Shea Tells a Tale

[hazlogs]

It is currently 18:08 Pacific Time on Sat May 31 1997.
Currently on this gusty and warm spring twilight in the general St. Claire 
  area, it is 66 degrees Fahrenheit (18.9 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming 
  from the west-northwest at 17.7 mph. The ground is wet and it is misting. 
  Skies are overcast with a definite chance of precipitation.
Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (33% full).

[The Grotto]

Rusty is seated on a rock near the falls, shirtless...apparently enjoying the 
  misting.
Erik enters the Grotto slowly, his steps dragging a bit.
Rusty glances over at Erik as he comes in, eyebrows going up.
Shea climbs down out of the cave behind the falls, whistling as she goes.
Erik pauses, cocking his head at the sound of Shea's whistle, and absently 
  shifts the strap of the violin case further up onto his shoulder. "Er. 
  Hullo."

Shea's Desc:
There is an air of perpetual distance around this young woman of angles and 
  strong lines, and little soft about her at all. In eyes of dark emerald, in 
  hair of raven black, and in the way she carries herself. She has the solid, 
  sturdy build of an athlete, standing at five feet eight inches in height, 
  hair back in only a few twists of a hasty and loosely done braid. The rest 
  of her locks, which fall to the small of her back, fall to frame a 
  sculptured face, set off by finely arched eyebrows. Dark blue tatooing 
  covers the skin around her right eye, and disappears into her hair: 
  skin-toned breaks in the blue transforming the work into a knotwork pattern 
  comprised of the Fianna glyph. Three golden hoops glint in the lobe of her 
  left ear, the right unpierced. Once again, she wears a jacket of black 
  leather, over nondescript clothing and shoes of dark blue and black. Voice a 
  smooth alto, it is more thickly accented with an 'Irish brogue' than it 
  might have been before.

Shea drops the last little bit of the climb, eyes turned over her shoulder. 
  Her eyebrows lift, too, but she smiles, one-sidedly. "I thought sure you'd 
  taken off for parts unknown by now."
Erik shifts his weight awkwardly. "Uh, no. I've... been around the Bawn a lot. 
  But not to the caern," the Metis adds, hastily.

Rusty's Desc:
Rusty's a small lad, only 4'8" or so, and somewhat thin at that. He seems to 
  be about twelve, but it's hard to tell for sure. Two things about him catch 
  your attention at once - his sparkling emerald eyes and his coppery-red 
  hair. The hair in particular is hard to miss; it's a bit shaggy at the 
  moment, as if it's not been cut for a month or two. His eyes peer out 
  merrily from a slightly-thin face, its fair skin covered with a healthy 
  splash of freckles, and he tends to grin often.
Right now, he's got on a pair of worn blue jeans, a couple dirt stains on them 
  here and there, a blue flannel shirt which he's tucked into the jeans, and a 
  pair of worn white sneakers.

Rusty nods to Erik. "Hiya."
Erik hesitates, then lifts his free hand in a slight wave at the cub.
Shea looks from Erik to Rusty, and back again. "You two haven't met?"
Rusty shrugs faintly. "Um....seen him, but we ain't never talked, really."
Erik moves further into the grotto and settles crosslegged on the ground. "Um. 
  In passing, I think..." He looks at Rusty. "Eamon was teaching you to shift, 
  I think?"
Rusty nods to Erik. "Yeah...."
Shea folds her arms across her chest. "Introduce yourselves, then," she says, 
  with a slight widening of her smile.
Rusty grins faintly at Shea, then looks at Erik. "Um...I'm Rusty Fitzpatrick. 
  Ragabash cub. Fianna, you probably guessed." He grins.
Erik ducks his head slightly. "Erik Sings-in-Shadow, Galliard of the Fianna," 
  he says. Perhaps it's the location, or Shea's presence, but the Irish lilt's 
  gotten a bit thicker. "Metis," he adds, after a slight pause.
Rusty nods quietly, regarding Erik.
Shea steps over to claim a rock, then, tucking one leg beneath her. "So, then. 
  What've you been doing, around the bawn, but not in the caern?"
Erik reaches under his mask, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Um. Mostly 
  meeting people. Other Garou. Practicing and playing my music." He pauses. 
  "Steven says he's going to teach me how to fight." This last is said with a 
  mingled air of resignation and dread.
Shea's eyebrows lift again. "You've no interest in defending yourself? Or 
  fightin' for Gaia?"
Erik winces slightly. "I... I can fight, a bit, and have," he says, quickly. 
  "But... apparently not well enough." He pauses, lowering his head. "I 
  don't... really like it."
Shea says "I've only known one or two who -liked- t'fight, lad. It's somethin' 
  we must all do, however."
Erik's voice takes on abashed, ashamed tone. "Yes, but..." He takes a breath 
  and lets it out. "I tend to get ill."
Rusty tilts his head, regarding Erik. "Ill?"
Erik turns his head slightly toward Rusty and nods.
Shea asks a simple question. "Why?"
Erik's fingers fidget, absently plucking at a blade of grass. "I... I don't 
  know. I just... do. It happened twice on my Rite of Passage," he admits, 
  quietly.
Shea mms. "Well. Mebbe Steven thinks he can teach that unfortunate bit out of 
  you."
Erik winces slightly and nods.
Rusty umms quietly, looking as if he's not sure he should ask. "Is it...from 
  seeing blood or something? Or just from fighting?"
Erik plucks the blade of grass. "The... the blood. And other things. Heat, 
  violence, the noise." He leans forward, resting his forehead in one hand. 
  "There was a beast on the Rite of Passage that vomited thousands of foul, 
  biting worms..."
Shea says "Well, an' wouldn't that make any of us sick?"
Rusty grimaces, nodding at Shea's words. "Yeah...."
Erik shrugs a shoulder. "Well... maybe..."
Shea grins. "I could tell you stories, I promise you."
Rusty grins at Shea. "Stories?"
Erik lifts his head at that, perking visibly. "...Stories?"
Shea laughs. "I meant stories about disgustin' things. Don't look so excited, 
  either of you."
Rusty grins sheepishly at Shea. "Know any _good_ stories?"
Erik utters a weak, embarrassed chuckle.
Shea tucks her arms across her chest again. "What makes a story good or bad?"
Rusty grins. "Um....something exciting. Preferably without anything REALLY 
  disgusting in it."
Shea considers, then asks, "Do either of you know the story of Cu Chulain?"
Rusty grins. "Some....but tell it anyway, if you want. Maybe your version is 
  different."
Erik absently plucks another blade of grass and starts twining the pair 
  together. His head tilts slightly, attentive.
Shea mmms, and shifts her weight. "You must both close your eyes, then, an' 
  pretend that you live in the world I tell you about. Otherwise, you'll never 
  see it. Your imaginations are better'n mine, I promise."
Erik closes his eyes (though it's difficult to see that he did), and lets his 
  gloved hands rest calmly in his lap.
Rusty nods, shutting his eyes with a smile.
Shea exhales. "Then. Imagine that you lie on your back, on a bed of cool 
  grass, with the sun beatin' down on you, but not hard. Just enough t'warm 
  you, from nose to toe. It's still early in the mornin', and you don't want 
  to sleep. You stretch, an' you turn onto your side, but it can't be time 
  t'wake up yet, can it?" She rests her arms on her legs. "Nonetheless, try as 
  you might, you can't ignore the fact that you're bein' shaken. An' someone's 
  callin' your name, now. Setanta, he calls, for that was Cu Chulain's name. 
  Setanta, wake up, you lazy. Why d'you want to sleep outside, when the king's 
  offered us the comfort of the castle?"
Erik shivers slightly; the Galliard is quickly and easily caught up within the 
  imagined scene.
Rusty smiles, stretching out on the rock he was sitting on, eyes closed as he 
  listens.
"Setanta.. you.. are a student, in Conor's court, you know. An' today, there's 
  a feast you're meant to go to, in Quelgny, in his honor. An' you," the 
  theurge adds, "are bound t'be late. So, you rush t'the stable, an' saddle up 
  the beauty of a roan horse that you call yours, an' off you go. But, not a 
  league from the court, what should happen, but that your girth snaps, an' 
  tosses you right into the middle of the road. You'll have t'ride back, an' 
  fix it. You can't go to a party with a broken saddle, after all."
"But, the repairs mean you ride alone, an' it's nearin' night. It's not safe 
  t'ride alone, after the sun's down, so you an' that beautiful beast do your 
  best t'make up the time, an' just as you think you might have taken a wrong 
  turn, you hear the music, an' see the lights, on a hilltop not far off, an' 
  you know you're not lost, at all. The horse moves a little faster, an' your 
  heart races, an' you tear into the stables at breakneck speed. Nevermind 
  that it has, indeed, gotten black as pitch. You won't miss the party! With 
  the horse tied up, you dash out of the stable, with your growlin' stomach as 
  a companion, round a corner... an' hear a growl that drowns out your 
  stomach, comin' from behind you."
Eamon has connected.
Rusty grins, listening raptly.
Erik, caught up in Shea's tale, gives off a shiver.
Eamon wanders into the grotto and waves, heading over to the others.
Rusty is stretched out on a rock, shirtless, listening to Shea tell a story. 
  He's grinning, his eyes closed.
Shea gestures Eamon closer, and to silence, as she nods toward the other two, 
  who listen with their eyes closed. "When you dare t'turn around, there's a 
  dog, as big an' as black as any cursed Shadow Lord you can imagine, with his 
  teeth all bared, an' his eyes as red as embers. His hackles're all up, an' 
  he looks ready t'jump for your throat. You know who this is, then, don't 
  you? Aye, the hound of Cullan."
Eamon grins and takes a seat to listen to the story. He looks like he likes it 
  already.
Shea continues. "You've a good head for animals, aye, lads? So, you decide 
  t'try reason with this beast. But, there's no time, for, as you bend, the 
  thing leaps for you, with an unholy snarl, an' aimed right for your throat, 
  with all those teeth! What's a boy t'do? You listen to instinct, that's 
  what. As the beast comes close enough, you knot your fingers in that thick 
  dark pelt, an' you twist your back, an' give a mighty heave, hopin' t'throw 
  the beastie as far away from you, as you can." She's silent awhile, and when 
  it seems she might not speak again, she asks, "An' did you think you could 
  do it? Not likely.. but that dog of Cullan's sails like a stone, clean into 
  the stone post of the gate, there, head first. An' doesn't get up again."
Erik inhales a breath and holds it.
Rusty nods slowly, listening intently.
Eamon mutters to Rusty, "What's the story about?"
"You must've made some huge amount of noise, though, for the party comes 
  t'you, lead by Cullan hisself. Cullan's a smith, you remember, an' not a 
  small man, but when he sees that hound of his, he breaks into tears like a 
  mother with her lost son. An' you're frightened all over again. He's quick 
  t'understand that you only did what needed t'be done, but he's still hurt 
  for it, you see. What am I t'do without you, he asks that still black mass. 
  An' so.. what is it that you do?" Another pause, and a wide smile. "You 
  offer yourself, as Cullan's guard, in the hound's place."
Eamon says "Oh, nevermind, I know. Setanta."
Erik lets out the breath slowly and lowers his head a bit, listening.
Rusty nods to Eamon, grinning, as he listens to Shea.
Shea nods. "Aye, Setanta, who that very night earned a new deed name, after a 
  fashion, an' passed his Rite of Passage, all at once. Conor named him Cu 
  Chulain, the hound of Cullan, an' made him a man, all at once." In a 
  different tone, she adds, "Never think that that was all of Cu Chulain's 
  adventures, either. But it'll do."