pockets, and his expression - grim as ever - seems to be warring with a
mild anxiety.

Nightflash, not quite as eager to charge the bridge as his packmate, is
nevertheless full of aggressive energy and gibbous-moon-tension. He paces a
wide circle around the proceeding alternately sniffing the air and then the
ground.

Salem is less than comfortable in the Umbra and edgy under the gibbous moon.
He arrives with hands buried firmly in his coat pockets. His expression is
stony, though his gaze moves restlessly.

Leala looks at the clearing and then around the perimeter, a nervous
expression darkening her face. Her arms are crossed in front of her in a
defensive position. She is not at her element here, and it shows.

Andrea glances up at John. "Whenever your pack is ready," she assures the
Glass Walker mildly. "I regret that the moon must be so full for this, but
it seems...appropriate...as well as safer." She glances from Salem to Leala,
then says, "Part of the rite is the naming of each pack member by the
ritemaster. Perhaps we should make sure I know the appropriate information
for each of your pack."

Leala clears her throat and bows her head slightly in deference to Andrea.
"Rhya, Leala Marx, Paints-With-Light, Ragabash Cliath."

John casts an eye back to the other two Walkers, and then looks back to
Andrea. Coming to a stop, the Walker Elder's hands leave his pockets and
ball by his sides. Flexing and cracking idly as he mentally prepares for
this unfamiliar ritual.

Andrea smiles briefly, then confirms to be sure, "Glass Walker, correct?"

"Salem," says the Philodox curtly. "Half moon of the Glass Walkers. Cliath."

Leala looks blank a moment, and then nods quickly. "Yes, sorry. We're all
Glass Walkers. I just assumed..."

"I don't know all of you well enough to assume that," Andrea admits. "And I
regret that. Perhaps you will welcome me in your safehouse, so the next time
I do a ritual for you I will not be becoming well acquainted with you." Her
eyes flicker to Salem, then back to Leala. "Or reacquainted with you, for
such an important ritual."

John turns to give Leala a faint, near-smile. And a wink. He looks to
Andrea, and whatever hint of warmth that was on his expression fades away
into polite neutrality. "The other two we are expecting are Roger - who I'm
sure you know - and Francisco. Also a Philodox of our Tribe. You can't miss
him."

Right on cue, Francisco himself arrives, the Gauntlet parting and reforming
around him. He shakes himself in a canine manner, causing various
decorations to jingle, and tosses his colorful hair back over his shoulder.
"Evening," he greets the assembled affably. "Hope I'm not late."

Salem takes his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms across his
chest, one-eyed gaze moving toward the new arrival. "Just in time," he says,
"or close enough."

Rides-Fire turns to look at the newest arrival and blinks. Moving where he
can nudge Nightflash, he comments, What strange fur that one has.

[Francisco]
	At first glance this is someone who you might consider crossing the
street to avoid. He's almost frighteningly tall, with long limbs and broad
shoulders and chest. While he's not bulky, he ain't skinny either. And he
looks like an extra from _Sid and Nancy_. Waist-length hair, shaved on the
sides of his skull, is dyed purple, red, and blue. Tribal tattooes swirl and
spike along the back of his neck and reach up to paint the shaved sides of
his head with their intricacies. He's got several visible piercings: small
vertical barbells through his eyebrows, a beaded ring through his septum,
and seven or eight bars and hoops per ear. At least he's dressed more
plainly, in black cargo pants, a white tank top (which gives hints that the
tattooes and piercings don't stop at his neck), and knee-high black leather
boots that buckle up instead of lace. He wears a plaid, spiked bracelet on
one wrist, and a collection of tied strings, beaded bracelets, and dog
collar-style chains on the other.

	A second glance, if you're inclined to take one, shows that his eyes
are dark brown, bright and thoughtful in a face with not much else to
recommend it. His expression, while seldom actually sober, tends to settle
into a calm sort of brooding when at rest, suggesting that he's a man with
more on his mind than his hair dye. Not attractive, but certainly
interesting-looking.


[Rides-Fire] The oversized head on this gigantic wolf is marred down the
left side by old, healed clawed marks that twist the skin around his amber
eye and trail down into his thick ruff. His left ear stands always upright,
as more than two-thirds of the expressive flesh has been ripped away long
ago, leaving a scarred stub. Muscles ripple under the mottled grey-and-black
fur of his coat as he moves with unmistakable menance. To a Garou, that
bearing seems to be oddly magnified, as if this young wolf has a presence
beyond his deeds. On his chest is a perfect teardrop of silver fur.

Leala gives Francisco a grin as makes his entrance, but remains silent.

[Nightflash] 
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. His upper chest is one large scar of tattered flesh with only
tufts of fur.

Andrea turns and dips her head at Francisco politely, her lips curved in a
slight smile, "Welcome," she says. "Your alpha has introduced you, but what
is your name among our people?"

John's eyes narrow as he regards the taller Walker - the slight smile
re-emerging for the moment.

"Skyscraper-Stands-His-Ground," Francisco replies, and offers Andrea a
genteel little half-bow. "Thank you for your welcome and your assistance
tonight, rhya."

Nightflash glances over at Francisco, then looks back at his packmate before
rolling his shoulders dismissively. Scab-runners. There's really nothing
more to say.

Andrea continues to smile slightly as she nods in acknowledgement. "You're
quite welcome," she answers. She then turns back to her canvas bag to make
the final preparations. A wooden bowl rests on the ground, and Andrea begins
to fill it slowly with a dark, almost black, liquid.

Leala watches the proceedings with marked interest. With her tribesmates
around her, she is starting to feel a little less nervous.

Salem casts a glance at the pair of lupus, lips pursed, then turns his
attention toward Andrea. He watches the ritualist's motions intently.

Francisco does not quite grin manically at the comments by the lupi, instead
asking Leala lowly, "How you doing?"

Leala gives Francisco a pointed look and says quietly. "I'm alright. Still
haven't found out who's being... messing with me, but I've hired a new
lawyer. A new type of lawyer. Hopefully, he'll be able to help."

Salem frowns, turning a sharp look toward Leala. "Messing? Messing how?"

John seems to take the lupus comments as something to be proud of. A moment
of solidarity. He frowns slightly, at Leala's problems, but grunts quietly,
"We'll deal with it more appropriately with Cockroach's aid."

Leala looks regretful for bringing it up at such a time.

"We'll talk about it more at a later date, then." She keeps her tone and
facial expressions even. "It's nothing to worry about anyway, really."

In a familiar display of movement in the air, there's light and then the
final member of the pack appears - all decked out in trenchcoat with various
ominous bulges, and a serious expression to match. Roger moves quietly
towards the small gathering, giving Andrea a small bow and murmuring, "My
apologies, Rhya," before continuing to stand with the others. Small glances
are sent to each packmate, checking them over, perhaps.

John sends a dubious look toward the bulge under Roger's arm, but inclines
his head at the Tribesmate's arrival. His gaze scans over the others, and he
grunts, "We seem to be ready," to everyone in general. He looks expectantly
to Andrea.

Andrea straightens once the pack is complete. "Form a circle around me," she
invites. "Whatever order you feel appropriate. Some packs descend by rank,
but it's not required. Clasp hands."

The Walker Elder moves to stand before Andrea, with his hands out and free,
and Roger moves soon after, to stand to his right. There's a moment where
John looks consideringly between Roger and Salem. Just watching, with his
eyes slightly narrowed.

Salem eyeballs Roger for a moment, then quirks a thin half-smile at the
Galliard that vanishes as he focusses on the matter at hand. Unfolding his
arms, the half-moon steps toward the Child of Gaia, taking a place in the
forming circle.

Francisco takes a place as well. To John's left.

Leala, the newest to the Sept, takes up the last position, between Francisco
and Salem.

John takes the hand of the Garou either side of him, and nods minutely to
Andrea as the others follow suit.

Andrea steps up once Francisco takes his place, letting the others settle
their final positions as she uses a dried vine to bind John's left hand to
the philodox's right. The next knot ties Francisco to Leala, and then Leala
to Salem. The Gaian does not look any of the Glass Walkers in the eyes as
she completes the circle, binding Salem to Roger and then completing the
circle by linking Roger to John. The knots do not slip easily despite the
rough, unsymetrical nature of the vines. When she has completed the ties,
she stands back into the center.

Salem's hands flex, tightening into fists. His eye follows Andrea intently,
breathing slow, even, controlled breaths. Inhale, exhale. His expression
remains rigidly masklike.

Francisco's mouth quirks slightly. Vines. Ethernet cable would have been
better.

John looks initially discomforted by the idea of being bound - especially
when the knots prove to be rather resilient on testing. However, any
external expression of it remains hidden after a moment.

Leala starts at the feel of Salem's flexing hand. She tugs a bit, but the
bond seems tight, though she doesn't feel any loss of circulation.
Shrugging, she goes with the flow.

Andrea's voice remains calm, measured, but the volume and timbre has
strengthened, as she begins speaking ritually. "Garou are not merely born of
man, but born of wolf. The pack is the chosen family, those who bonds you
bear from friendship and duty, the ties you have chosen to strengthen your
battles and your endeavors. The pack must be embraced within, or its knots
will loosen, and the spirits will turn their back on the Garou." Andrea
turns dark eyes on John. "John Walks-Thin-Ice, ahroun of the Glass Walkers,
why have you gathered this pack?

John lifts his head and rumbles, "Garou fight well in the umbra, where they
are free to show their true strength. And Garou fight well against humans,
if they hide themselves appropriately. But the Wyrm fights in many ways, in
many worlds; places we often cannot reach without spiritual aid, and in ways
we cannot combat without cooperation. This pack is for that - to fight the
Wyrm in ways few other Garou can. To fight on its terms, and to exploit its
ancient enemy - the Weaver."

The alpha inclines her head very slightly, to acknowledge John's words. She
then gives a partial turn, so instead she faces Francisco. "Francisco
Skyscraper-Stands-His-Ground, philodox of the Glass Walkers, what spirit
guide do you seek to fulfill your pack's goals?"

Francisco tilts his own head down a bit, so the alpha doesn't have to strain
her neck quite as badly. "We seek Cockroach, the infiltrator, the survivor,
the ancient." His voice isn't as low-rumbly-impressive as John's, but he
knows how to use it nonetheless.

Andrea again acknowledges and turns on, making no real sign to whether she
approves or disapproves of the response. "Leala Paints-with-Light, Ragabash
of the Glass Walkers, what do you see your pack achieving?"

Rides-Fire paces around the ritual circle with Nightflash. The Glass Walkers
are already bound wrist to wrists with knots of dried vine, and Andrea
stands in the center of them.

A pensive look flits across Leala's face and she takes her time answering
the Elder. "I think each of us has resources and talents that will help us
fight the Wyrm. Binding ourselves to each other can only make us more
effective. I hope that we can operate as a unit, a family. Cockroach will
give us the ability to extend our abilities to manipulate the Weaver, and I
think we intend to make the most of it in our war."

Another slight nod, and Andrea turns this time to Salem. Unlike the others,
she names no deed-name for the former Dark One. "Salem, philodox of the
Glass Walkers, what place do you see this pack has in the Sept of the Hidden
Walk?"

Shadow-of-Blood pads up, his tail position and general posture easily giving
away his unhappiness to those well-acquainted with lupus mannerisms. Still,
he comes over to greet his former packmates.

Nightflash walks over to Shadow-of-Blood and nuzzles him in greeting.

Shadow-of-Blood returns the nuzzle, greeting his former packmate relatively
warmly despite his overall mood. The ritual continues well?

Rides-Fire glances toward the circle. I believe so. There have been no
spirits to trouble it, anyway. The Stargazer again turns an amber glare
toward the bridge, leaving the word 'unfortunately' unspoken.

Salem answers after a moment's pause, and then slowly, as though weighing
each word. "Our place is the city. Our _home_ is the city. We walk the
Weaver's paths where others choose not, and so others need not."

Andrea's eyebrows arch, just slightly, but Salem gets no more or less of a
nod than the rest. She turns now to the last packmate and prepares to ask
him his question.

Roger, standing in what might be believed to be the beta position of the
pack looks sternly forward, awaiting the question. His fists are clenched
tightly as an some internal struggle shows through on his shaky shimmering
eyes and tightly pursed lips.

~Roger Howls-when-Dreaming, galliard of the Glass Walkers,~ Andrea names,
looking at the last of the five Garou. ~Why have you chosen these
packmates?~

Roger listens intently to the question, and the moment it is asked he is
calmed. Blinking away what was troubling him a few times, he regards Andrea
and her words with new thoughts apparently being considered. "Why these
packmates? John, Myself, Salem, Francisco, Leala. Ahroun, Galliard, Philodox
of many paths, Philodox of one, Ragabash. We nearly complete a circle from
all the chosen paths Luna sets forth for us. We are all talented in what we
do, and serve well in our roles. Once we secure a theurge... most probably
Sophia... we will be complete. Why these packmates? We are Glass Walkers.
Brother and Sisters. We all walk our own path, but where we began and where
we are destined to be is the same. Why these packmates, you ask? Because
Cockroach deserves no less. We seek for guide and totem. That being the
case, we would not insult by bringing forth less... then us."

Andrea inclines her head the same depth to the metis as to all the others.
The theurge then kneels, picking up the wooden bowl. Its burnish has faded
with age, and the liquid within looks nearly black in the umbral light. "As
a pack is one, so must it share all things." The Gaian then takes this bowl
to each Garou in turn, in the order she asked their questions, and holds it
to their lips so they may drink.

Taking a mouthful of the liquid without testing a reaction to it first,
John's brow furrows slightly, but this is the only indication of its taste.
He licks his lips slowly, as he watches Andrea carefully.

Roger awaits his turn to imbibe the prescribed potion that would bind them
to one another. He eagerly drinks deeply, and finding the flavor strongly
bitter, he only grins seeming to enjoy the taste a bit too much.

Francisco drinks his share with a broad grimace, tilting his head back to
knock it down like a shot of strong whiskey.

Leala takes a gulp of the liquid. No reaction can be discerned, except a
slight clearing of her throat only audible to those closest to her.

Salem swallows his share of the Gaian's potion with a mild grimace.

"Bound in body," Andrea intones. "Joined in will. A sharing of the bitter
cup. A pack comes together and a pack calls." Now, finally, she surges into
crinos with the ease that comes in the umbra. *Cockroach!* she howls.
*Survivor, adaptor, wise. Cockroach, this pack calls you to be their guide.
Come!*

Salem tenses, watching the Gaian with an intent and expectant eye, the
muscles of his jaw and neck tight.

Nothing answers at first. The seconds stretch by, leaving all the Garou
waiting.

Leala shifts her eyes around in her head, searching for some sign, but
trying to remain still at the same time.

Roger returns to staring straight ahead, and mouths something quiet and
personal.

John simply inclines his head, staring at the crinos'd Alpha. Patient.

Francisco doesn't move, except to breathe, and that not deep. Not a tense
stillness, though, rather a meditative one.

Roger lets his vision shift first, a movement of the eyes that is slowly
followed by a turning of his head towards a percived... something. He stands
there, watching something as of yet unseen. "Father of our people." Are the
only words spoken by the metis.

Francisco turns his head slightly, then a little more, a frown appearing on
his brow. He doesn't speak, but his pose is obviously listening, now, and
his body begins to slowly tense.

Leala stiffens her frame when Roger speaks, frowning softly. She resists the
urge to wrench her head in the direction his eyes are settled on.

As the sound swells, everyone in the pack can hear it--the patter of
thousands of feet, the rustle of hundred of shelled bodies rubbing against
each other. Francisco and Roger spot the swell of shadow first, but the
insect swarm moves so quickly that the whole pack notices it within a few
seconds of each other.

A familiar sight. John's eyes flash with something - perhaps excitement? -
and his arms move slightly forward; halted by the sudden reminder of their
still-bound wrists.

Hearing the swarm approaching, Leala swings her eyes towards the sound. She
quickly takes a gulp of air, swallowing hard, and braces herself as the
insects quickly move near.

Salem turns his head to watch the oncoming swarm, a flicker of nervousness
-- quickly quelled -- passing briefly across his face. He sets his feet,
bracing himself.

And its just as well the pack braces themself, for the flood of roaches
crashes against the outer circle and begins to lap around it. Roaches, from
barely a quarter-inch long to ones as long as a man's thumb, begin to
scrabble up the pack's legs, climbing quickest up Roger and John--their
point of impact.

John's fists ball, and he straightens - readying himself without a sound.

Roger watching the approaching hoard, as used to the sight of swarming
Cockroaches out here as he is within the walls of his own apartment where he
houses hundreds of them. His eyes carry something almost reminisant, a
memory of loving as the swarm crashes into him. Shaken from his revery he
quickly uses his considerable strength to hold upright against the impact,
enjoying the feel of thousands of tiny feet skittering upon his body.

Leala closes her eyes as the roaches make their way up the legs of her
jeans. She can feel a few of them wriggling around, climbing along her
calves, and down into her boots. She clamps her mouth closed.

Francisco takes half a step backwards, just to brace his overtall form
against the horde, and grins with teeth clenched as the insects come
a-massing.

The other packmates are not spared. First Francisco and Salem, then at least
Leala, also become host to dozens and dozens of roaches.

Salem keeps himself rigidly still. He neither closes his eyes nor moves his
gaze away from the scurrying roaches. But he does keep his lips tightly
compressed.

One by one, the weight of tiny bodies covers clothing, hands, and even
faces. Roaches run back and forth on the vines as if they were highwires,
occasionally dripping off in droplets. Their scurries over eyelids become
more and more frequent, until they block out the light itself. The pack
becomes lost in darkness.

Roger breathes deeply through his nose, an unseen smile worn calmly beneath.
This is the most peaceful Roger has been for a long time now.

Turning and moving slightly, John casts about, with eyes and mouth closed.
Snorting to keep the insects out of his nose, he lowers his head and gives a
faint pull with his arms - checking that the pack is still linked by the
vines.

Francisco finds his meditative state serves him well here, covered in
roaches. He sways a little in place; it can be hard to keep one's balance
with one's hands tied while one is wearing the latest in carapace coats.

Salem did, indeed, close his eyes when the cockroaches started up his face.
Now he waits, unrelaxed and stiff.

Leala tries her best to remain calm. She's finding it hard to keep roaches
from crawling up her nose and skittering around her ears. Her breathing
grows shallow, and she fight to keep from getting dizzy.

In the darkness, a voice comes. Though the timbre soars high, almost edged,
it seems calm enough, and can be understood by the whole pack. -I was there
from almost the beginning, you know. So many think I rose with with city.-
Thunder rumbles, though the sky had been clear when the rite completed.

John strains to straighten even further at the voice. The movement almost
causing him to open his mouth.

Leala listens to the voice, her eyes still closed. She remains silent,
taking in the words.

Salem tilts his head sound of the voice, brow furrowed.

One by one, the roaches begin to drop off or, in some cases, fly away from
the packmates. There's still a number of them present when eyes can be
safely blinked open again, to see something that...is not Harbor Park.
Large, primative looking leaves shelter the forest floor in the form of
bushes. The sky above seems made of black cloth, and stars blaze brightly
down. -Of course, at first I did not serve as I serve now,- comes the voice
again, which can now be traced to an oversized version of the other insects.
Its coffee-brown shell has to be at least three feet long, and its foot-long
antennae wave as it speaks. -But that is my place. To adapt. In these days,
I ate what was fallen and returned it to Gaia, to strengthen her for the
spring.-

Roger looks about him, seeing ancient times at first he seems troubled to be
in such wilds. But soon he recognizes this gift for what it is, a vision of
something he would otherwise never see, and is again... calm.

Francisco opens his eyes, blinking away the feel of cockroach feet on
eyelashes, and gives his bound packmates an unintentional twitch as he
reacts in surprise to the jungle surroundings. And the giant cockroach. But
that's supposed to be there; that's all good.

John shakes himself in a manner reminiscent of a dog, and looks about for a
few moments, frowning slightly. These surroundings, he doesn't fit into...
He looks back to the giant cockroach, waiting patiently for it to take them
back someplace comfortable.

Leala takes a deep breath as the roaches recede from her face. She opens her
eyes, looking around, slightly confused by what she sees. She doesn't
recognize her surroundings, and she is a litle disoriented by her experience
with the roaches. Her eyes widen slightly as she spots the large roach, and
she blinks once.

Salem relaxes as his vision is returned, even if the vista isn't quite what
he was expecting. His chin dips toward the giant-sized insect, and he
listens solemnly. The jungle doesn't seem to bother him quite as much as it
does his packmates, and the roach's words almost prompt a smile from the
former Shadow Lord.

Insects continue to swarm the vines that bind the packmates. Only by the
time they're half-through does the pack realize they're being consumed by
the roaches. -But all things change,- says the giant roach. Thunder rumbles
overhead. -Change is the way of the world.- Lightning flashes and a
thunderclap shakes the pack, now free from its bonds. At the same time, the
roach's back shell splits wide open.

Leala releases her hands from Francisco and Salem, flexing her fingers. She
rubs her wrists, keeping her eyes focused on the large roach, straining to
see what is happening.

The rain falls, washing away the primal landscape as if it were made of spun
sugar. Wiggling out of the discarded shell, the white face of the cockroach
shows. Only its eyes remained black. -Men didn't even always hate me,- it
comments, almost absently, as it continues to wiggle out of the first shell.
-I used to be part of the welcoming rituals for new homes. Man and I have
always walked on close paths, even if he has been deluded into hatred in
recent years.-

John simply unclenches his fists and shakes his fingers out in a smooth
motion, as his eyes narrow, watching the white-headed creature. His mouth
twists wryly at the spirit's words.

Salem glances down at his hands, frowning slightly at the thin red crescents
where his nails dug into his palms. Then, folding his arms across his chest,
he directs his attention back toward the cockroach.

Francisco cracks his knuckles in a swift practiced motion, listening to
Cockroach's words, his eyes on the giant bug. More comfortable than the deep
endless green, too chaotic for one of the city tribe.

Roger looks over his body a moment, being torn apart by roaches. As the
bonds are broken he squeezes the hands of those beside him a few pulses then
slowly lets go. Noting the consumption of his body by the Roaches mentally
he frowns, but he forced Sophia to endure this, so he too shall do so.
Looking back to Cockroach's emerging from a broken form he stretches,
breaking open his own imaginary coccon of old armor.

Roger pages to the room: Also remember... Roger is insane. He may /have/
very well seen the cockroaches eating him. :)

-I was carried all over the world by man,- the cockroach spirit goes on to
say. -In his ships. In his wagons. Now through the air and under the sea.
There is no place man lives that I do not.- Color begins to flick through
his shell again, but this time it seems more like reverse tracer
fire--streamers of darkness on its albino shell. The discarded exoskeleton
crumbles.

John casts an eye about the packmates for a few moments, gauging their
reactions. It's only a quick glance - the spirit occupies most of the
Ahroun's attention.

Salem appears calm -- as calm as can be expected, in any case. His
attention's fully on the spirit now.

Leala watches raptly at the spirit's transformation, her eyes unwavering,
fixated on pulsing color.

Roger listens intently, watching... waiting. He glances to John, the moment
John glances to him... meeting eyes for less then a second a quick feeling
is shared, a feeling of bond that was never quite this strong before.
Looking back to the Totem spirit Roger seems infused with wonder at what he
sees, a blessing upon this pack to be given so much of Cockroaches' time.

Francisco is utterly focused upon the roach spirit, long hands flexing
unconsciously, every ounce of his attention bent upon the totem. What he's
thinking otherwise is not apparent in the least.

-So what is it you seek?- asks the roach, scurrying closer by a few feet.
-The old days--to return the wild to the city? The middle days, the days of
hiding and travel and ubiquity? Or do you seek the new--the swarm of
information and technology?- Feelers twitch. -What do you ask of me?-

John takes a small half-step forward. *A combination of all. We seek to
manipulate the swarm of information. We must work and travel in secrecy. And
our goal is to return what is, closer to the Wyld. We seek balance. In all
things.*

-A difficult task- the spirit answers. -Even for my children, you must be
ever-adapting to try to balance so many tasks.- It points its antennae at
each pack member in turn. -You are agreed?- Brown color begins to remain
from the shooting starts of color, as the cockroach turns brown slowly.

Leala shoots a glance at John and nods solemnly.

"Absolutely," says Salem.

Francisco nods to the totem, his eyes dark and bright.

Gradually, the roach's color finishes. There are some subtle differences
between its earlier form and this one--the body seems sleeker and has almost
a plastic shininess, and the antenae leave a delicate trail of light as they
twitch through the air. -Very well,- it agrees. Reaching down its mandables,
it scuffs in the soil until it exposes something black and flexible. -You
have seen the early days, and I have told you of the middle ones. Come. Form
a line and touch me if you would experience the last.-

John inclines his head in agreement, glancing at the others before stepping
forward. Head of the line.

Salem arches a brow, then takes a spot in the queue of Walkers.

Leala falls in behind everyone else.

Roger steps inbehind John, following the alpha to bind himself to Cockroach.

Francisco follows John. None of his usual good humor is in evidence; instead
there's a taut eagerness, almost an urgency, and a strange and energetic
joy. He stands behind his alpha, with his pack, to experience what Roach has
to show them.

Raising his semi-gloved left hand, John pauses a moment, to check behind
him, before reaching forward and placing the naked fingers firmly on the
slowly-changing shell.

As soon as John touches his shell, the cockroach bites through the cable.
Electricity sparks, arcing through the pack with a not-altogether-pleasant
jolk. The world seems to retreat as the pack speeds through a sea of
streaming, glowing forms, as if every drop in a stream could be an inact,
self-contained package. The rush of speed intoxicates those open to it, as
the Garou rush through this formless land of light to an unknown
destination.

And, with a final flash, the pack has returned to their bodies, still in a
circle in Harbor Park. Andrea still stands in the center waiting. Only two
things let the pack know it was not simply imagination. The first is that
the pack's bond thrums between them, binding them as they have wished. The
second--where did the vines go?

Roger grips the hands of those beside him tightly, "We made it... finally,
we have done it. We. Remember 'We'."

Leala stands dazed for a moment, her spiritual experiences few and far
between. Then, a bright smile lights up her face.

John looks to the familiar sky again, and then to his packmates. A slow,
faint smile grows, and stretches gradually wider - into a feral, toothy
grin. He looks at the sky again and gives a soft chuckle; more like a rumble
of satisfaction.

Salem takes in a deep breath and then lets it out, slowly. "We," he says, as
though testing out the word. "Mn. Yes."

Francisco too is grinning, rather savagely for him. However, he has nothing
to say. Words can't do such an experience justice.

John slaps a hand on Roger's back, in good spirits - still smiling - and
advances toward Andrea. "Our thanks, Rhya," he rumbles.

Roger sways forward slightly with the clap to his back and grins, letting a
soft quickl huff of a laugh out. "Indeed. You allowed us something we have
needed for a long time now."

Leala nods in appreciation as well, clearly starting to feel like she
belongs in St. Claire.

Salem remains silent. The halfmoon's hands have vanished back into his coat
pockets, and his expression is thoughtful.