Harbor Park — The Meadow
 One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.
 The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire.

Obvious exits:
Bridge Street Fountain First Street River

The park is almost empty save for a few kids flaunting curfew, the occasional bum on a bench, and Tim, who is idly moving from tree shadow to tree shadow. His sheepskin coat is far easier to spot than he’d like, but he does little else to draw attention to himself as he moves around the meadow. Sometimes he takes out a paperback and reads from it, and sometimes he just looks out over the new spring grass, thinking.

It might be startling when Shaozu materializes from the deep shadows of the park trees. Has he been there the whole time? Suddenly, it’s difficult to know. “Sonahari,” he says quietly, approaching Tim silently, wearing his jacket (over clothes this time).

[Shaozu]
 A gentle-featured Chinese man in his late twenties, Shaozu looks like a scholar-poet who should be practicing calligraphy in a misty garden. Standing a couple of inches under six feet tall, he’s got a little chub on him, particularly around the belly region, but he carries it gracefully. He’s rather handsome, with a clear golden complexion, high cheekbones, and dark, thoughtful, beautifully shaped eyes. He wears oval-lensed glasses with steel wire frames, and his hair–classic thick, shining black hair–is twisted into a long glossy braid. The end of the braid thumps gently against his tailbone.
 Dressed simply, he wears trousers and shirt made from a heavy soft cloth. The trousers are black, the shirt cream, and both have some matching embroidery on cuffs and seams. It’s rich, yet subtle, and the clothes don’t rustle like stiffer cloth would. His shoes are sleek and narrow, made from very supple leather with a very thin sole. They fit more like gloves than normal shoes, a flexible sheathing rather than a protective heavy garment.
 Most obvious to Garou is the fact of his exquisite Silver Fang breeding, shining like a pearl in an inadequate setting.

Tim tenses and looks askance at Shaozu, remaining unnaturally still and poised until he places the voice and its source. His stance relaxes, and he blinks at the sight of his jacket. He shakes his head and laughs quietly. “That’s ah, some kind of fire you’re playing with there.”

“Water’s more my element,” Shaozu says with an oblique little smile. He slips out of the jacket and proffers it with a bow. “I return to you what is yours, honored elder.” He adds, “I didn’t take anything out of it. Even though I have no idea what you want with a bag of flour.”

“Flour’s explosive if you make it airborn,” Tim explains, giving the Kinsman a consternated look at ‘Honored elder’. “Sort of like Syd would be if she saw you wearing it.” He goes to reach for the jacket, but stops as something seems to occur to him. He puts his hand back into his sheepskin pocket. “Let me try something.” For a second he concentrates, his jaw set, and there’s an impression he’s reaching for something.

Shaozu murmurs, “I made sure that didn’t happen.” He waits for Tim to finish, still holding his bow, the jacket hanging neatly over his hands.

Tim stays like that for almost a minute, then lets out his breath in a rush and sighs. “Can’t do it yet.” Now he does take his jacket, and returns the bow with his own, hands together. “Namaskar.” He eyes Shaozu. “You’re not cold now, are you? Since I have this other one, and Zo would kill me if you got sick because,” he gestures vaguely, trying to encompass the situation of Shaozu having no jacket in the middle of the night while he retains two.

Shaozu grins, shaking his head. “I’m not wet,” he points out. “Anyway I trained in the mountains in Chongqing, it gets /really/ cold up there. But thank you for your concern. What were you trying to do?”

“Wow.” Tim looks away, maybe imagining a map in his mind. “I bet it *does* get cold up there.” He refocuses on Shaozu and says, “Ah, a Gift.” After a quick visual sweep of their immediate area to check for evesdroppers, he continues, “If I Dedicate something to myself, I can summon it from anywhere. I have to be on the same side of the Gauntlet as it, though. Supposedly physical distance doesn’t matter, but I’ll have to test that. Once I can do it.”

Shaozu looks impressed. “That’s a nice trick.” He too glances around, following Tim’s line of sight. “Is everything okay after the fight?” he asks quietly.

Tim nods, and speaks in an equally low voice. “Okay as it can be. We didn’t lose anyone, and we’ve got a good line on where they might be. I imagine we’ll be rolling out to knock on their door soon.” He flashes his teeth, a sign that he’s plenty eager for that to happen.

Shaozu sighs, rubs the back of his neck and looks out over the park. “It never ends, does it? All the fighting. I never thought about it much before, but now–I don’t know, it seems to be everywhere, all the the time.”

“Yeah. Never seems to,” Tim agrees. He grimaces and runs a hand over the old, faded embroidery on the back of his jacket. “I used to hope when I was younger that shit would get better, you know? Even though everyone was always talking about how the end was close.”

“How close is that, though?” Shaozu says, getting a distant look in his eyes. “What’s ‘close’ to the universe? We can’t know, as mortals. And since all is illusion, the end of the world can’t be that big a deal anyway.”

Tim glances up at Shaozu from his jacket, thinking over what he’s said. “It’s probably not a big deal if you believe in rebirth and the never-ending cycle for the whole universe,” he agrees. “A lot of us don’t, though. They’re convinced that after the End the world will be gone.” He shrugs that aside. “I don’t buy it, though. Everything gives rise to something new.” His eyes narrow briefly when he says that. “But maybe that’s the Hindu in me talking.”

Shaozu hitches a shrug, looking at Tim with a coy sideways glance. “Maybe, but I think so too. Nature doesn’t waste anything, so why /should/ the world end? Maybe we’ll just all come back as bugs in the rubble of civilzation, but life would still go on. The End is such a Western concept.”

“Tell me about it,” Tim says, and sighs. “Dad and mom would argue about it all the time when the moon was small. And then when I got old enough *I* argued about it too.” Despite the notion of a house full of contention, he remembers it with a small smile. “Being a bug doesn’t sound so bad,” he adds, but his voice turns distracted.

“Life would be simpler,” Shaozu says, then, concerned, “What is it?”

Tim shakes his head and looks at Shaozu. “Nothing. Brain cobwebs and old age.” He tosses his jacket over his shoulder. “So. You, me, and some calligraphy. What do I need to bring, and where am I bringing it?”

Shaozu rolls his eyes, expressively Californian. “Because you’re /so old/.” He shakes his head. “I’ve got stuff. You know, brushes, ink cakes, rice paper, all that jazz. But you’ll get to practice in a sand tray before I let you at the rice paper. It’s kind of fun, like drawing in sand at the beach.”

“I’ll be thirty this year.” Though some of Tim’s lament is put upon, not *all* of it is. The promise of drawing on sand brightens him, at least. “Oh, cool. So I’m not producing a lot of paper smeared with black ink.” He nods, finding that completely acceptable. “So, your place, or do you have a studio you like?”

Shaozu assures Tim, “It’d be depressing if you tried to just start on paper. You’ll have to make a mess to get the ink right, but you can at least know what character you’re mangling. We’ll go to my place. There isn’t really…” He pauses, thinking. “There isn’t a studio around here for this kind of thing. I think there is in Seattle, but.” He spreads his hands, evoking all the problems of Seattle.

Tim makes a face, and shudders. “Yeah. Seattle. Well, if there isn’t one around here, maybe you should open one.” He raises his eyebrows. “You’re at loose ends, right? And I bet the Asian Studies department at the campus wouldn’t mind.”

Shaozu winces a little, self-consciously. “Well…I’m not sure there’s a lot of demand for it. And, you know, Zosia. And all that. And… I don’t know. Things are kind of confusing.”

“Maybe not a lot,” Tim admits, but his fondness for the idea clearly remains. He gives Shaozu a puzzled frown for the rest. “What would she care if you got some digs going?”

Shaozu looks away. “I just don’t want to wave it in her face,” he says quietly. “If I start being too obviously independent, I think she’ll make me live in the house, and I don’t want that. I’ve gotten to like my independence. She might order me to breed with one of the guards or something.”

Tim stares at Shaozu in horror and anger in equal measure. He clears his throat and makes himself look at something else, anything else. “Right,” he says; contempt almost makes the word a curse. He spends a second mastering his temper.

Shaozu, not seeming to notice Tim’s flickering ember of Rage, goes on as if to himself. “She’s starting to be affected by my pure blood. I was engaged to her cousin, you knew that, right? It was arranged between our folks. It can’t be far from her mind, every time she looks at me she sees the children I could have…” He trails off. “I like Jana, but I don’t know if I can live like that again.”

Tim shuts his eyes and rubs at one temple. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and finally says, “Are you seriously saying she’d make you have kids.” He’s focused entirely on keeping his voice low and steady, but it trembles with Rage anyways.

Shaozu finally looks back at Tim, frowning a little in honest inquiry. “Well, yeah. I mean. We’re Silver Fangs. I’m kin. I’m…very highly bred. The way they see it,” ‘they’ is obviously the Garou, here, “it’s her duty to get me to marry and start reproducing. My folks–my folks, they sacrified everything to get me raised right and engaged to a Fang of breeding. I’m the last in the Emperor’s line.” He says all this with a calm neutrality that is nearly perfectly flat. “I didn’t know anything else, before. I thought that /was/ everything.”

If ‘don’t freak out’ is a Hindu mantra, Tim is probably repeating it to himself as quickly as he can form the bija and focus on them. He doesn’t respond at first, just standing there with one hand to his head and his eyes closed. Presently he takes another slow breath, and says, “She might be okay with you having a city base for the Tribe. Or you could put it to her like that. Then it’s not independence,” he has to force the word out, “it’s just a business proposition.”

Shaozu now seems to realize that Tim is struggling with emotion, and looks alarmed. “Uh, well, yeah, maybe I could do that. Don’t worry about it, Sonahari. I’ll be fine.” He smiles reassuringly to demonstrate his fineness. “I thought you’d have had a few kids yourself by this point, actually.”

Tim accepts the excuse to think of something else when the reassurance doesn’t really take hold, and his anger trades places with regret. He grunts and opens his eyes again. “You and my parents both.” He manages a rueful smile. “Not easy to pull that off when you move around too much, or wind up with women who aren’t interested in kids. Not that I can blame them, since in my case they’re stuck having the baby *and* with the short end of the stick raising it.” It doesn’t come out bitter so much as resigned.

Shaozu hesitates. Things go unsaid behind his eyes. After a moment he looks away. “Ah, well, there you go,” he says with teasing rue. “Footloose and fancy free. I’m off, my friend. We’ll meet up /very/ soon and I’ll show you how to draw in sand.”

Tim watches Shaozu’s reaction, openly curious, but like the Kinsman he leaves it be. “Yeah. I’ll find you as soon as the full passes.” He turns out towards the park, moving to another tree. “Road rise to meet you,” he says over his shoulder.

Center of the Caern
This is the central point of the 30-meter-wide clearing. The ground is a mixture of dark, rich, muddy soil mixed with clay, though there is an occasional patch of grass. At the center rests a large white boulder, immovable even by the strongest crinos. The boulder is shot through with streaks of quartz that produces scintillating colors when light strikes it just right. It is, for lack of a wholly adequate word, beautiful.
Around you, twenty yards in every direction, stretches the caern. To the southeast, a waterfall plummets over the edge of the chasm into a small pool in the caern; nearby, to the southwest, steam comes from cracks in the ground, perhaps some of the same water. Northwest, a rocky spar juts out of the ground at a low angle, showing a sloping but smooth top. The chasm walls narrow a bit to the northeast, causing some of the mist to swirl in that area.

Contents:
Heart
Al
Leaves-None
Ringtone
Song-of-Vengeance
Little Silvertip

Obvious exits:
Rock Slab Windy Spot WaterFall Steam Vents

Al trudges down into the caern, shoulders slightly hunched, looking surly and vaguely defensive. He stops at the edge of things, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers.

An Uktena posse comes from east, two of them wearing grim expressions. Silvertip and Eztli are in Crinos, and Fernando in lupus. Silvertip’s spear’s head has cloth tied over it. Eztli has some sort of knife with her. Silvertip drops a small bag behind him when he and his packmate finds a place to stand. Fernando paces around the Caern, before finding a place not far from the other two Uktena. Silvertip seems more tense than he should be.

By the steam vents, the misty air of the steam vents shimmers and shivers, a crinos figure pushing through the gauntlet. Standing silver-furred and strong, Bright Falcon’s Grace seems still-focused on whatever was on the shadow side of the space, her icy gaze distant and distracted by the hissing mist that swirls about her. Moving slowly, she settles down into a crouch, start to sketch something on the sandy surface with a claw, her entire being narrowed down to whatever designs appear.

Eight Mile slumps in with the uncertainty of a city Garou in the woods. Studying those gathered, she swings wide, selecting a place toward the back and rather alone for the time being.

Icetrap arrives for the Moot with the air of one who is exhausted yet not at the point of collapse. He gives tense, weary, silent wolf-greetings to those he knows well- his packmates, various of the Theurges and others- before flopping on his belly near the central stone. It seems to be taking most of his effort just to keep his head up so he can watch and listen.

Song-of-Vengeance moves into the circle from one of the edges, fidgiting a little, but relaxed.

Ringtone remains close to his packmate as they seek out a quiet place to wait toward the northern edge of the caern. He studies the Uktena trio for a moment, nostrils twitching and then turns his attention elsewhere.

Al spots Eight Mile and casually edges over to another section of the caern.

Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm stalks into the Caern alone, walking tall in crinos (or at least as tall as the youngster can manage). His hammer is slung across his back as always, the young Fenrir’s eyes flicking back and forth across those already present.

Leaves-None pauses only briefly to scratch the annoying leaf from its sticking place before she trots to catch up to Ringtone. Other than that, her ears seem stuck at ‘alert’ in contrast to an otherwise relaxed demeanor.

Kaz stumps in from the steam vents, some droplets sticking to her hair. They drip.

BJ stays very close to her tribesmates, more comfortable than at her first moot, but still more than a little awed and nervous at all the gathering of the Garou.

Mouse lightly touches the shimmering stone at the caern’s heart.
Mouse’s form seems to be more real for just a moment, then she vanishes.

On-Star wanders into the area, greeting those she know from afar as she finds a spot to sit.

Little Silvertip gestures vaguely at the caern, before mumbling something to his female packmate. He nods at the rock.

Night’s Herald slips into the Caern, Fallout leading the way. He moves to take his place as Truthcatcher, while Heart and Golden find a clear spot and settle. For his part, Golden is restless, and his ears swivel constantly to catch every sound they can.

Kaz gravitates vaguely toward Masao.

By the steam vents, mist and water kick into the air, the earth seeming to breathe as the steam seeks an escape from beneath the crust. As the bulk of the Sept gathers, the Silver Fang makes a sudden movement, her claws coming up and slashing deeply into her left forearm, so that blood flows freely. Dipping one claw in a delicate motion, she starts to sketch on the ground, sand and blood mingling, her movements swift and sure. She is mumbling something beneath her breath but it is difficult to discern what it is she is saying over the hissing sounds filling the air.

Oskar arrives shortly after Paul, lagging behind his elder respectfully.

When the Garou are around the right places, Song-of-Vengeance, moves to stand roughly in the center of the gathering, touching those she passes lightly – brushing a shoulder, a hip, or an arm with her hand, her tail moving in time with her steps. With the caern stone at her back, the Fury squares her shoulders and howls long, loud, and clear. ~Garou of the Hidden Walk! I call thee, summon thee, bring you hence to witness this circle, this everwidening circle, the Moot that we call. Hear me! Hear my howl!~

Earth-Whisperer occurs shortly after the bulk of people have gathered, trailing the larger paws of Kill-Stealer. Both Talons stick to the edge of the gathered party, wary and curious, respectively.

Kaz belts out a ululating welcome, responding to the opening howl; for the moment, she remains in homid.

Al shifts his weight. He watches the Sept gather in a furtive, sidelong kind of way, his eyes half-lidded, his frown set.

On-Star shifts up to crinos as Song-of-Vengeance howls, glancing around with growing excitement.

Eight Mile shifts up to crinos, still lingering alone for the time being. She raises her head toward the sky and calls out a growling, harsh howl.

Fernando is the first to join the howl, in a light yip than hoot. Silvertip is sluggish in adding his own, deep reply to the mix.

Barn-Owl shifts up with the older garou, happy to belt out a tuneless howl.

Ringtone’s ears twitch outward and he blinks once before lifting his muzzle to howl with a clear, bright voice.

Heart howls along, very very loudly; that giant chest holds a lot of air.

Icetrap’s howl is lethargic and slow, though the Get theurge is intense once he begins.

A six-legged, somewhat reddish-furred wolf arrives just this tiny, tiny bit late, and slinks quickly in Kaz’s direction. Her fur has been liberally decorated in blue woad, and she’s carrying a stick roughly the length of a forearm in her jaws, covered in every glyph imaginable.

Al mutters, “Aroo, motherfuckers.”

Desh sifts his way towards the other at first in lupus, howling, but eventually slips through the forms to glabro, where he remains for the moment.

There’s a wagging of tail for Kaz when sighted before Leaves-None’s butt becomes planted on the ground. Her attention centers on Song-of-Vengeance and she adds her dissonance to the gathering din.

Golden leaves off his over-examination of everything to join the opening howl, his uncommon voice rising with Heart’s.

The bulky form of Snakepatcher ambles into the caern, moving past trees and rocks and edging down into the canyon, in time for the howl. The Uktena joins his gravelly voice to the howl.

Earth-Whisperer and Kill-Stealer join the howl dutifully – their mutual tone wild, if brief.

Kaz beams at Morgan and reaches out a hand as if to rest it on her shoulder; but it falls before it reaches her, and she merely hunkers down next to her.

Blood-Guard’s lupus form trots hurriedly down the trail to the Caern. He adds his gravelly voice to the howl as he moves, taking a place by himself in the center.

Carries-Fire drops the carved stick lightly onto the ground in front of her forepaws, and leans somewhat in Kaz’s direction in return, tongue lolling between her teeth.

When the howls die away on the wind, Song-of-Vengeance pauses for a heartbeat or two, looking to the lupus that have joined the sept and those that seek to join, holding their gazes if she can for a moment before speaking. Drawing herself to her full height, hands crossed over her stomach, her ears tilt toward the moon. ~A song of mourning should to be sung for our Lupus kin. Let us not forget those who dwindle in these last days. Let our dirge keep their memory.~ A second, mournful howl rises from her chest, echoing over the caern and bawn.

Life-On-The-Line pads in slowly and quietly, joining the moot a little bit late. The Fury’s ears and head are low, submissive–an apology for that small infraction. Once in among her septmates, she blurs upward, lithely, into the war form and joins the opening howl.

By the steam vents, Falcon’s Grace continues to work on her glyphs and drawings, tuning out the rest of the moot as she does. Dipping her claw into the blood on her arm again, she adjusts something on the ground.

Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm throws his head back to join the howl, his voice modulating oddly with his eagerness and growing maturity.

On-Star howls mournfully along with the others.

Kaz’s ululation turns quieter, darker.

Oskar shifts to crinos, standing behind Hammer. He lifts his head, and howls.

Kill-Stealer pulls his ears forward, glancing at Earth-Whisperer at the second howl. His voice joins in more strongly on this one, but it is filled with angered defiance almost directed at the other howlers.

Eight Mile’s ear flicks though her marred voice dutifully joins in, calling to the moon that hangs overhead.

Carries-Fire’s ears splay. She’s a bit busy looking faintly baffled instead of howling.

Heart cants one ear back, looking confused, and looks around at the lupus. He snorts, not speaking but making it obvious that he doesn’t consider it appropriate to howl mournfully for the living.

Leaves-None’s howl changes for a softer note in response to the call.

Earth-Whisperer joins with his tribemate, not to be outdone, though his howl is slightly less angry.

Kaz falls silent, looking mildly perplexed, but willing.

Al’s face twists into a grimace. He shifts his weight, scratches briefly at the side of his neck, then shoves his hands back into his pockets.

Desh gravitates towards Yi, adding his voice to others’.

Little Silvertip’s perplexion is masked by larger concern and wariness. He raises his head, sniffing at the air in a paranoid manner.

Blood-Guard flicks his ears. He makes a short noise, looks around, and then casts a glance at Heart, tail twitching. He’s more confused than uneased.

This second howl tapers off and, letting her head hang, Song-of-Vengeance turns, shaking her head while walking in a circle, stopping in front of the knot of Garou. ~Thank you all for coming. It shows the strength of Gaias people that we can all gather together when Luna is full to share wisdom. The Litany has been handed down in the Garou people for the longest time, and its wisdom, even in this time, still holds true.~ She turns to the group. ~What say you, Fool?~

Heart hitches a massive shoulder at August in the universal sign for ‘I dunno, man’.

On-Star takes a moment to look at the confusion, finding it mildly curious.

Eight Mile’s ears splay at something, though it isn’t clear what. The Gnawer hunkers down and just watches those gathered.

Though he joined in the second wave of howling, Golden’s glance for his packmate doesn’t offer any explanatgion.

Ringtone’s hackles begin to rise and his ears turn backward as he takes in the general mood.

Pack> Golden radiates mild confusion mixed with amusement, and a touch of ‘well, she’s young’ on top of it all.

Leaves-None’s ears splay briefly and her tongue swipes at her nose in slight nervousness when the second round of howls ends.

Kaz relaxes, slightly, once the Fool is mentioned; but she seems restless still, for no clear reason.

Jason descends into the caern with Alessandra in tow, dressed in a green tunic with yellow embroidery. He slows as he looks around, smiling at the familiar faces and avoiding a few others before moving to lead his cub over towards the other Fianna present.

Carries-Fire glances at Kaz, and then seems to take her cue from the elder Galliard. She settles back onto her haunches and peers forward, though there’s a nervous energy visibly running through her.

The Fool belts back a taunting snarl that indicates her readiness to show what her wisdom is like against the Master of the Howl for the Calling of the Litany. Back and forth they start to go, reciting and refuting the laws of the Garou. Each law in turn is responded to by those gathered at the moot in ritualistic reaffirmation of the Garou traditions. The air is buzzing with tension and excitement, feelings and Rage almost tangible in the atmosphere as the Calling draws to a close with the howls of the final law – the most important law, some would argue – echoing off the walls of the caern chasm and pounded in by the waterfall’s dull roar. It is with this atmosphere that the Calling resolves, and the next step in the ritual of moot begins with the Opening of the Inner Sky.

Barn-Owl listens raptly to the back and forth of the fool, and the shoutdowns. Her body language is clear – this is really neat stuff!

Eight Mile alternates between amused and annoyed by the Fool, though she holds her tongue. Either way, the Gnawer seems more intent on what -others- are saying in response.

Jason joins in with the shouting down of the Fool where appropriate. Oh, greater witticisms have never been heard! He nudges Alessandra to join in as well.

Ears falls into Crinos at the first law; her comments are generally pithy, but pointed. Less a shout than a grump.

Too-Good-To-Be-True looks to Hammer-of-the-Wyrm for guidance.

Little Silvertip gives a few vague shouts, but it’s clear he’s distracted. Most of the time, he just calls the Fool shit-for-brain, or something else. Fernando is in fine form, yapping back all sorts of clever rebuttals and replies.

Snakepatcher yelps and snarls out his defense of the Laws.

On-Star joins in on shouting down, though her voice remains more of a drone within the excitement.

Icetrap listens dully to the Calling, ears flicking occasionally to take in the Fool’s arguments and the Sept’s responses.

Ringtone rises onto two legs, taking crinos to shout down the fool. His gaze settles on Solsiva, briefly, and the nervous tension about him eases as his jaw drops open in a grin.

Golden doesn’t call out as much at the Fool as he normally would, his attention turned to the Caern around them. Despite the general sea of sounds and smells the Garou themselves make, he looks like he’s trying to pinpoint something else. When the Calling is over, he seems to have given up, and focuses on Falcon’s Grace and her work.

By the steam vents, the steam starts to rise, heavy and thick and swirling, responding to the efforts of the theurge in the center of the space and the growing energy of moot. The mist spreads swiftly, every breath and hiss of the earth pushing it across the center of the caern, twisting it about the gathered Garou, and sending it toward the sky, to hang in a hazy arc across the face of the moon. As the calling of the litany starts to wind down, the last few shouts and howls ending in an echo, Bright Falcon’s Grace rises to her feet, her head lifting to look skyward and her arms raising, blood streaming down her left arm in a bright splash against her silvered fur. She calls then, a eerie wild-sounding howl that seems muted in the heavy-hanging mist, an invitation for the Sept to join her in welcoming the spirits.

Ferret, when the calling is finished, makes her way back to join Ringtone and the rest of her pack.

Song-of-Vengeance joins in with Bright Falcon’s Grace, her arms going up, her head going back as her howl echoes over the bawn, a joyful sound welcoming the spirits to this place.

Alessandra follows Jason obediently, her eyes trailing over the crowd. She joins in with the shoutdowns as she is nudged, grinning widely; it seems she is enjoying herself, though she’s fairly confused.

And this time, Kaz howls in crinos, a full throated plea for Chimera and other spirits to come and be honored.

Al seems to become more and more withdrawn as the Calling goes on, his body language closed and inward, his expression dull. Even the renewed howling for the Inner Sky doesn’t seem to rouse him.

On-Star turns her head slightly to grin back at Ringtone. Then she’s standing up to howl a welcome for the spirits.

Little Silvertip gives a sharp howl to Chimera, more engaged than he had been up to this point. He does his best to outdo everyone, or at least make a good whack at trying.

Leaves-None chimes in on a law or two, remaining in lupus for the entirety but seeming charged up with the byplay. She welcomes Ferret back to the pack-group with a hearty wag before all but bouncing on four feet to give her loudest welcoming howl.

Carries-Fire stays in lupus, but she rises, tips her head back, and howls, rough and loud as always.

Eight Mile revives as well, raising her head to call to the sky, a bit more involved now.

Heart always gets into the calling back to the Fool, so when he joins in calling to the spirits it’s with a full throated bellow, accompanied by clawing up the forest floor, bristling with emotion.

Golden howls along with his packmates, joining in after a final glance at the treeline.

Ringtone’s howl is full and bright, the invitation clear in his voice.

By the steam vents, the air practically hums with the howls of the Sept, the energy of those gathered, the promise of the magic of the ritual heavy in the air. ~Garou of the Hidden Walk,~ Falcon’s Grace calls, her words heavy and thick with anticipation, the sound cutting through the sudden hush in the air. ~Tonight we Moot and tonight we must call for wisdom and guidance from the spirits that bind us as a nation. We call to those who have seen enough promise in us to take us and make us more, make us whole.~ She motions toward the sky, where shapes seem to be forming in the midst, where sounds start to be heard, echoing and coming from far away. Hoofbeats, wingbeats, the sound of claws clacking against a surface, the sound of an approaching storm.

Earth-Whisperer and Kill-Stealer join in with a mutual, expressive harmony, calling to the Caern spirit. While they shouted down the Fool as much as anyone, a quiet settles over them as they both seem intent on Carefully Watching the vast array of homids.

Eight Mile’s howls die away and, much like a child — a fur-covered terrible werewolf child, at least — she stares skyward as the spirits begin to make themselves known.

Barn-Owl watches, very nervously, standing with August between her and the shadowy forms in the sky. She doesn’t howl or prance about, looking like she’s expecting something very scary to happen any moment now.

Speech-and-Silence has been notably less vocal than usual during the calling of the Litany, but his howl joins in the greeting of the spirits.

Desh lingers near Yi, their voices lost amidst the uproar.

This always makes the hair on the back of Song-of-Vengeance’s neck raise up, watching, no, feeling the spirits gather in the mists surrounding the caern, bouncing on her toes, almost delightfully, as she waits for the inevitable rush.

On-Star stares upward in awe.

Blood-Guard gives Barn-Owl a reassuring nudge with his muzzle, though the Ahroun is distracted by the goings-ons. When the opening begins, he turns his full attention to Falcon’s Grace and leaps to his feet, howling earnestly and loudly. When the spirits begin to appear, the Gaian’s jaws crack in a lupine grin and he peers forward.

Alessandra ‘s gaze turns skyward as the sounds begin to be heard, her brows raised in surprise.

Bag-of-Snakes’s howl dies away as the spirits manifest themselves and the Jarl watches them in fascinated awe.

Heart makes an eager sound, staring up at the sky as if expecting a cookie, tail starting to wag.

Looking upward, Kaz appears not to have lost the wonder that Chimera inspires in her, as her mouth falls open slightly, and her tail begins to twitch.

Leaves-None dances slightly in place in anticipation, head tilted skyward, tongue lolling lightly from her muzzle, tail wagging unabashedly.

Al seems to be staring blankly at the ground in front of his (currently fairly muddy) shoes.

By the steam vents, the Silver Fang is shouting now, to be heard over approaching thunder: ~Pegasus and Rat, we call to you!~ There is a suggestion of wings and whiskers in the mist, a distant ringing neigh and fearsome squeak before a rush of air sweeps across the space, revealing a heavy equine body and a swift rodent form. ~Unicorn and Stag, we call to you!~ A horn slices through the mist, followed by the heavy bulk of a body, the neigh in a different, deeper range even as a heavily antlered form and a feral snorting sound approach from the opposite direction. ~Fenris and Cockroach, we call to you!~ A terrifying howl cuts through the air as a shaggy wolf shape barrels through the mist and the unnatural chittering of a winged bug shape arrows by, promising to survive forever. ~Griffin and Grandfather Thunder, we call to you!~ Something wild and fierce of winged with an eagle’s beak and a lion’s claws cuts right after the wolf, screaming a never-heard-in-nature challenge to the air, even as a huge flash of thunder and lightning makes a definitive statement. ~Owl and Chimera, we call to you!~ A silent beat cuts across, the huge bulk of an owl all the more powerful in the post-thunder silence, matching the flash of mirrored wings and bulk that is the ever-changing figure of the Sept totem itself. ~Uktena and Wendigo, we call to you!~ A hissing sound accompanies the serpent figure that seems almost to chase the owl even as a blast of icy air sweeps through the entire caern center, preceding the charging figure of ice and terror that comes from the north. ~Falcon, we call to you!~ There is a clarion call of the winged spirit, a sharp beat of wings and the approach of a raptor, answered by a grateful and welcoming call from the Silver Fang, an invitation for the Sept to join her in welcoming the tribal totems.

Jason is awestruck in wonder. Wow!

Carries-Fire’s jaws part again, and this time her loud, rough howl is very gleeful.

~Dude,~ Kaz says. That appears to be all she’s going to say, until she belts out a welcoming howl, almost at the same time as Morgan’s.

Barn-Owl lets out a huge sigh, nervous energy fading as it’s just the totems. She makes a noise that’s sort of a Crinos equivalent to a nervous chuckle. ~Oh! Wow.~

Ringtone’s ears flatten against his skull, but all the same his welcoming howl carries a joyful note.

Al’s head twitches, giving a little tilting-jerk. He grimaces and squints his eyes all but closed.

On-Star howls joyfully, almost giddy as the spirits appear.

Speech-and-Silence watches Cockroach skitter past with a look similar to a man who’s just trodden on a garden rake and had it rise up and smack him in the face. Except instead of a man he’s a wolf. The look is amazingly similar, though.

Ferret finds Leaves-None’s girlish enthusiasm to be catching. The older Gnawer’s tongue lolls, and then she too turns her muzzle skyward, waiting. As the raucous arrival plays out, the grizzled old ragabash sits in childlike wonder of it all. She joins her voice to the rest in welcome.

Heart is about beside himself with exaltation; he howls and yawps and starts dashing in circles, proinging like a spring lamb.

Eight Mile calls toward the heavens though–admittedly–the Gnawer is tracking the movement of Rat the most.

Leaves-None capers in place in surprise, turning around in a full circle a couple of times at the brush-by of the spirits and alternating between yips and happy howls.

Bag-of-Snakes stretches to the sky, both fists clenched and pumping. ~GO FENRIS GO!~

Golden howls at all of the totems as they appear, though his voice is somewhat louder for Owl.

By the steam vents, the calls of the Sept mingle with the fearsome sounds of the totems above, the spirits wheeling and stampeding through the sky in a deadly ballet. Each totem seems to seek, for a moment, those of it’s children below; or perhaps they don’t and it is only the imagination of the watching Garou. But for a moment, it feels to those below as if they are under scrutiny and study from that most dear to them before, in a flurry of movement and sound and overwhelmed senses, the figures fade again into a mist that rapidly fades into nothing but the light of the moon overhead. ~The Inner Sky is opened!~ Falcon’s Grace calls, panting and suddenly weary, her right hand rubbing against her bleeding left arm.

Song-of-Vengeance almost forgets to howl, her breath taken away. When she does it’s joyful, her arms going up and out in a welcoming gesture. ~Welcome to this place, Pegasus!~

As the Inner Sky spills forth the cavalcade of spirits, Icetrap first sends a dour but approving look in Zosia’s direction before joining his howl to the others, the sound lost in the general cacophany.

Snakepatcher howls out to Uktena enthusiastically.

Earth-Whisperer and Kill-Stealer pridefully join their howls in a great volume for Griffin’s honor.

Blood-Guard thumps his tail and howls loudly, watching the Unicorn spirit with wide eyes and parted jaws. He almost forgets to howl, which he adds in a short burst.

Desh hoots for Owl.

The Garou gathered mill about for the next step of the moot, and the Truthcatcher, Jack Fallout, rises to his crinos form. Bearing a long white bone of some hooved animal, he climbs up to the rock slab wherein the Glass Walker holds up the bones, bringing them down to break upon his leg with a thick crack of sound. ~Now is the time for the Truth Catching! Speak only in the Mother’s Tongue, or face the price. Those who would speak, step forward and take the bones!~

Moving forward and taking the bones, Falcon’s Grace stands with a quiet sort of confidence, ignoring the trail of blood down her arm. ~I come forward to speak of two things. First, the Silver Fangs are claiming the Mountain Bowl area of the Wolf Woods park as their protectorate, to watch over the wolf kin and to guard the land therein. We will not deny those who wish to have access to the kin for breeding purposes but we will expect anyone who enters the territory to speak to me first.~ That said, the Silver Fang seems to move on to her next topic. ~Garou of the Hidden Walk, you must listen and listen closely. I have had dreams, dreams full of pain and terror and dread. Of attack and warning, about this place and about this time. I have spoken to others and they speak of dreams as well. When the moot is complete, if you have had these dreams, seek me out. We will speak of dreams and actions to follow.~ Pausing, she seems to consider something. Shaking her head, she stops there and hands the bones back, going to have a seat.

On-Star blinks and twitches her ears at Falcon’s Grace second message. The Walker quickly looks around to see other’s reactions.

Little Silvertip grunts a bit, glancing around. He sniffs at the air again, with a wary eye.

Bag-of-Snakes listens to that announcement with some evident interest, particularly as regards Wolf Woods and its inhabitants.

Ringtone’s ears pull forward as Zosia speaks, eyes widening at her information. He glances toward his alpha, posture questioning without giving the thought full voice.

Leaves-None pants a little bit, settling down to listen to what may be said. The talk of dreams and such earns an inquisitive tilt of her head but nothing more.

Song-of-Vengeance crouches warily next to the center stone, attention fixed on Bright Falcon’s Grace.

Lightning-Branch, standing in the warform beside his pack, rumbles quietly in the back of his throat at Zosia’s announcement.

Al blinks slowly and looks up when the Truthcatcher speaks. He squints, listening, mouth still pulled into a grimacy scowl, and eventually pushes himself up into the near-man shape and trudges up to the rock slab to take the bones. He addresses the Sept rather shortly, in rough Mother’s Tongue tinged with a distinctly urrah accent. ~They call me Glass Breaker. Homid, Ragabash, Cliath, an’ a Silver Fang. Elder asked me to teach someone the Rite of Contrition, so talk to me if you wanna learn it.~ He pauses a beat, thinking, then adds, ~Also lookin’ for a pack.~ He hands the bones back with a shrug and starts heading back to his spot on the outskirts.

Golden’s ears flatten in concern, and he looks among the other Garou for their reactions to Zosia. They flick forward again to greet Al, however.

Ears’s head tilts just slightly at something Zosia says; but she nods.

Eight Mile settles into a weird sort of crouch, sucking on a tooth at the pair of Silver Fangs. She seems tense but doesn’t move just yet.

Speech-and-Silence tailwags a few times at Al’s introduction, it being evident that he’s met the Silver Fang already, or at the very least knows of him, and doesn’t disapprove.

Little Silvertip has considerably less interest in Al. The new cliath gets a sidelong, distracted glance, before he resumes sniffing and glancing on regular intervals.

On-Star steps forward after a long moment to take the broken bones from Fallout, only slightly awkward as she turns to the rest of the Sept. ~I have passed my Rite of Passage and am now a Cliath of Cockroach’s tribe. I am On-Star-Measures-Twice, but please call me On-Star.~ With that over she hands them back and returns to where she had been.

Carries-Fire looks at Kaz, then looks back toward the Caern center. Her nervousness seems to have returned full force.

Blood-Guard pulls his ears back and blinks at Zosia’s announcement. His alarm fades to mild confusion, and then neutrality, as the introductions follow.

Barn-Owl gives a huge thumbs up to On-Star, very pleased at her friend’s success! She does manage to keep silent, though.

Heart squints at Al, the look on his face clear: Silver Fang? really? He chuffs, then looks down at Golden, ears splaying in concern.

Pack> Golden explains that Falcon’s Grace dreamed of white wolves. He seems to expect Heart to remember, about the fur.

Shortly after the Cracking, however, comes a long and loud, urgent howl from the northwesterly direction that Golden recognizes as Forest-Spirit. ~Danger to the Walk! Danger to the Walk from the west! Enemies from the West!~ That howl is then confirmed with yips and more. A line of howls of alarm sound the alert. ~Intruders from the north! Wyrm to the north! Look to the sky!~ cries another guard, howls sounding out, faint but detectable to the ears of the lupine-sensed.

Falcon’s Grace sounds her approval of On-Star’s news–but whatever else she might have done fades in the face of the call. Jerking to her feet, she seems prepared to charge off, looking to Kaz for her word.

Lightning-Branch looks up and around to the north and snarls, breath pumping raggedly in his chest, waiting for the chance to spring into action.

Song-of-Vengeance chuckles at On-Star’s cliath name, giving her a nod, her ears flicking toward the new cliath.

Bag-of-Snakes springs upright again and belts off a howl. ~What danger? Who howls a warning?~ she demands at top volume.

Little Silvertip seems to have been ready for this. Silvertip leaps straight up with a supernatural leap, up into the to of the Caern. The flies straight up, to the top of a tree, where he lands and looks.

On-Star hadn’t quite settled back down and stands tall, looking at the sky.

Leaves-None scrambles to her feet, turns once in a circle as she sorts out the howling, and glances upwards at the last call.

Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm , who had sat mostly quiet and absorbed througout the announcements, suddenly springs back to his feet at the cries of alarm, his hammer appearing in his talons as if by magic. His tail bristles, the boy grabbing Oskar by the arm to drag him over towards Bag-of-Snakes to make a little viking-cluster.

At the warning howls, Blood-Guard erupts to Crinos and looks to Kaz. Then he belts out a returning howl asking, ~What foes do we face, what numbers?~

Golden stands and scans the northern and western skyline, while his ears tilt towards Kaz for her orders.

Al’s head jerks up. One meaty hand goes into his suit jacket, then pulls back, empty. His expression turns annoyed. “Fuuuuuck,” he grumbles.

Eight Mile looks toward the older Gnawer, pushing to her feet and flexing clawed hands in anticipation.

Too-Good-To-Be-True doesn’t need any encouragement. He follows Hammer, grumbling as he casts his eyes about. ~Axe.~ He mutters, in his deep voice, which is surprisingly mild. Now.

Song-of-Vengeance shoots to her feet at the urgent howl, her teeth bared, the Fury looking to Kaz, waiting for orders. She is ready to run and face the enemies of the walk. Al gets a look. ~You will need your claws for this one, Glass-breaker.~

Heart nearly self-combusts, bursting with protective fury. ~The Wyrm dares! Let it come, we’ll turn it away in Gaia’s name!~

Carries-Fire rises from lupus to crinos, where a spear forms in one hand. She is very still, ears perked and pressed forward, nose to the air.

Falcon’s Grace snarls at Song-of-Vengeance as she waits, clearly displeased with the Fury’s words. The bulk of her attention is aimed north, the theurge scanning the skies.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me how to do my shit, Charlene,” Al snaps.

Barn-Owl looks about, eyes wide and with not a small amount of fear in them. ~What should I do?~ she asks nobody in particular.

On-Star’s head snaps back to glower at Al before looking away again.

Ferret tenses, the Gnawer’s eyes wide, her hackles raised. She scents the air, watches the others come alert. She watches Silvertip with mild–maybe even jealous–amazement. Eventually, her eyes come back to her tribal and sept alpha before she heads up the side of the caern to investigate.

Ears snaps her head north; and then west. And she looks, briefly, torn. ~Enh, fuck challenges,~ she mutters, and straightens. ~Well. Dreams and portents are true and more immediate than any expected, it would seem. But we are Garou, and we are gathered tonight for Gaia. The Revel, it seems, has come to us, rather than we seeking it out. Little Silvertip. Bag of Snakes. Blood Guard. Split those here. Choose among packs and packless, and take Garou to the east, the north, and the west. I and some others — Carries Fire, Eight-Mile, Song of Vengeance — will got to the South, to make sure there are none coming from that direction.~

Speech-and-Silence grows from lupus into hispo, and runs to the side of Snakepatcher, his nearest packmate. ~Where’s Mind-Breaker?~ he asks, looking amid the sudden bustle of garou running back and forth.

Carries-Fire rumbles her understanding, and looks ready to go on Ears’s word.

Eight Mile moves toward Ears immediately when she is named, restless with anticipation and already looking south.

Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm manages to look both angry and /very/ eager at the same time, gripping his hammer firmly. He does call out to the Alpha though. ~What of the cubs, Kaz-rhya?~ He keeps his station by Bag-Of-Snakes, standing at her side as if her huscarl- though a watchful gaze is kept on Oskar.

Lightning-Branch brandishes his club, letting the heavy stone slap against the muscled flesh in the palm of his claw-bearing hand.

Blood-Guard nods sharply to Kaz. ~Right.~ He looks over to Bag of Snakes, tail bristling in anticipation of battle, ears pinned to his head. ~We’ll need three groups then. Four, if you count those to stay and guard the Caern.~ The Gaian scans those gathered, stopping to look at Heart and Little Silvertip most consideringly.

Desh remains where he is, jaw set, waiting for orders.

Earth-Whisperer and Kill-Stealer also wait, amidst a chorus of growls.

Mind-Breaker shoulders his way past a quick rush of Garou, his tunic gone in his warform. ~Right here. The hell? Some people are acting like they expected this,~ he growls irritably as he charges up to meet the rest of his packmates.

Leaves-None circles her packmates quickly, sliding into hispo, and rumbles a tense query of direction before glancing at the three singled out by the Ears to lead groups.

~Dreams, Mind-Breaker, spoke to us.~ Song-of-Vengeance growls, not angrily, as she moves to stand with Kaz, Carries-Fire, and Eight-Mile, ready to head to the south with the sept Alpha.

Ears says, reassessing slightly, ~Cubs should stay here. Safest place. I want two to guard. Ringtone, Fast-Draw, you remain here, to guard.~ Then she narrows her eyes, something evidently transmitting to her. ~The west has nine fuckin’ fomori and about four Garou. Let’s get to it, people.~

Carries-Fire rumbles at something, her ears flattening. She looks /displeased/.

Snakepatcher sharply turns about, to the north, and to the west, and barely restrains himself from charging anywhere as he listens to Kaz’s instructions. He bumps shoulders with his packmates.

~Yeah? Last time I was hit by a dream of a naked Rosario Dawson, I didn’t stock up on Crisco and condoms,~ Mind-Breaker growls.

On-Star looks at those named, eager and tense.

Bag-of-Snakes looks at Too-Good with genuine regret and apology on her face. ~The Alpha orders that you stay, soldier. So you stay. Orders must be obeyed.~ She clumps him on the shoulder sympathetically, and turns to round up others, starting with Wyrmhammer.

~You heard the Jarl, Too-Good-To-Be-True.~ Wyrmhammer snarls to his cub, before looking to the Jarl and anyone else that she manages to rope in. His tail lashes behind him in excitement, his entire body all of a sudden wired. ~We’ll bring you back a nice skull. Or nine of ‘em. Time is wasting!~ He adds more generally, seeming about to rush off alone, so eager is he.

Heart points at Barn-Owl. ~Stay here, be guarded,~ he orders. ~If they try to take you…open your throat.~ He bares his teeth in what is apparently supposed to be a reassuring smile. ~But don’t worry too much about that.~

Barn-Owl quickly goes over to Ringtone, gesturing to the other cubs as well. ~C’mon, we’ll be okay here. This will be no big deal.~ She’s not entirely convinced of her own words, but tries to sound brave.

Little Silvertip stands at the top of his tree for a long moment, squinting into the gloom. After a few moments, he jumps down, landing like a feather on the ground. ~It’s too far to see.~ Silvertip curses lower, before yelling, ~Hummingbird! Lightning Branch! Draws-Fast! Speech and Silence! We’re going north, NOW!~

Falcon’s Grace briefly noses at Barn-Owl, probably attempting to be reassuring but mostly just making vague growling noises Which probably aren’t reassuring.

Too-Good-To-Be-True grumbles wordlessly.

On-Star heads over to Ringtone then to see about going.

Lightning-Branch grips his club in between his enormous teeth and takes off behind Little Silvertip on all fours.

Yi calls out over to Kaz amidst the urgent organizing, “Kaz, I can take the cubs to a safe place. We just need some to guard along the way.”

Speech-and-Silence blinks in surprise as Little Silvertip summons him away from his packmates. ~I… well, see you guys later –~ he blurts in Mother’s Tongue, and twists away, breaking into a canter to run after the Uktena. ~On my way! Let the Wyrm beware!~ he yips as he runs.

Earth-Whisperer chuffs after Yi that he and Kill-Stealer will provide support for the cubs.

Slowly, Kaz turns to regard Jason. ~A Sept protected by Chimera. A Caern of Visions. Scoff at other times and places; for now, pray to Gaia we can defend this place.~ She turns away from him to add to Viv, ~If you think he can hack it, take him. Your cub.~ Ears then nods to Yi.

Hummingbird runs along with Lightning Branch, the Uktena meeting his packmate somewhere in the middle.

Bag-of-Snakes also addresses Kaz. ~My cub is a fighter. I would sooner take him with me and Wyrmhammer than leave him to fret,~ she states. Kaz’s implicit permission seems to be a weight off her mind, and she addresses the young full-moon of her tribe. ~Okay! Change of orders. You come with me. You! Silver Fang!~ She addresses Al. ~And you, Leaves-None!~ she adds as she spots the experienced Gnawer. ~With me, and we go west!~

Mind-Breaker perks his eyebrows up at Kaz. ~…I’ll start buying Crisco in bulk, then.~ Looking to his cub, he puts a hand on her head and says, ~Ready to listen to the warriors fight from a distance?~

Blood-Guard grunts. He calls out Heart and Golden, and gestures to Carries-Fire, Kavi, and Lefty. ~We will meet the foes to the east and destroy them. If any others would join us, come with me.~

Barn-Owl leaves with the newer cubs, trying to keep the group’s spirits up as they go off to their refuge until the current trouble passes.

Al straightens up when Bag of Snakes barks at him. He grunts and hauls himself up into Crinos.

Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm ‘s snarl splits into a grin as Oskar is granted fomor-killing privileges. ~Let’s /go/!~ He growls in frustration, bouncing up and down on his heels and then taking off with Viv.

Blood-Guard grunts. He calls out various Garou. ~We will meet the foes to the east and destroy them. If any others would join us, come with me.~

Too-Good-To-Be-True snaps to Crinos attention! ~Yes! I come, Jarl!~ He lopes to stand by Hammer, his tongue lolling slightly. He tenses, then relaxes, stretching himself out. Getting limbered up.

Heart bounds after August, every hackle up, every tooth bared. Someone is eager for the fray.

Golden slips after Heart and August’s group, easily keeping pace with his packmate.

Falcon’s Grace moves with Golden, Heart, and Blood Guard, the Silver Fang nosing at her former packmate as they go.

Leaves-None gives her packmates a quick bump and tears off after Bag-of-Snakes and other Get.

Bawn: Northern Forest
 Dark and forboding woods stretch in all directions but the north, the trees close together as if they were soldiers closing ranks against the enemy of Man. The trees here are tall, and close off all light from above, like they were pillars in some vast cathedral to Nature. Songbirds flit between the branches and the snuffling of small animals comes from the brush if one listens close enough. The busy interstate highway to the north, though, drowns out most of the subtler sounds in that direction.
 The northern edge of the bawn is marked here by the unavoidable length of Interstate 90. Near it, the sounds of traffic drown out the more natural sounds of water and wildlife. In all other directions, the traffic noise recedes into the background.

Contents:
Heart
Carries-Fire
Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm
Snakepatcher
Blood-Guard
Ringtone
On-Star
Leaves-None
Lightning-Branch
Too-Good-To-Be-True
Desh
Glass Breaker
Speech-and-Silence
Ears
Falcon’s Grace
Bag-of-Snakes
Little Silvertip
Mekoides

Obvious exits:
Interstate 90 North Lone Boulder Western Bawn Central Bawn Eastern Bawn

The packs headed northward run on. The bawn’s landscape is darkened by the night and reduced moon, but the senses of wolves are better attuned, and those more familiar with the woods know their home turf well enough to manuever. Further ahead, there is a loud howl once more, one of Challenge from a stranger’s voice. Then it is followed by the screeching, grating sound of the unmistakeable Call of the Wyrm for those who have heard the Gift. It is a sound that sends shivers up the spine and fur prickling out of reflex. As the warriors coming from the caern continue onwards, they can already hear the sounds of battle in other sections of the bawn as the wind bears that news laggingly.

Little Silvertip and his bunch stream out to the north. Silvertip, in crinos, takes the covering off his spear, revealing the silver that he brought along. The crinos runs on all fours with the group, but in the branches of the trees. Kevin jogs along in hispo, while Desh runs along in glabro, supernaturally fast. Chulash matches him in Crinos, while Fernando follows up the rear in hispo.

Bag-of-Snakes’s party sets out to the West initially. The Jarl organises her troops into a rough capital-M shape, the two ragabash on the wings, Al at right and Masao at left flank. She and Paul are the two central prongs, Oskar just behind his tribemates. Soon enough, though, they hear howls and combat from the north, and she orders the formation to wheel and head that way at the double.

Blood-Guard stops to scrape his crinos claws on a rock. Then he leads to take the point position, ordering He moves them as quietly as he can along a ridge, treading on all fours, trying to use the terrain to their advantage, hoping to spot the enemy before they are seen. Falcon’s Grace falls into place behind Blood-Guard, looking to do so out of long-time habit. She doesn’t do anything visible but she suddenly seems -more- than she just did before, following the Gaian without comment. Golden keeps to August’s flank, his hispo shape indistinct and difficult to track and his smell entirely absent. His ears and nose work as they move north, and as the sound of the Call hits his ears he senses for the Wyrm’s presense, feeling the familiar Bawn around him for corruption. On-Star has no gifts to activate so simply stays by Ringtone in crinos. Heart brings up the rear of the group, his claws gleaming with supernatural sharpness. He goes with the silence of Owl, enormous Crinos form far more stealthy than it should be. As they move, Ringtone slips from crinos to hispo, following August’s direction and keeping close ot the front.

Silvertip’s group is the first to see them. Hurtling forward is a pack of Black Spiral Dancers, four at first. The one in the lead is frightening already, a hispo with no skin on its face to speak of but a bloodied mass of muscle, sinew and two rolling eyes. Flanking on the right, a wolf with not a muzzle but a long protruding beak that looks very sharp. On the left, a scarred and muscled crinos with long bat-like ears and mud-caked fur. Completing their diamond formation, the hispo in the back with an eye as white as a golfball, his fur not fur at all but a mass of shivering spikes.

A foul, noxious scent fills the air from where Viv’s group runs forth and they see first what comes. Sort of. A huge green cloud, opaque and unable to see through, sits in their way as they run. The source of it? A huge boulder-sized *something*, porous and with a multitude of holes that open and close with muscular movement. From each pore, more gas billows out chokingly.

Coming from the east, August’s group spots the shambling sight of a Materialized bane. Monsters in their own right. The one in the lead slavers from a huge crinos-eating lamprey mouth, and on its head it bears no eyes but two small sensor antenna. The creature moves on two large chitinous armored legs with thick claws and lashes a long, naked tail with trident-prongs at the end.

Speech-and-Silence sees the cluster of Dancers with a fierce light in his eyes. Finding himself paired up, willy-nilly, with Desh, he lets the Strider go in head-to-head against the skinless-faced leader while he veers to one side, twisting to come in at right angles to the same target with teeth snapping. Desh stops to take aim as the rest of his group musters forward, firing straight ahead towards the face of the foremost Spiral. Silvertip, not landing for a second, bounces down to lower branches, so that he’s still above the reach of the dancers, while he uses the long reach of his silver weapon to jab down into the spiked Black Spiral Dancer. Fernando and Chulash are in Crinos, running at the Spiral on the right. Fernando is going to vault up the side of a tree and come down on the Spiral with his mace from above, while Chulash is going to swing for the legs with his club.

Glass Breaker snarls a surly-sounding, ~Fuuuuuuck,~ plus something else under his breath. Something about ferals, guns, and stupid rules. Leaves-None’s ears pin back to her head and the yip she makes is disgusted as she trades wolf for larger Hispo and searches for a angle from which to attack. ~What a gas…~ At the centre of the spearhead, Oskar obediently waits for a command to attack or withdraw from Paul or Viv. From his position at the forefront, Wyrmhammer slows his pace a little at the sight of the obstruction ahead. ~Oh. Great. Something else that I can’t take proper trophies from.~ He comments sardonically to the rest of his group before looking to the Jarl for her orders. ~Want me to go smashy on that lump, boss?~ And Bag-of-Snakes, eyeing up the target, growls, ~Can’t see any reason to hold back against this one. It’s visible enough. All in against it!~ With which command, she takes a deep, deep breath, and trying not to breathe its miasma, charges the boulder-creature with a howl of proud defiance.

Blood-Guard launches himself forward, quick and low, to dart around the thing, trying to avoid the tail and maw. He reaches out with a swipe to the legs to call on his gift of the falling touch. Just behind August comes deft-pawed Golden, hoping to try and damage the bane’s antenna should it fall. He howls a quick warning to the others that there are more foes coming. The Ragabash also takes care to try and sidestep that nasty lamprey-mouth. Heart and Ringtone barrel forward, the Fostern Gaian aiming his claws for any weaknesses in the armor. He’ll attack whether he finds any or not. Ringtone focuses on the thing’s legs, focusing his energy to break through the tough chitin. And Falcon’s Grace and On-Star hang back, warily awaiting the others Golden warned about.

Desh’s bullet explodes out of the gun, and in turn travels with haste before the projectile suddenly bursts into a flashbang brilliant light that temporarily blinds not just the lead charging Dancer, but also the one to the left. The left one curses a storm, blinking but not quite stopping. As a result, the crinos runs right into Speech-and-Silence who tackles into the lead Dancer in a sideswipe. Fangs find each other mutually and tear away at flesh and bone. The mass is a wild fray, not affording a good second shot for the Strider with the keen eye. Where Silvertip flies up, his weapon stabs down towards the running spike-furred hispo. The latter enemy proves a hard target to strike, spotting the white crinos above him and ducking to a side. The spear grazes, slicing open a burning wound that elicits a howl of rage. That same hispo limps back, planting its feet and letting go a thick howl at the Uktena ahroun. It’s a piercing cry that latches on straight to Silvertip’s inner Beast and breaks the chains free, unleashing a berserk frenzy. Fernando and Chulash’s double-teamed attack upon the beak-faced Crinos proves only semi-effective. The creature is speedy, leaping up to avoid the Strider’s sweeping club. Fernando has a bit better luck and smashes down on the shoulder, a crunch of bone and a yelp heard as the Dancer rolls away.

The boulderish creature, however it manages to sense the group of Garou that comes charging towards it, takes to flight. Or rather, rolls. The being leads them off on a chase, smashing pinball-esque through the wood and leaving a choking cloud in its wake. Not even the ironclad stomachs of the Garou manage to hold back the nauseous feeling, and something about the gas burns at the lungs heavily, clinging to their sensitive inner organs.

The large group of Blood-Guard’s closes in, each Garou in turn throwing their attacks in. The leading Blood-Guard ducks low, slamming claws at the leg of the creature. By virtue of his gift, as it lifts its leg to kick out at him, it misses and stumbles with a couple hops on its one planted foot. Golden takes his chance, but misses the smaller target of the antenna on its awkward manuever. That lamprey mouth comes dangerously close to the Owl-child, scraping away fur but not managing to break skin. Heart and Ringtone fair the best when they attack the one balancing leg, the ahroun managing to flay open a chunk of armor and the galliard less successful, scraping but a layer off. With the warning sounded, Falcon’s Grace and On-Star spot the movement from behind the fray, as shadows break cover and take off at an angle away from the fighters.

Evidently, Kaz and Charlene scouted out the situation to the south, and decided that there was little possibility of threat coming from that direction. And so, soon enough, they started loping to the north again, Charlene in the lead and Kaz limping behind, but covering the terrain in a ground-eating pace, grimly following the sounds of battle to the north.

Silvertip lands on the ground when the Frenzy sets in, no longer having the control of flight. Without using his silver weapon, he uses his other paw to tear into his foe. Now he’s at close quarters Speech-and-Silence shows no desire to break away from his foe. He’s a snapping, snarling ball of righteous rage for Gaia as he continues his attack on the lead Dancer. Not wanting to risk hurting Kevin, Desh turns for a moment, watching the speedy Dancer and firing just as it moves away from the other Garou, using it’s own inertia against it to aim the bullet correctly. Having struck their foe once, Fernando and Chulash storm after him. The fires of Rage burn in their eyes as at once they strike with a one-two attack, swinging in an arc with their clubs at the Dancer’s head and slashing with their claws, intending to rip out hunks of flesh from his side.

Too-Good-To-Be-True swings to a nearby tree and tries to get into the branches above the target in order to attack from above. Though he can feel the damage to his lungs, his tribemate Wyrmhammer doesn’t feel the pain- nor is he slowed by it. The young modi taps his rage, bursting ahead at an angle to try and head the thing off without inhaling too much of its choking trail. Once within range his hammer is bought down upon its skin with all of his might. The Jarl is also there with him, calling on her rage to speed her attack, and using preternaturally sharp claws to make what marks she can upon the strange being’s body. Shaking her head with a hacking cough, Leaves-None tries vainly to clear her lungs before continuing the forward press. She tries to snake lower to the ground in the even faint hope of clearer sights as she pelts after the erstwhile runaway gasball. Glass Breaker, gagging on the noxious fumes, falters and falls behind somewhat. He makes any number of awful-sounding hacking noises and keeps shaking his head sharply, like he’s trying to dislodge something clinging to it.

With barks of warning from Falcon’s Grace and On-Star, Blood-Guard and his group are made aware that the other enemies are within sight range, and their path leads them towards the Caern. The Gaian Ahroun calls Fang and Glass Walker forward to help him intercept, along with Golden. Heart and Ringtone he directs to take the currently-engaged Bane down quickly before moving to help intercept the others. Heart takes to the task with gusto, trying to shove the already off-balance thing over, while Ringtone launches a flurry of claws at already-weakened parts. As those moving to intercept rush, On-Star howls a LOUD warning: ~Garou of the Hidden Walk, Banes come to attack the Caern! They come now!~

Kaz, by prearrangement, runs into Javen and pants, ~Thissaway,~ as they head northward. But at the howl, they all three pause; Kaz concentrates for a moment and then calls, ~Thattaway,~ and, apparently having gotten some directions, heads for the shadowy banes moving toward the Caern, and the group of Gaians and Walkers, hopefully to barrel into the enemy. Kaz’s actual factual packmate, Morgan, barrels along beside them.

Onto the ground the fight goes. Silvertip falls into a raging frenzy, which seems to be the malicious intent of the Black Spiral Dancer who jumps away, luring the Uktena ahroun’s fury out even at the expense of some heavy hits. Biding his time, though, he waits for the misstep and launches forward, teeth and claws tearing into the ahroun’s silver-wielding arm with a vengeance. Within seconds, the ahroun’s arm is in tatters – not that he notices either when it tears right off at the elbow and he continues to batter the Dancer with unending, furious attacks. Kevin has his hands full as well, throwing out hits but taking hard ones. A messy affair turns into a desperate affair once the Walker ragabash comes to realize he’s being overpowered by two Dancers upon him. His flesh is rended away when the Spirals combine attacks against him, and red starts to invade the crushing black that threatens his vision. In the spirit of double-teams, Fernando and Chulash have at their target. Desh’s bullet buries itself into the tail-end of the creature, causing a sharp yelp and brief distraction. All too well for Fernando and Chulash – one mace smashes down on the head, and claws eliminate the throat in moments.

Finally with Rage in their hearts, the Garou chasing after the rolling boulder-bane catch up to it. Too-Good falls behind, the time spent treeclimbing wasting valuable seconds. Wyrmhammer makes first contact, smashing his hammer into the thick leathery skin of the thing. It in turn, turns towards the modi and rolls right towards him, smashing against the crinos with a powerful blow that knocks him off his feet. The Get Jarl fares better as her claws open a set of long lines that ooze some sludgey notion. It turn opens up a porous portion of its skin and blasts her with a gout of flame, setting fur on fire and singing her painfully on her face and upper torso.

The moving shadows proceed forth, but aren’t what appear to be banes. No, those are fomori… large, wolf-shaped fomori that move like a pack of shadows along. Unlike the original thought of three or four, though, there are instead a group double that size, but their midnight black fur soaks in the darkness. And they’re fast. Meanwhile, with Heart and Rington left at the bane, the pair of them find they might have bitten off a little more than they can chew. The snaking tail of the creature wraps around the Gaian ahroun’s neck after he makes his strikes and nearly severs the leg. But the pronged-tail lifts him straight off the ground, lashing in and arc and smashing the heavy crinos headfirst against the ground on the bane’s other side. Ringtone is the one who severs the leg, bringing the bane low. But there’s still much of it to rend, and it writhes in an attempt to snap its mouth around the Walker – it misses, but not at all by much.

To (Heart, Ringtone, Golden, On-Star, Falcon’s Grace), Blood-Guard pages: Aaaahhh. Okay, Heart has 5 non-agg, bashing, he’s stunned though. D:

Silvertip continues to Frenzy, even without his arm, raging against the spiked Black Spiral Dancer. The first grim job done, Lightning-Branch and Hummingbird split apart to help their sept-mates – Fernando rushes off to attempt to cave in the skull of the Dancer nearest him, while Chulash dives between the spiked Spiral and Silvertip to swing his club once, twice with animalistic ferocity at the neck of the spiky Crinos that harries the Uktena Ahroun while he tries to fill his attention. Speech-and-Silence realises he’s in dire trouble, but his options are limited. He redoubles his assault on the closest Dancer, desperately trying to bring at least one enemy down before he falls himself. Desh stows his gun as he dashes with that supernatural speed around to flank Kevin’s far opponent, shifting to Crinos as he barrels foward to tackle and claw the thing away from his comrade before it has much time to think elsewise.

Kaz cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as fast. Luckily, Charlene and Javen can be, so from the south, they encounter the shadow-wolves first. With barely a hesitation, Charlene goes high and aims for its shoulder, trying very hard with a blurred speed to take a chunk out of it. Javen goes low and aims for its hamstrings, blurring with her own Rage. Morgan, staying by Kaz, and Kaz, limping as fast as she can, bowl into the creature in a miniature second wave, Morgan (spear held in one of her lower arms) slashing and clawing with completely unnatural speed, and Kaz trying hard to bowl it over, aiming her claws at its nether regions.

Seeing the size and nature of the Caern strike force for what it is, hearing the cries of Gaian and Walker left alone with the giant Bane, Blood-Guard wheels around and leads his party back to their aid. The Ahroun uses the speed of Rage to do so. He and Golden aim to rend that offending tail once they reach striking distance. Falcon’s Grace and On-Star mean to go after that already-weakened leg-stump. Meanwhile Ringtone dedicates his full attention to dodging, looking for openings to stay alive, and the impact-stunned Heart rages to attack once again.

Glass Breaker looks aghast for a moment, then enraged. ~Fucking no-guns BITCHES!~ he snarls, then charges forward, spurred on by a sudden spike of righteous anger. He runs right /past/ the gassy thing, slashing it with his claws in passing in a kind of low-tech drive-by. Growling under a hard-hacked breath, Leaves-None takes to Crinos and goes for any opening she can find on the boulder-bane. She’s still going low, like aiming for the tires on low-rider. Still undeterred by pain, though noticing that suddenly he’s limping somewhat, Wyrmhammer launches into full slice-and-dice mode. Reaching deep, he draws upon more rage and lashes out a flurry of blows. Another pair of fierce hammer blows are directed at the beast, aimed for the already injured sections to try and sink deeper. And then his claws lash out once to try and widen the wounds. Bag-of-Snakes ignores the flames scorching her for the moment at least, preferring to continue her work in savaging the boulderbeast and trying to increase the number and depth of her clawmarks in it. Too-Good, meantime, makes a leap from his lofty position, aiming to land on top of the boulder and dig his claws in real good, before pushing off again with his legs.

With Silvertip in a frenzied state, the damage done to both Garou is remarkable in that they’re both still kicking. Chulash clubs away at the spike-furred Garou, though one of his strikes bounces off the frenzied Uktena ahroun without doing any harm, the other crushing something in the Dancer’s facial bones. The spike-furred Dancer bellows in a rage, apparently in a frenzy of his own at this point and it’s do-or-die. The crinos sinks his claws into the belly of Uktena ahroun as Silvertip’s claws find the Dancer’s throat, mutually tearing bits out. It is the Dancer who falls first, but Silvertip close behind. With Fernando rushing in to help Kevin, Desh on the other side, the odds turn to 2-against-3 in the Gaian Garou’s favor. Fernando’s mace swings and slams into the skullfaced Dancer from Kevin, who extracts from the fray and howls a sick mockery of a battlecry, spittle and blood flying as it turns upon the ragabash and tackles the mace wielder with sheer body mass rather than any attack. Desh takes on the remaining mud-caked Dancer, whose fangs are around Kevin’s neck crushing the ragabash’s throat. It’s a loose grip that comes away as the Strider brings down the enemy, only then Desh is assaulted by the bloodied crinos, getting heavily clawed down his torso for his troubles. Kevin’s managed to injure his opponent enough, but his energy flags as he is unable to continue the fight.

It’s no ball of yarn that the group with Bag-of-Snakes assaults, and it comes to light as the Garou surround and attack. Glass Breaker’s claws leave long ‘bleeding’ marks, and the ragabash avoids a gout of flame that counters in response. Masao isn’t quite as lucky, getting a faceful of gas as she plunges her claws into and out of the tough leathery skin of the thing. Landing atop the bane, Too-Good is not blasted, but his foot and leg sink deep into an open pore, which closes around his leg muscle, keeping him from being able to jump away. Searing hot pain lances that leg, enough to drive the ahroun cub into a frenzied state of panic. Meanwhile the somewhat cooler heads prevail as Bag-of-Snakes and Wyrmhammer fully tear away massive chunks of the bane, where they might notice that the puffs of gas spewed at them lessen greatly, and the nasty ooze pours down the bane. It is not rolling anywhere now, nor even moving much.

The other bane keeps its tail wrapped around Heart, meaning to crush the Gaian ahroun with a backbreaker. But for now, it’s a rather discomforting squeeze he must endure as he claws at the tail holding him. With the arrival of Golden and Blood-Guard, the offending limb is finally severed in multiple spaces, and Ringtone once more manages to keep from getting more than a scratch from that seeking lamprey mouth. The bane is slower to move, not quite ‘all there’, it may seem.

Meanwhile further to the south, the packs of Garou and shadow wolves clash, and the first to be overwhelmed are Charlene and javen. The pair find themselves at bad odds, and though they get to enemy first, the enemies tear into them without mercy. The arrival of Falcon’s Grace and On-Star help to better even out those numbers, and blood spills on the ground. The blood of the shadow wolves hitting the ground utter a toxic sounding hiss and steam into the night air even as they eat away at the dirt below.

Blood-Guard, after that tail is shredded, attempts to clamp on to the thing’s spine (assuming it has one) in the leftover stump and rip it out entirely. Golden attempts to disentangle Heart from the tentacle, moving rapidly as he dodges all the while. Meanwhile, the beleagured bashes at whatever part of the bane his claws touch. Ringtone continues to dodge and attack when there are openings. On-Star utilizes hit-and-run tactics to try and help the Garou beleagured by the bane-wolves. Falcon’s Grace also attempts to get her licks in when she can, though she’s hanging back again, assessing the group in search of who is most injured.

The shadow wolf grazed Javen in passing; blood drips from her back. She and Charlene, who seems to be bleeding as well, though from where is unclear, rip into the thing, both of them blurring savagely. The support staff of Morgan and Kaz dive on it almost simultaneously, Morgan a whirling dervish where Kaz is more restrained.

Unable to avoid the faceful of ick, Leaves-None hacks for breath and outright hacks at where she last felt her claws sink in. Wyrmhammer just keeps on attacking at the same point. Trying to drive his hammer and claws into the very core of it. ~WHY WON’T YOU FUCKING DIE?~ He bellows as his hammer descends once again. The Jarl doesn’t waste breath cursing the foe; she just keeps walloping away at it. Oskar, on top of the thing, is beset by the desperate urge to run and has to summon up all his self-control to avoid fleeing. Glass Breaker circles back around, his head giving more of those twitchy dislodge-the-gnats shakes. He eyes the scene, then makes another drive-by claw-slash at the thing.

After ripping though the Black Spiral Dancer’s Throat, gives a frenzied bellow, before collapsing backwards unconscious. He stays in crinos, though – Silvertip is still alive. Speech-and-Silence’s battle is over, it seems. The Glass Walker, his body ravaged by a multitude of wounds, topples over and lies still, and with a shiver reverts from hispo to its breedform of homid. Fast-Draw rolls to the side of the offending foe, promptly leaping forward as a blur with claws extended towards its throat, slashing.Lightning-Branch and Fernando charge the Dancer that’s on top of Kevin, grab it by the haunches and bodily rip it apart. All goriness intended.

Two down, two left, Fernando and Desh fight on gamely. Not so fortunately, the Uktena ragabash has the upper hand taken away when he’s pummeled on the bottom, but turns the tables when he takes advantage of the crushed weak-side of the Dancer. They trade blows, but it is ultimately the Groundskeeper who emerges from the fray, gore spilling from his maw and blood spilling from an torn out throat on the Spiral. For the Strider, the pressure to stay alive is on and in the fight he manages to use a speedier hand to catch the enemy in the face, blinding him. The Dancer’s roar is cut short, the second attack being the final.

It’s difficult to say whose blow is the final straw, but the flashiest is definitely Wyrmhammer’s weapon smashing down upon the boulder creature. The hammer sinks a degree, getting stuck there for a moment. Then, as it remains there, the bane starts to vibrate rather dangerously. That’s… not a good sign…

Latching on to that thick tail base, Blood-Guard heaves. With a sickening squelch of sound, a good portion of spine detaches into the furious ahroun’s bloodied claws. After a few writhing flails, the bane sags against the ground, empty maw left open and exposed. Notably, the creature starts to dissipate from the reality of this world.

Back at the second fray, the battle hasn’t yet finished. Falcon’s Grace grabs one of the wolves as it chomps on On-Star’s tail, teeth skinning the fur from her but otherwise leaving little marks. Acidic blood splashes onto the Garou who attack the wolves and immediately their fur and skin begin burning with painful, nerve-inflaming speed. Javen and Charlene take down one between them, but three more tangle with the two Garou the same as Kaz and Morgan’s trio of targets that circle and attack the multi-armed metis and Sept Alpha. In time, the stronger Garou find themselves prevailing slowly but surely, even as their fingers and claws, fangs and maws burn with the touch of the Wyrm’s poisons. But in comparison, the shadow wolves are not a contest against Gaia’s Chosen. The enemies are brought low one by one, torn apart and maimed to death or incapacity.

~Bitch is gonna blow,~ says Glass Breaker, eyeing the gassy bane. Without waiting for orders, he retreats to find cover. Even trying to draw a clean breath after her attack, the gravity of the situation is certainly not lost on Leaves-None. Her attention goes to the young Get on top to make sure -he- can get free rather than just outright running, herself. ~Get out of there! Come on!~ But Too-Good remains marooned, his leg trapped inside the throbbing creature. ~Lift me!~ Bag-of-Snakes snaps to Leaves-None, aiming to get a leg-up on the bane to climb on top and free her cub, no matter what risk to herself. Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm’s eyes glance from hammer to cub, hammer to cub.. and then he snarls and lunges up to help the others free the youngster. He lunges straight at where the boy’s leg is grasped, using both strength and claws to either pull his leg out or flat out sever his foot.

Frostbite fights like it’s a chore, dispatching wolf after wolf as her skin burns and fur sizzles. She calls to Charlene to fight back to back with her, keeping the shadow wolves from splitting them apart and picking them off. She hisses as drops of acid get into her eye. Song-of-Vengeance powers through the pain, using her will to keep going, supporting Javen. When claws and teeth fail, fingers dig in to rip bones apart, crush windpipes and continually do damage until the shadow-wolves are no more. ~You will not have this place!~ She screams. Morgan, Fianna that she is, seems less affected by the acid, and cheerfully rips through wolves like a hot knife through butter. Kaz winces at the acid but keeps going, until all are vanquished, at which point she snarls out a howl of inarticulate triumph and glares around wildly.

Kevin and Silvertip remain wonderfully scattered like leftovers after at the Crash Test facility. Fernando raises his mace beside the fallen Silvertip, wary and watchful for any further attacks, lifting the fallen Ahroun and running off with him posthaste, away from the rumbling, dying Bane. Meanwhile Lightning-Branch looks down into his mirror where he stands and after a moment disappears into the Umbra, ostensibly to look for survivors and scout for any further threats. Fast-Draw, taking advantage of his speediness, ignores his wounds for the moment and rushes to scoop up the fallen Kevin, spiriting him to safety and cover far away from potential banesplosions.

Blood-Guard casts down the pieces of bane, even as they dissipate. He drops to all fours and takes off towards the site of battle with the Caern-bound banes. Ignorant of that fight’s outcome, he howls for the others of his band to follow. They run swiftly, some relying on rage and Gaia’s gifts to keep them going. Meanwhile, Falcon’s Grace quietly assesses the carnage and looks for those who require healing.

Punctuate that victory, as the elders manage to get the cub torn out of the bane. His leg isn’t entirely left behind either, instead the bane’s skin is severed through, ripped out around it. All four are on that bane when it finally does explode into a bunch of gas, shrapnel and flame. The Garou atop the ball are thrown a great distance, tumbling and rolling or smashing into a tree in the case of Bag-of-Snakes. None of them get up from that point, some of them in a smoldering heap of merrily heavily singed bodies. Glass Breaker is the lone conscious one of the group. Some trees look quite singed, but the heat isn’t enough nor prolonged enough to reach flashpoint.

Glass Breaker flinches at the explosion, grabbing at his ears. When the dust settles, he straightens up and looks back, grimacing at the scattering of scorched Get (and Gnawer). ~Fuuuuck.~

Bag-of-Snakes sits up after a few moments, looking as groggy as hell. ~Get! Report!~ she tries to shout, though it comes out as more of a croak.

Ringtone catches up with the new cliath of his tribe and looks her over nose to tail before turning, wide-eyed and ears alert, to look for his packmate.

Ears, some distance away, startles at the explosion and, true to the Garou nature, runs /toward/ the fire.

Song-of-Vengeance is normally quite pretty, but right now, with claws dissolved to the bone and teeth missing, giant patches of fur burned to the muscle below, she looks like she went swimming in a chemical waste dump. Still, the Fury isn’t nearly as hurt as some of the others and runs toward the explosion as best she can, limping a little, still running on adrenaline. This will most certainly hurt in the morning.

Carries-Fire is panting, ears flattened, but as Ears goes, she goes too, dogging along next to her packmate with only a single pause to yank her spear free. Poor thing is probably next to worthless at this point.

Frostbite straightens, her fur singed and her back bleeding. She squints out of the eye burned with acid, looking down at her melted claws. With a chuff, she gives a cursory glance to the fallen Get before glancing back to the ones she came with. Seeing them head off, she sinks down once more to hispo, sniffing at the ground. Disinterest is the best description of her expression, and she growls something to her shadow in the Mother’s Tongue.

Hummingbird sets Little Silvertip at the base of a tree, looking around to make sure it’s safe to leave his tribal elder, before the andean ragabash takes a sprint towards the mess.

Blood-Guard has to take a moment to realize Kaz and crew are already victorious. He starts to say something to Falcon’s Grace, but then the explosion booms across the bawn and he’s running along at top speed, towards it.

Leaves-None, for the most part, foregoes what one would consider perfectly understandable utterances of pain and passes out with a strangled sort of whine when she eventually lands in a pile of singed Gnawer.

Fast-Draw rises from his quickly-concieved cover, mottled fur grimey and thick with a mixture of his own blood and that of the Walker cradled in his arms. ~This one needs healing, /now/.~ An idle observer could determine the severe state of the armless, bleeding near-carcass of Kevin.

Carries-Fire breaks into a sudden, wild dash toward Kevin, on all fours. One of her lower arms clings to the acid-eaten spear. ~Coming, coming!~

Kevin is breathing. Just about. It might equally be described as rattling.

With On-Star close behind him, Ringtone runs flat out toward the explosion, searching, still for his packmate. When he catches her scent, mingled heavily with that of her blood, he picks up speed, leaving the new cliath to fall behind.

~I do not have the gift.~ Song of Vengeance murmurs through broken, burned lips, nearly dissolved completely from her face, the Fury trudging toward Little Silvertip’s fallen form. He is homid, she knows that much, and in Crinos that means he is not dead, only unconcious…and missing a leg. She does a search around the area for it, avoiding Silvertip’s silver spear if she comes across it, holding the mangled leg to the stump, hoping that it’ll re-attach itself.

Golden comes to a halt at the explosion, crouching down and pinning his ears. Seeing others moving back that way, he snarls his intentions to the passing Alpha, then shifts to lupus and darts out into the Bawn, moving silently and swiftly.

Long distance to Ears: Golden growls, ~Scouting for anything waiting in the wings.~

You paged Mekoides with ‘And, Tim is scouting for anything, to see if there are trails of things that escaped, or that might be waiting for them, etc. He won’t engage, and will make judicious use of Blissful Ignorance and Speed of Thought to keep from getting caught.’

Heart lopes after everyone, unsteady on his feet and the enormous bruises still shrinking away. He appears to have had a dent in his skull that is slowly filling in.

Frostbite sits among piles of dead shadow wolves, her flesh still sizzling with acid. Numbly, she watches it, her ear twitching. ~I look like a bane now~ She tells her shadow. She seems to find this horribly funny, and chuffs in breathless, hitching amusement, flopping to her side, her wagging tail whapping against the ground.

Fernando ends his dash when he gets to the scene of the disaster. To Ears, he pants, ~Fallen Tribe’s warriors. We killed them, but Speech-and-Sight-Rhya and Little Silvertip-Rhya are fallen. They live, but barely. We didn’t see more.~

Fast-Draw shakes his head at Carries-Fire gravely. ~His battle-scar is grievous. I don’t know him very well, but if you can heal it, I think this would be prudent.~ The Walker’s body continues to be cradled with great care.

When Ringtone finds Masao’s unconscious form, he halts, quivering from nose to tail. He looks, left to right and back again, searching for someone, or something. Not finding what he seeks, he lifts his muzzle to the sky and howls, just as On-Star reaches him. ~Healer! Someone help!~

Carries-Fire tosses her spear aside, uncaring at the moment where it lands, and reaches carefully for Kevin with all four arms, a plaintive whine in her throat. It doesn’t much look like she’s doing anything at first, but nevertheless, she’s calling on her gift.

Hammer-Of-The-Wyrm just lies in a puddle of viking, smouldering lightly. He’s in crinos but unmoving and horribly smashed up. Most of the fur burned from his fron, bone showing from bane-shrapnel lacerations.. In short, he’s out cold and going nowhere.

Bag-of-Snakes receives no reply from Oskar. No reply from Paul. And she says no more herself, slumping back against the tree into which she so recently slammed with such force, semi-conscious at best.

Leaves-None hasn’t returned to breed form just yet, but she certainly isn’t wagging a greeting to her packmate with her Crinos tail.

Both Blood-Guard and Falcon’s Grace arrive on the scene to answer the calls for healing. The Gaian Ahroun lets the Fang attend those with the gravest conditions. She starts towards Kevin, but then, seeing the fox take care of it, moves to Masao.

Ears’s claws are… well, melted. Nonetheless, she retrieves Morgan’s spear. ~/Yes/ please,~ she growls to Tim, and blinks at Fernando. ~Check. The bunch to the West are dead, too. I’ll check into the east inna bit. But to state the obvious, this shit can’t stand. These people can’t stand. And we have to follow their trail and our own gifts from Chimera. Soon. Tomorrow. But for now?~ She looks around. ~Zosia, Heart. Help them.~

Fast-Draw stand dutifully before Carries-Fire, holding Kevin while the gift takes effect.

Frostbite finally recovers from her giggle fit, pushes up to her feet, gaining Glabro. Somewhat disgusted, she brushes off her clothes, scratches off a few chunks of obnoxious melted skin, and turns to stride away, limping marginally.

Edgewood House: Downstairs
 The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There’s a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well. (+view for details)

Contents:
Information Board

Obvious exits:
Front Door Upstairs

It’s only just past sunset, and the lengthening days of Spring make the twilight linger over the shrouded, rainy sky in a way it hasn’t for some months. The rain is light but cold, and Tim has accordingly sequestered himself inside Edgewood House to make some tea. That might not be the only reason he’s staying inside, though; every other action seems to take twice the time needed as he pauses to consider something with complete fascination. Everything from the tooling on a piece of flatware to the grain of wood in the tabletop gets pondered over and stared at. It’s a miracle the water’s even set to heat at this rate.

In contrast to the meticulous efforts of the Strider, the arrival of the Silver Fang elder is almost chaotic. Shortly after a car parks outside, the door opens and Zosia enters, several reusable grocery bags hanging from her arms. “Hello, Tim,” she says in a distracted voice, missing the preparations as she heads for the kitchen.

Tim is busy staring at the water formations on the kitchen window, and when the light from car headlights plays over them they get even *more* interesting. He blinks at the sound of the door opening and closing, and only just gets back to himself in time to say, “Hey, Zosia,” and not have it sound like he’s completely stoned. He watches her for a moment, then turns to looking at his waiting mug. “How’s things.”

Zosia, being a bit self-involved and also a theurge, actually doesn’t notice his spaciness immediately. She’s unpacking a few things into fridge or cabinet. “The damned food here seems to be disappearing faster than it used to, even with the cubs being elsewhere.” This is mostly muttered as she puts a few things into the freezer then starts to fold the bags closed. “Busy,” she adds. “You?”

Shaozu comes in warily, slipping through the front door as quietly as he can. He doesn’t appear to have come along with Zosia–he’s damp from the rain, water fuzzy on his hair and spotting his glasses. He’s also dressed somewhat more practically than usual, wearing jeans and heavier shoes, but this is not really helped by the flowing, silky, and now quite damp and clingy, shirt he has on. There’s also some mud and moss on various parts of him. He doesn’t try to call attention to himself, but looks around the mudroom trying to find some kind of de-mudding solution.

The kettle whistles, and Tim gets his mug of tea poured and steeping without incident (but there is a second where it looks like he might overfill it due to staring at the water as the tea stains it). “Keeping an eye on Fidelity’s territory in the city.” He frowns as he soon as he says that, like something problematic is occurring to him, then shrugs and sets the kettle aside. He glances out through the kitchen towards the mudroom, waiting to see who else has come in.

The motions–not nearly as precise as usual–catch Zosia’s attention. Frowning, she seems about to say something when someone enters. Her eyes go to the mug of tea and then back to Tim’s face before she ducks her head out of the kitchen, trying to get a good look at the person who has entered. “Come on in,” she calls.

Shaozu mouths a bad word, then obeys his elder, stepping into the hall like he meant to do that. “Uhm, hi. It’s me. I was, uhm, it’s raining.”

Tim gives Zosia an innocent look that turns contemplative as he regards her hair. Then he hears a familiar voice and is distracted. “Oh hey, Shaozu–want some tea?” he calls. “There’s some chammomile that’s pretty decent.” He turns to get a mug regardless of the actual answer, hesitating for a moment to look at something on the cupboard door before fetching out a plain piece of stoneware out.

There’s a sudden smile on Zosia’s face at the voice. “Shaozu! I was thinking of you the other day. I…” She looks at his feet then up at his face. “There’s some towels in the back. Since Tim’s getting you a drink, sit down and I’ll see what’s there.”

For some reason being mortally embarrassed just makes Shaozu look noble and dignified. Must be all that breeding. “Thanks, that would be great,” he replies to all the offers going around. He retreats briefly to pry his muddy shoes off, then pads silently over to Tim to investigate the tea.

Tim is peering into the steeper he had probably intended to use for Shaozu’s tea, his own mug sitting ignored on another section of the counter. The container of loose-leaf chammomile is standing open next to him, still unscooped. He turns the steeper over in his hands once, twice, then finally shakes himself out of whatever reverie he was in and fills it with tea. Looking askance at Shaozu, he asks, “How’re you doing? Water’s still hot.”

Zosia disappears somewhere deeper into the house, returning and tossing a towel in Shaozu’s general direction. She misses the bulk of Tim’s behavior as a result, seeing only that two cups have appeared and conversation seems to be commencing. She waits for an answer to his question as she pulls a glass down from the cupboard.

Shaozu snatches the towel out of the air with a deceptively lazy gesture and starts rubbing it over his hair. “Fine, how are you?” Now that nobody has asked him pointed questions, he looks at Tim, and a surprised frown appears on his face. “Did you get a concussion or something? Maybe you should sit down.”

Shaozu pages: lol per 4

You paged Shaozu with ‘If he has a peak he should be able to see Tim’s mind is distracted in a way that is wholly not-normal. Well, not for him; just about every thought process is getting sucked into pattern recognition and puzzling things out any time it’s not focused on doing something.’.

The question is answered with an evasive shake of Tim’s head and a weak attempt at being convincing. “No, nothing like that.” With some determination he sets Shaozu’s tea to steeping and doesn’t stare at anything else while getting out some honey for his own tea. It requires a bit of effort though. “Want any milk or anything?”

Zosia doesn’t speak at first, getting a glass of water and eyeing Tim. Then: “See, I know that you tend to be a bit quicker than that. I suspect Shaozu knows it too.” She glances toward the kin before leaning in to peer more intently up at the Ragabash’s face. “We don’t really get concussions,” she adds, “so I have to wonder just what he -has- been doing?”

“No, milk in tea is gross.” Shaozu leans in close to peer at Tim, his natural caution around Garou overridden, and lifts a hand to the Strider’s brow.

Tim sighs and toys with the squeeze bottle of honey. He’s doing his best to *not* look at it, and especially not its contents, but this leaves him glancing between Zosia and Shaozu. He misses Shaozu’s initial movement completely, and says to Zosia, “It’s chiminage to a rattlesnake spirit.” And then he sees Shaozu reaching towards him, and seems torn between jerking back and holding still. The later wins out.

You paged Shaozu with ‘He should be able to detect the presense of the venom, since it’s basically spirit venom messing with him in the spirit-sense and not the strictly physical/life sense.’.

“-Oh-,” Zosia says, her voice indicating that she understands -something-. It isn’t clear what. Sipping her water, she mostly manages to hide a vague sort of smirk behind the edge before eyeing him. “They have a nasty bite.”

Shaozu very delicately brushes back a stray lock of Tim’s hair and peers into his eyes. “Are you deciding to be a theurge now?” he asks, not exactly teasing.

Tim’s expression changes a few times at Zosia’s comment; at one point he looks like he’s fending off a blush. Whatever he was going to say to the actual Theurge in the room gets lost in a partly wounded, partly angry look he shoots at Shaozu, and he flinches back and looks out across the room, trying to find something else to fix his gaze on. One of his hands goes back to grip the edge of the counter. “No,” he says, his voice brittle. There’s an entire explanation trying to cram itself into that one word.

You paged Shaozu with ‘Button pushing 101. c.c If he’s still peering at hs mind there was a rather big explosion regarding Isabel.’.

The smile fades from Zosia’s face and she frowns, moving forward again. Standing beside Shaozu, she peers up at Tim’s face again, tilting her head. “No. He isn’t weird or spooky enough for that.” She keeps her voice light as she waits for his response.

“I wonder why you’re getting bitten by rattlesnake spirits then,” Shaozu says, seeming unperturbed by Tim’s overreaction. He steps back and continues drying his hair, and, futilely, his shirt.

“I owe this one,” Tim says in a low, strained voice. He gives up his examination of the living room and look between the two Silver Fangs. Shaozu’s lack of reaction earns the Kinsman a brief and intense look, but eventually he just sags against the kitchen counter. “It’s a long story. Kind of complicated. But I was the best person to do it. Probably the only one who wanted to.” He puts down the bottle of honey and raises his eyebrows at Zosia. “Aren’t Theurges always telling us to keep things between Garou and the spirits copacetic?”

“Yes,” Zosia says, leaning against the counter now and holding her glass in one hand. “Course, most Garou are also pretty damned stupid. Or not smart enough to ask for help from theurges to understand what’s needed”

Shaozu meets Tim’s look, locking eyes with him briefly, but the reason for this is as opaque as anything else the kinsman does. He drops his gaze after that moment and starts undoing his shirt, which must be chilling him to the bone.

“If it gets and weirder, I’ll ask for help,” Tim says in an offhand promise, and rubs at his eyes. “It’s just hallucinating and sharing wisdom. About as dangerous than hanging out with your average Unicorn Child.” He stares at Shaozu’s shirt, then straightens up and moves to exit the kitchen. “There should be something dryer than that in the back. Got a sports team you like?”

Snorting, Zosia wags a finger at Tim. “Depends on the Unicorn child. Try being packed with August some time.” Her eyes move to Shaozu again and she doesn’t bother to hide that she’s watching. “There must be -something- better than that back there,” she says in disgust.

“It’s whatever the Good Will parts with no questions asked,” Tim says over his shoulder. “Almost always 2X and for the Seahawks or the Giants.” He comes back with a red hoodie that may only be a 1X, or even an XL, with a large logo for Texas A&M. “Wonder where this came from,” he mutters as he peers at some of the embroidery with interest. He shakes his head and offers it over, pretending like there’d been no pause. “It’s free, it’s clean, and it’s dry.”

Zosia’s expression is what one might expect from a Silver Fang: a politely restrained horror at the choice. “That is…awful,” she says with a little shiver. She doesn’t try to -stop- the kin from using it but she does shake her head as she turns back to put her glass into the sink.

Tim rolls his eyes once Zosia’s not looking his way anymore. “He can put his sexy shirt back on once it’s dry,” he says, but the sly look he had in mind for Shaozu is waylaid by his regard for a section of the couch.

Shaozu peels out of the once-flowing-and-now-drooping-and-clinging shirt, and eyes the, uh, garment Tim has procured. “I don’t know, Sonahari. I mean, maybe your packmate is okay with dressing like that.” He’s definitely teasing now.

The name Shaozu uses causes Zosia to frown in confusion though the frown quickly changes to a smirk. “If I were really being a pig, I’d tell him to not bother with a sweatshirt,” she points out.

Tim doesn’t stop watching the couch, but reaches out in an attempt to reclaim the hoodie. “Okay, you can go shirtless, apparently neither of us minds. We’ll just turn up the heat.” His attention wavers from the upholstery and he looks around, trying to determine precisely how the house is heated.

Shaozu bows to the Garou with a little smile, and starts unbraiding his hair. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not that cold as long as I’m not wet. Of course, I am wet,” he adds thoughtfully. “Well, maybe it’s kind of cold.”

For some reason, Zosia begins to laugh. She doesn’t bother to explain why or expand on it. Instead, she resumes folding the cloth bags, glancing toward both Tim and Shaozu and waiting to see what it is they do.

Tim leaves off the search for the heating and gives Shaozu a long-suffering look. With a sigh, he shrugs out of his jacket (pausing once to grimace as he eases out his left arm) and hands Shaozu that instead. Given the music patches and Anarchy embroidery on the back, it might not really be an upgrade, though it’s leather at least. “Okay, here. *That* more suitable?”

Shaozu humbly accepts it; after all Tim is now literally giving him the clothes off his back, and it’s impossible to refuse. “Very suitable, Sonahari-rhya,” he says with another bow, and slips it on. It makes him look bizarrely disreputable, with no shirt and his hair loose.

“I can’t decide if that makes the pair of you boyfriends or not,” Zosia teases, exiting the kitchen finally and holding her bags against her chest. Clucking her tongue, she adds, “Though I dunno. The leather does give you a roguish charm,” she adds, pointing a finger at the kin.

For a moment Tim stares at Shaozu, then his hair, and then his jacket on Shaozu. And then he retreats into the kitchen, trying not to look triumphant and managing more of that manufactured innocence he’s so bad at, announcing, “He has to armwrestle Syd for me first.” He takes up his tea, mutters something under his breath in an Indic language, and has a sip.

Shaozu coughs politely and finds somewhere to settle down. “I could never armwrestle Sydney, I hear she has knives,” he murmurs.

“And a flamethrower,” Zosia points out, snorting faintly.

“I wouldn’t let her use the *flamethrower*,” Tim says with mild annoyance. Presently, he admits, “The knives I might not be able to negotiate.” He comes out of the kitchen with his tea and Shaozu’s, handing the Kinsman his mug with a nod. He tries not to get stuck looking at anything, but does dally for a moment when his eyes find something of note on the floor.

Sofia stomps up the front steps to the porch, and, singing some strange wordless tune, stomps around some more to get the mud off her shoes before coming inside. She breezes into the living room, beaming as she sees Tim and Zosia. “Tim! Zosia! Is good to see you–” and then she spies Shaozu. She stares openly for a few seconds, then says quietly to Zosia, “Erm, Zosia? Who is this man?”

Shaozu accepts his mug with a cheerful, “Thanks,” and as Sofia bursts in, stares back at her before abruptly realizing what he’s doing and dropping his gaze. He sips the tea and tries to pretend he didn’t just stare a strange Garou in the eye.

“This is Shaozu,” Zosia says after a moment too long, pulling her attention away to study Sofia with a far too innocent blink. “He’s one of my tribe’s kin. Shaozu, this is Sofia. She’s a Wendigo.” Not her usual sort of introduction but she seems distracted.

Tim wrenches his gaze off his tea with honey and nods a hello to Sofia. As he moves to sit, he almost misses his chair for staring at something in the Wendigo’s skirt. He realizes this at the last second, and grabs for the arm to ease himself in. Trying to cover for that mishap, he adds, “There’s hot water for tea, if you want any,” to his unvoiced greeting.

Sofia blinks at Zosia’s introduction. “Kin to your tribe? Really?” She contemplates this for a moment, then shrugs and breaks out into a big grin. “There are Wendigo in Finn and Saami lands, so why not? Hah!” She gets distracted from her joke when she looks back at Shaozu again, though. “Is nice to meet you, Shao…zu?” She coughs and heads towards the kitchen, muttering about tea.

Shaozu rises gracefully to bow to Sofia. “My line descends from the Mongolians in the south of Russia,” he explains briefly. “They swept down into China and became the royal family. It is an honor to meet you, Sofia.” As the Wendigo goes in search of tea, he looks at Zosia with eyebrows raised and half a shrug.

Shaozu pages: For some reason since you gave Shaozu his tea, the patterns are just getting stronger and more vivid.

Zosia shrugs slightly at Shaozu, though her mouth curls up in amusement again. “There are a variety of nationalities for our Tribe,” she points out. “Much like yours. Thinking us all -Russian-,” she says as contemptuously as someone Polish might, “leads to surprises.”

Tim has a few sips of tea, paying a nominal amount of attention to Shaozu and Zosia’s explanations of how the Silver Fangs vary. His focus is drifting, though, and soon he’s looking at a few stray chamomile flower petals floating in his mug. Staring at them, really, and he murmurs something under his breath that has the distinct ring of a mantra. If he’s not careful, he’s going to put his face into his tea.

Shaozu pages: And so much more compelling, it’s a lot harder to focus on anything not them now.

Shaozu pages: I’d think so

Sofia comes back with a mug of tea, idly swirling a spoon in it. “Yah, there is many strange places for tribes to live, peoples to know.” She pauses, seeing Tim staring into his tea. Brow furrowed, she stands on her tip-toes and tries, as discretely as is possible, to look into Tim’s mug.

Shaozu, with exquisite politeness, pretends not to notice Sofia doing that, and sips his own tea. He smiles at Zosia though, giving her a knowing look as can only pass between Silver Fangs.

“He’s doing some screwed up chiminage to a rattlesnake spirit,” Zosia explains, glancing at Shaozu and raising one brow. The look…..well, suddenly Zosia is clearing her throat and nodding toward the door. “Should get going.”

The looming attracts Tim’s attention long enough for him to glance up at Sofia and ask, “Do you see it?” He doesn’t waste another second looking at her; he’s watching those petals again. “There–just like that. Just like a field full of them. Just like they grow around the center. Or in a crack in the rocks.” He doesn’t sound like he’s aware he’s speaking out loud anymore. “We curse the Weaver, but Nature has patterns so finite even the Weaver can’t make them. And the closer you look the more of the whole thing you can see.” He also doesn’t catch Zosia’s departure.

Sofia stares at Tim, and very deliberately takes a set away from him. Throwing a look at Zosia she says, “This why I was born under the Philodox moon. Dealing with Garou people hard enough. Dealing with spirit people…” she trails off, shaking her head. “Is normal things happening? Litany broken? Territory trespassed? Charach?”

Shaozu rises, asking Zosia, “Do you need help out?” like a bagger at the grocery store, but freezes in place as Tim starts raving. He looks at the Strider with a slightly wild eye, and starts to say something, then stops, then starts again, then shuts up and just stares at Tim.

Zosia pauses, studying Tim thoughtfully. “Maybe you -did- land in the wrong auspice.” Shaking her head, she adds, “At least, when you’re high. When you’re sober you’re a dick of a ragabash.” She frowns at Sofia, grumbling, “Probably. There’s a lot of stupid at this Sept. I’m fine, Shaozu,” she adds more loudly. “Though you might want to duck out after a bit longer.”

Something Sofia has said makes Tim blink, and he pulls back from the mug slowly. “No,” he says, but thinks about what she’s asked again before repeating, “No,” in a firmer tone. “I’ll be fine in a couple of days.” He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and gives Zosia a frown. He finally dredges up a reply. “Proper jackassing takes real dedication.”

Sofia steps over to Zosia, though she’s looking sidelong at Shaozu. “Goodnight Zosia, sorry missed you,” she says, then in a much quieter tone says, “Is he, hmm, ahh…” But she trails off and doesn’t finish her question, instead emulating Tim and becoming absorbed in her tea.

Exactly why Zosia thinks he should leave soon isn’t lost on Shaozu, but he just nods to his elder. “Have a safe drive home, okay? Kiss the baby for me.”

“And much quicker wits,” Zosia points out to Tim in a dry voice. She smiles at Sofia….until the end. Then she fixes the Wendigo with a -very- flat, -very- intense look that clearly says ‘Not in twenty lifetimes for you’. Though she does at least refrain from saying the words outloud. The look slides off her face at Shaozu’s words and she smiles brightly. “I shall! She’s growing like a weed. You should stop over again.” And that said, the theurge heads out the door with an overly-casual “Gaia watch!”

Tim either can’t quite follow what sort of exchange the two women are having without words, or can and is deciding to show only ignorance. The result is the same: he faintly wishes Zosia a good evening, and sets his tea down on an end table, with a distracted look cast at Shaozu. Shutting his eyes, he comments, “I wonder how much longer it’ll be before I’m just immune to the venom.”

Sofia gives a little sigh of resignation at Zosia’s look and nods, bidding her goodnight. “Venom? Eh? Oh, from, hmm, rattlesnake spirit? What is rattlesnake, anyway?”

Shaozu sits down next to Tim, an indecipherable look on his face. Maybe it’s apprehensive curiosity or something like that. He lets Tim explain what a rattlesnake is, but asks the ragabash softly, “What were you saying about the Weaver? Tell me more.”

“The master of intuition and silence.” Tim says it like he’s reciting from a scripture, and his expression is appropriately distant. He comes back to himself, looking at Sofia, and continues with more practical information. “They’re vipers. They have a special spot behind their eyes that lets them sense heat, so they can find things without seeing them.” He looks askance at Shaozu. “A lot of Garou,” his eyes flit to the door, probably referencing the departed Fang Elder, “don’t like the Weaver. They prefer the Wyld. They think of any pattern as being the Weaver’s, and it’s bad to force things into structure. I always assumed that was just how it was. The blademoons tell you something and if you’re not one of them, how do you know any different?” Now he looks at Sofia, seeking confirmation on that manner of upbringing. But his gaze doesn’t linger; he returns to staring at his tea again. His eyes move when the flower petals do. “I’m not so sure now.”

Sofia looks a little uncomfortable with the things Tim is saying, but nods in confirmation. “To each auspice, their secrets, yes. Mysteries of Wyld, Weaver and Wyrm, the blademoons think about these, tell the rest of us. Heh, otherwise we just fight.” Her eyes slide back to Shaozu, almost involuntarily, but she coughs and drags them back to Tim.

<OOC> Tim: <gleefully blasphemes in front of the Wendigo>

<OOC> Sofia: lol

“Surely,” Shaozu says, still softly, and cautiously, looking now and again at Sofia to make sure she isn’t going to freak, “the Wyld unchecked is not the greatest thing. Don’t you fight that, too? And there wouldn’t be life at all without some kind of structure. We can all agree on that, can’t we?”

Tim straightens up from his tea and gives Shaozu and then Sofia each an assessing look. Sometimes he seems to be following something in their faces and sometimes he’s just watching them. “I had a Theurge tell me a little about that. She said the Wyld was deadly in its own way. Anything pure is, really, because we’re a mix.” He looks out at the rain on the kitchen window. “Maybe that’s what nature is, though, when you don’t cover it with a city. Patterns where you need them, change where you don’t. The way the rain falls on the window. That’s a pattern. But is the Weaver making it?” He doesn’t sound like he thinks the answer is yes, but he doesn’t offer an explicit opinion either.

Sofia gives Shaozu a puzzled look, then quickly looks away and hides a blush behind her tea. “Is, hmm, all out of balance,” she says haltingly. “World is supposed to be all three, work together, but…is not. Is war.”

“I say it is the Weaver.” Shaozu leans forward, eyes intent, Tim’s jacket falling open. He looks between Tim and Sofia. “What if all three are sick? The Wyld too. Shouldn’t we heal them together? What else makes patterns but the Weaver? The Wyrm is destruction, the Wyld is creation, the Weaver is all that holds the world together.”

“Plenty of Garou think the Weaver’s sick,” Tim says, readily agreeable to that idea. He keeps watching the rain, going from one stream of water to the next. “And I guess it looks like it is in some places. Parts of the city, for sure. That development over by Wildfire’s old territory. Not sure about the Wyld, though.” With reluctance, he leaves off following the rain and looks at Sofia. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the Wyld be sick. You?”

Sofia looks at Shaozu over the rim of her cup, giving him an entirely different sort of attention now. “To say Wyld is also sick,” she says flatly. “Is, hmm, could make Garou people mad, yes. Kin be careful in saying such things, yes.” She sighs, then and drops the sternness from her demeanor. “Is Wyld sick, really? I do not know. All is out of balance. Could say Wyld is sick from that. Garou people are of Wyld, and I have seen /them/ be sick. Is same?”

Shaozu mutters, “Garou people get mad about /everything/.”

Tim takes Sofia’s seriousness with equanimity for the way the conversation is turning, though he can’t fully repress a laugh when Shaozu mutters. “Guilty as charged,” he agrees, and sips from his tea. He looks at the flower petals, even swirls the mug to set them to moving more. “I’ll have to think about all this. See if I can decide anything for myself. Which was her point.” The ‘her’ in question doesn’t seem to mean Sofia or Zosia.

Sofia snorts in amusement at Shaozu. “Is true. Makes job of Ahroun easier, makes life of Philodox harder,” she says, a wry smile twisting her scars.

Shaozu smiles slyly back at the Philodox, conspiratorially. Then he too gives in to the temptation to peer into Tim’s mug, leaning close and putting his hand on Tim’s to steady it. “What /are/ you seeing in there, anyway?” It is totally coincidence that this puts him really close to the Strider.

Tim gives Shaozu a look that can only be some sort of dare. For proximity, or covering his hand, or maybe both. he breaks it off, though, to tips his chin at the tea. “See how they move around the mug when you turn it? And the way they run into each other…I bet you could predict that with the right math. And sometimes they fall out like they are on the flower. In that spiral, what’s it called…” He squints, but can’t think of the name. “You see it in a lot of plants. All over the place.” The mug is tempting him to focus on it again, but he salvages enough presense of mind to look at Sofia. He stares at her, then suddenly asks, “Did Zosia talk to you about Oskar? The Fenris cub?”

<OOC> Tim: Burning WP.

Sofia, having lost focus on the conversation by the time Tim mentioned math, snaps back to the present when she is addressed. “Oskar? Cub who thinks he is, hmm, Hitler Youth?” She snorts again, this time in derision. “No, she has not mentioned him to me. Why?”

Shaozu murmurs, “Fibonacci sequence,” and lets Tim’s hand go, lowering his eyes, as the Garou talk about grown-up things.

Tim clenches his jaw, trying to stay focused on the Philodox when Shaozu says the oh-so-tempting word ‘Fibonacci’. He’s bound and determined to keep his mind on track for at least three whole sentences. “We’re worried about him, about how he acts around other cubs and Kin. We talked to Ears-rhya, and she set some rules for here, but we wanted to know if you could look into it. Talk to him, some of the other cubs, and his teachers–Viv and Paul–and find out if something needs to be done.” He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. “If they need to be teaching him better, or if he needs to be reigned in.” That is, apparently, all he can manage. He casts around the room, then looks at the back of his hand, intrigued by something about it.

“Fibonacci?” Sofia says, shaking her head. “I have never had Italian food.” She listens intently to Tim’s explanation, nodding at points along the way. “Get,” she says with a grimace. “What cubs? And, hrm, their elders’ names? And I will talk to them, yes.”

Shaozu doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile, as he tells Sofia very seriously, “It’s a sequence of numbers. Math. Like counting, but in a special way. It makes spirals.” He draws a spiral in the air to demonstrate, then quiets down to let the Garou conduct their business.

Tim misses the look Sofia has when she says Get. He doesn’t miss her question, at least, and slowly replies, “Jacey, and Donovan, and BJ. And Alessandra. There was another, but I think she left. Jacey and Alessandra are Cole’s. Donovan’s mine. BJ is under Unicorn. August is her Elder.” He’s tracing a line along the back of his hand–one of his veins, maybe–out to his fingertip, then around to the palm of his hand. He draws the spiral there, ending it at the tip of his thumb.

Sofia listens to Shaozu’s explanation with mild interest, but is mostly distracted by her conversation with Tim. Or maybe she’s just not big on math. “Donovan, hmm. What was he said about Oskar?”

Shaozu watches Tim trace his own hand, focused on nothing but. “Uhhh maybe I should get going,” he says, not very convincingly.

After a few false starts, Tim says to Sofia, “He’s never said anything to me about him, but one of our Theurges, Chulash, has been worried about him. And I watched him trying to school Donovan in front of me.” There’s a moment where it seems like Rage should make him angry at the memory, but he can’t hold onto the anger long enough to feel it, and just flashes his teeth as an after-effect. “If you talk to all of them, and Zosia too, they can tell you more.”

Sofia grumbles something under her breath, then sighs deeply. “I will find them, and talk to them, and I will tell you and Zosia what I find. I will go now, and think on this.” She stands, drains the rest of her tea in a single pull. She turns what would, if not for her scars, be a brilliant smile on the Fang kin. “Shao-zu, was very nice to meet you. Maybe I see more of you later, eh?” she says with a glance at the open jacket. “Hah!” she adds, then heads out through the kitchen, leaving her mug there before heading out the back door.

Shaozu returns Sofia’s smile a little more hesitantly, and looks involuntarily down at himself. Then back up at Tim, watching him, but not speaking.

Tim nods at Sofia as she goes–an act of will, because his own wrist had become the current object of consideration, and he was really getting somewhere with it. He looks at Shaozu, trying to puzzle out something about the Fang Kin, then abruptly gets up. “I need somewhere with less things.” Though by nature he’s adverse to cold rain, he makes for the front door, stopping with his hand on the handle. “Sorry about being out of it,” he says as an afterthought. Convinced he should be saying something else, he stands there staring fixedly at the other man, but remains silent. After a second of this, he vanishes out the door. A tawny colored wolf ghosts out into the treeline seconds later, running at breakneck speeds.

<OOC> Tim: Hm, let’s see, the jacket has a switchblade in one pocket. And an old chrome Zippo lighter in another, and a ziplock bag of flour. And maybe 2-3 dimestore lighters too, but those are newer. So, if he chooses to rifle it.

Tim slips into the Umbra an hour or so after sunset, once his evening rituals are done and he can be sure the moon has risen in Gaia’s Shadow. He travels in lupus and on foot rather than through the sky, but does keep under the cover of his auspice Gifts. He takes a path around the southern border of the Empty Forest and out into the sparser cover that leads to Chu’mana’s den among the rocks, tracking prey as he goes. As with last time, he seeks something small to drive towards her–a mouse, or a rat, maybe a vole.

The hunt goes easy for Tim, whether by skill from practice or just luck tonight, he is able to flush out a large rat. Herding it towards Chu’mana’s lair proves easy as well, almost as if the rat has sensed its fate and is resigned to it. And again, as with last time, there is no warning on the approach. What seemed like a dappling of moon shadows on the ground becomes a blur of movement as she strikes, and the offering is accepted.

Golden stills as the snake strikes, stopping midstep, then settles down on his haunches and waits. He’s curious enough to steal glances as she works on the rat, but not rude enough to stare. There’s a note of pride in his posture; it’s been a good turn of the moon for him, maybe.

The snake’s eating is abbreviated tonight, as the rat turns quickly into spirit-stuff that she absorbs. Still, she looks content with it as she coils herself into a pile. *Now then,* she says, tongue flicking in Tim’s direction. *Have you brought wisdom, or have you come seeking?*

Golden’s ears pin back as he considers that. Finally, he shifts his stance. Seeking. It’s a decisive answer, even if it took him a moment to come to it. His ears come forward. If you would show me.

There’s a pause before she answers. She tastes the air between them, considering. *Are you sure?* she asks, gazing unblinking eyes at Tim. And though he hasn’t been bitten, yet, it seems her eyes are already starting to change shape and color.

Yes. Golden’s fur shudders at some memory. That is my path, among Owl’s people. To seek. And as Owl’s son twice over, to seek what I do not know.

Chu’mana strikes, not on the Strider’s foreleg as she has in the past, but on his shoulder. Moreover, she doesn’t let go as she has before, but keeps her fangs buried in his flesh. And no sooner does this fact register, than Chu’mana is growing huge, and coiling herself around him. Twice, now three times her original size, and her coils looping about him, pinning his wings and legs in place, constricting….but not so much that he cannot breathe.

Golden grunts in surprise, both at the pain from his old battlescar and at the effect of the bite itself. With effort he chokes back Rage and uncertainty’s desire to have him fight back, and accepts the coiling in as dignified a manner as another predator can. A mantra to the Nagini flits through his mind and he focuses on it as Chu’mana tightens around him.

As Tim ceases in his instinctive struggles, the fangs withdraw, though the coils do not. Instead, after a moment’s pause, they start expanding again, growing until they’re bigger around than Tim himself, then again doubling and tripling in size…or perhaps it is Tim that is shrinking. Finally it cannot be said that he is wrapped within them any longer, and he stands once more on the ground. Chu’mana’s scales shift slowly through different colors and patterns, some obviously found in nature, some…well if they are found in nature, Tim has certainly never seen anything like them. *Come then, and find me,* Chu’mana says, her voice echoing in the Strider’s mind.

Remembering what things were like last time, Golden takes several minutes to just follow the patterns. First with his eyes, tracing them as best he can and watching them evolve from the familiar to the alien and back again. Then with more than just his eyes, letting instinct and his mind feel their way to other shapes and forms, and colors that the eye can’t (or won’t) see. He blinks and begins to seek the rattlesnake herself among it.

After a little while of wandering, Tim begins to notice a consistent theme through the shifting patterns. At one junction, forced to choose between right and left, the pattern continues along the ‘walls’ of Chu’mana’s coils to the right, but not to the left.

Golden pauses at the juncture, and looks to the right, his eyes following the theme he’s been tracing. But then he looks to the left, and his ears come forward and his tail goes up. He moves a little towards it, sniffing out of habit but seeking some other pattern he might have missed.

If there is a pattern to the left, Tim’s mind cannot grasp it. In either direction, the path quickly rounds a corner, and nothing can be seen.

With another glance to the left, possibly to remind himself of what he’s about, Golden continues turns back to the right. Owl seeks the unknown–but my charge is to seek Rattlesnake. The pull of his Pack and Tribal totem to the left shows in his stiff movements, but to the right he goes, looking again for the pattern that lead him here.
The right-hand path leads him on a while longer, until he comes to another junction. This time, the pattern seems to lead both to the right and to the left.

Golden gazes at this new choice, his eyes studying the pattern to the left and then the right. After some consideration, he places himself directly between the two choices, then points his nose up. He stays in that medatative pose, trying to feel his way to the pattern he’s searching for–correct path or not.

Whatever the answer, it is not forthcoming. There may be something different about the patterns, but Tim’s mind is unable to grasp what that difference, if any, is.

Presently Golden shakes himself out of his meditative pose, and watches the patterns a little longer. Then he moves to the left, but this time there’s no last glance given to the choice untaken.

The left-hand path leads on for a short distance, but it’s not long before something changes. The coils are moving, the path is getting narrower. Just ahead, the walls abruptly close together, the coils sliding against one another, and the space around Tim is rapidly diminishing.

Golden huffs out a breath and, repressing the urge to run, looks around himself. He seeks something in the pattern, trying to follow its changes even as the coils close in.

The pattern is entirely gone now, and there are probably only a few seconds before the walls close around Tim completely.

Golden starts to retreat to whatever open space remains, less out of fear than a desire to find the pattern again. He casts around for it, mind and eyes working.

The pattern is clearly visible back at the junction a little ways behind him, leading to the path he did not choose.

Golden’s ears come forward and his tail goes up. He keeps his pace steady, though, still looking along the maze around him and trying to find other hidden secrets.

The walls stop closing in, but that path is now blocked to Tim. The maze, as yet, reveals no more secrets.
A few more seconds to look at the blocked way, then Golden continues to follow the pattern and the path he’d previously not chosen.

The path leads on, but at the next fork, Tim is able to tell the real pattern from the false one, and is not lead astray again. Time passes strangely, and it’s hard to tell if he’s only been at this for a few minutes or a few hours. Maybe he’s always walked this maze, and his other life is the hallucination. At last, though, the path leads him to a clearing. There is a pit with a sort of camp fire burning in it. A large flat rock is off to one side, half in and half out of the fire. Opposite from Tim, who finds himself once more in his human shape, is a tall woman. From her long, long black hair, brown skin and especially the structure of her face, she looks to be Native American, maybe from one of the Southwest tribes. Through the flickering light of the fire, it’s hard to tell how old she is, though something about her bearing says she is middle-aged, though certainly not old. She is wearing a doeskin dress, but the light shifts and she might be clothed only in a cloak made of black feathers, or just her long hair, or nothing at all. She stares hard at Tim with eyes the flicker with reflected firelight, and her lips part in a smile that is anything but welcoming.

Being in in his birth form gives Tim pause, and he looks down at himself with curioisty, as if to make sure it’s really himself and not more of the changing patterns and shapes fooling his perception. He takes in the clearing, the fire, and the rock, then finally the woman. He brings his hands together, spread flat with the palms facing inward, and dips his head in a formal greeting. The words go unsaid–or maybe they don’t, but it’s only his mind that speaks the Kashmiri word. Namaskar. I am nothing before the Truth of the Universe.

*Then come and talk with me,* the woman says in Chu’mana’s voice. *And we will explore the truth of the universe…* She holds out one hand towards Tim, across the fire between them.

Tim glances at the fire, aware but not wary, and steps forward to reach out and take her hand with his left. As he does so, the wrist of his shirt pulls back just enough to see the beginnings of the rattlesnake tattoo on this arm.

Chu’mana’s smile widens as Tim takes her hand, and again time becomes a mutable thing. Words are spoken, exchanged. Food is prepared and eaten, and then more words, a twining of ideas and concepts like the sliding of coils, or bodies, against one another. But these are only vague impressions, for dawn is breaking in the material world, where Tim is now awakening. It is abruptly apparent that it is /really cold/ and he is totally naked.

Tim flinches and is unable to hold back a hiss of surprise; he’s entirely unused to be naked in his birth form anywhere that it’s cold. And of course, he immiediately has to wonder where his clothes are, and for that matter if he’s still walking the labyrinth.

Fortunately, Tim’s clothes are not far away and are in a relatively neat pile. If he’s still in the labyrinth, it’s hard to tell. It seems to be the Realm, but it also seems as though Tim sees /patterns/ everywhere he looks. In the trees and rocks, the way the land has been shaped by wind and rain, even the clouds in the sky hint at patterns just outside his grasp.

Tim scrubs his hands over his face, rolls to his feet, and grabs for his clothes. He manages to get his boxers on without incident, but then something about the weave of his shirt is utterly fascinating, and not until he shivers involuntarily does he think to actually put it on. This gets repeated a half-dozen more times for his jeans, socks, and boots, to say nothing of the jacket and its hand-embroidered Anarchy symbol. Several minutes later he’s finally dressed but incredibly cold for all the dallying, and he crouches down and looks around himself, trying to get his bearings.

<OOC> Aerynvale: He’s in the part of the Realm that corresponds to about where Chu’mana’s lair is in the umbra.

National Park, Mountain Bowl
 This is perhaps the most breathtaking scene in the entire park. Sheer walls of rock rise towering into the sky on three sides, forming a U-shaped bowl with the opening at the north end. The cliffs are dotted with precariously-clinging trees in numerous places, and caves of various sizes dot the cliffs all the way up. The floor of the bowl is filled with hardy evergreen trees, mostly pine. The underbrush is scant, and a carpet of old pine needles muffles most sounds to quiet sussurations. A small trail winds away up a hill, and the caves look unreachable. Occasionally you hear the harsh call of a great bird of prey, and on very lucky instances you look up fast enough to notice huge birds alighting in their aeries above you — the park’s small golden eagle population.
 A path leads over the rim of the bowl to the north.

Contents:
Ahmose

Obvious exits:
Path

Ahmose pages: OK, what say Ahmose here sent you a very brief message via a spirit which said, “Meet at the cliffs, in the place of the wolves and the eagles, for the dead times. I will come.”

<OOC> Tim: Tim will gather you two up and lead you out here. He will also have been doing Bone Rhythms to Owl, and do Sand in Shoes. And make Desh and Chulash do Sand in Shoes, even if they don’t have it, because yeah. c.c

In the Realm, the night is cool, clear, the winds calm; and the eagles are, for the moment, silent.

Tim comes around to find Chulash and Desh as evening approaches, smelling a bit of incense and with ash smudged under his eyes (which he dlines to explain beyond, “It’s a Hindu thing.”). Their destination is Wolf Woods, and once back into familiar forest surroundings he leads them onwards in wolf form, towards the incredible sight of the Mountain Bowl.

Having prepared ritually, Lightning-Branch lopes into the Mountain Bowl in the near-wolf form, following the Strider Alpha. He says little as they approach, but the very air about him is charged with focus and intensity.

<OOC> Ahmose: Oh, and, for the record, the traditional GarouMUSH Rite is slightly different from the Rite in the book, but the main difference is there may occasionally be ghosts of Striders past as well as Kinfolk. Or, they may not be real. It is one of those Mysteries.

Not having too much in the way of ritual, Desh had prepared as much as might deem necessary, and followed along in his own wolf-skin. The fetish of which he perpetually guards remains with him, though not immediately viewable in any form other than a small tattoo or other mark, being in a form with no opposable thumb. The Philodox trots along behind the others.

From among the pines comes the susuration of footsteps, and then a thin man emerges, his long brown hair escaping his loose hood. He regards Tim first, then the others; he nods once, and then asks Tim, voice quiet and hoarse, but quite audible, “Golden-Jackal’s Fireblade?”

[Ahmose]
  Thin. Alert. Solemn, but with laugh lines that indicate how often he smiles, though he seems, at rest, to only engage in humour when he chooses to. Brown eyes, brown skin, black hair, this man is more Mestizo than Egyptian; and he seems ready to move at a moment’s notice.
  He wears a loose shirt, loose pants, and a cloak above them both.

Golden’s ears come forward in a clear recognition of his name, and hus whuffs lowly, tail neutral but waving. Yes. He shifts to homid and surveys the other, then asks, “Ahmose?”

Lightning-Branch tilts his hispo head as he regards the hooded man, yellow eyes not leaving the man’s feet. His ears flick backwards once, more a reflex than anything else.

Fast-Draw stops just behind the others, posture mostly neutral and explorative. He doesn’t know this place, but he knows kind of place fairly well, it seems. And there’s a comfort there.

“Ahmose Looks To The West,” he acknowledges, easy on his feet, eyes brown and intent, laugh lines clear even though his smile is brief and hardly seen. He shrugs the hood off, and his hair flows around his face. “Theurge. Silent Strider. Fourth rank.” He looks to the other two. “Theurge and philodox. Correct?”

“Amavasi,” Tim adds to his deed name. “Fostern. Good to meet you, Ahmose-rhya.” He tilts his head just so, showing his throat in a customary display of submission more attuned to the homid form. He glances back at Desh and Chulash, nodding minutely in an indication that he, at least, thinks it’s okay to use more private names.

<OOC> Ahmose: Y’all might well have heard of him; he’s been a fairly frequent Umbral rambler, but he also is sort of known as not very comfortable with those from the Sept of the Wheel of Ptah. More focused on this hemisphere.

~Yes, Looks-to-the-West-rhya,~ Lightning-Branch replies, posture sinking in submission before he rises up to the near-man form. “Chuluunbataar. First-rank. Ma’at follow you always, elder one.” The respect is graven into every cadence of his voice, clearly honored at this encounter.

Fast-Draw slips into homid while Chulash speaks, tipping his head towards Ahmose with a sincere sense of respect. There’d have been a hat-tilt there, but some things needed to be left behind. “Yeah, what they said,” the Texan thumbs towards the other two, smile bright and accent thick. “Desh Levi, or jus’ Levi if y’wanna be more personal. First Rank, an’ it seems y’know the rest. Might fine t’meetcha.”

Ahmose inclines his head to all three, and then regards Chulash. “You will pay attention to the workings of the Rite,” he says, after several moments’ silence. “And I may be here for longer than this night.” It may be an offer. It may not. He regards him a moment longer, and then breaks his gaze, looking to the others. “Have you all run this road before?”

Ruefully, Tim admits, “Afraid not, Ahmose-rhya.” He ducks his head, possibly embarrassed by the fact in light of his age. “Only heard the tales.”

“I am young as well,” Chulash replies, though perhaps not as ruefully as Tim given his basic rank. “Not yet tried in this grandest of vision-quests. But my spirit is prepared, Looks-to-the-West-rhya.”

Desh merely shakes his head, thumbs hooking around his holster-belt. “Naw. The rite was sadly always a bit rare. But certainly not for lack a’ tryin’.”

“Ah,” Ahmose says, hoarse voice filled suddenly with wry, rueful humor. “The way will be interesting, then.” He picks up a small fallen branch, and gestures with it, words dry, spare. “Go across. The stone is there. I anoint it. We all of us speak of a sign the Apocalypse is closer. And then. Then we run. The dead, their fears, their victories, their prophecies, they follow us. You falter? You hesitate?” His voice goes dead, tight. “You fall.” He’s silent a moment. “May end up back here, may end up elsewhere and have to return. Can’t predict.” He cranes his head to look at the cliffs, then back to them. “You ready?”

Tim seems about to ask a question, then stops himself. He just nods in response.

Chulash’s face is grim, eyes intensely looking out from beneath his beetle brow. He nods wordlessly in reply, his weather-tempered frame tensing with the urge to move.

Ahmose merely raises an eyebrow at Tim, questioning.

Desh’s form continues to seem relaxed, though his expression and jaw are set. He puffs some rogue bangs from his face in a half-sigh of determination and nods.

“The rock,” Tim says, looking askance at Desh and Chulash. There’s maybe some regret in his expression. “The last time I was there, it was somewhere else.” His eyes flit out towards the Bawn, or maybe beyond it, then back to Ahmose, questioning.

Chulash just folds his arms and waits for an answer.

Desh threads his arms over his chest, reposed. He, too waits.

“It moved,” Ahmose says. That seems to be all he means to say, and then he adds, “Owl’s grace.” That said, he leads the way to a small pool and crosses over. The Umbra here is a delight, bright, pure, strong; an eagle spirit flies lazily, far above. High atop the cliffs, there is a fierce blue light. Ahmose falls into lupus, looking far more like a Mexican grey wolf than a jackal, and darts up the cliffs, tongue lolling happily, moving to crinos at times to clamber upwards.

Tim blinks, and looks relieved and happy to hear it. He crosses over and makes use of his wings, flying over more difficult spots so he can help others up. Most of the time he’s in crinos, but he shifts back to lupus when space is at a premium.

Chulash slips down into the wolf-skin, following suit with Ahmose and the others as they make their way to the Painted Stone. The Theurge’s war-pack blessing combined with a body beaten into shape by years of lone travel make his passing over the land look effortless.

Desh just seems fit to bring up the rear, then, as his passage is easy enough, but not super-swift. This seems to suit him fine, however. Range is his specialty. Falling to lupus allows him to catch up, and he’s more than happy to accept Tim’s aid when it is offered. Mostly, he seems to have little issue. And there’s even a bit of fun, there. Tongueloll!

From atop the cliffs, you can see everything. The Umbra stretches out before you, far further below you in the Umbra than it is in the Realm. This is a high cliff, somehow miles above the ground below, where you can see the mild glow of the glade, and, to the north, the brighter glow of the Caern. And beyond it, the dark shadow of Kent Crossing, and far further off in the distance the looming darkness of St. Claire. The dim umbral woods below you seem to move and sway with a life of their own. On a small promontory at the top of the cliffs, there is a ring of blue fire burning, in its center, large enough that only a few may stand around it at one time. The ground is almost luminescent. Etched into the stone of the nearby cliffside is the glyph of the Silent Striders.

Ahmose’s scent is here, and an owl’s, and one other’s, who seems to have stayed only in lupus. But he is not here, now. In homid, Ahmose crouches before the rock, and then a bowl filled with water appears in his hand. He brings a small bag from his pocket, and begins filling it with herbs, his work silent.

As they approach the familiar stone and fire in a new setting, Tim shifts to homid and walks to the rock, taking out his switchblade. He glances back at Ahmose, and asks in a low voice, “Will it stay here?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and may expect to not receive one as he makes a swift, deep cut along his palm and traces a series of glyphs in the dirt in front of the rock; a brief greeting to this sacred place in the form of Feed the Earth.

Lightning-Branch settles back into Hispo to observe every little movement and detail of what Ahmose is doing, intently focused.

Desh returns to homid when he is able, falling back into that reposed state which is merely a mask for his calm, cautious attentiveness. The area is taken in at a glance, and promptly offered a respectful nod. Impressive.

Tim doesn’t get an answer. Ahmose finishes his work and sits on his heels before the stone for some minutes; then, meditation over with a sudden finality, he stirs and brings out his own knife, a fierce looking thing made of obsidian stone. He slices his own hand without a single hesitation, with, it would seem, the ease of practice. Blood drips into the bowl, adding to the water; he reaches down, rests his hand on the earth himself, and then takes dirt from another area of the cliff and adds it to his bowl. Soon, he falls into crinos and brings the bowl to the stone of the cliff, daubing it with the the dark red earth. He’s silent a moment and then says, ~Fewer of the people, every year.~ He turns, and offers the bowl to Tim with a small inclination of the head, crinos mane falling into his eyes. ~Share the signs, Elder. Name a thing you have seen in the last turn of harvest and dry season, indicator of the last day fast approaching.~
The blue flame surges with Ahmose’s crinos words.

Tim stands, shifting to Crinos, and accepts the bowl with a flaring of his wings. His injury is healed even before the vessel is in his hands. He looks down into the water, and says to it, ~We lose our ways–our rituals, our stories, our memories.~ Then he offers it to Chulash.

The stone, and its glyph, drip water and earth.

Shifting like the others, Chulash accepts the bowl into his hands, looks into it and speaks: ~Our kin slay one another all across the world. Our shared blood spills away from the sight of the living and the dead.~ After another moment of silence he passes the bowl to Desh.

The fire pulses, blue, with licks of deep red.

Desh is in crinos even before Chulash hands him the bowl. Into the water he glances, solemn. ~Purpose is forgotten. Too many focus on trifles and long grudges. The storm is coming, and we’ll be left in the rain.~ He then looks up, respectfully offering the bowl agaain to Ahmose with both hands.

The fire grows larger. It is curiously free of heat.

Ahmose takes the bowl, inclining his head to the Philodox with a brief, fierce smile. He holds the bowl up, above himself, with both hands; then, he tosses the water and earth through the fire and onto the stone. The fire flickers higher. Ahmose’s curt homid voice has given way to a fluid, melliflous crinos, as he paces around the fire, once, twice, a third time. ~The Apocalypse comes nearer, year by year. From within us, and from without. We see the tangible Apocalypse without, and fight it every day of our lives. But tonight, tribesmates, we run with our ancestors and our past; tonight we face the shadows within, those of memory and fear, and those without, the hard truths and the lies manifest. Follow! The tribe gathers! All over the world, we leap as one!~ And he leaps, through the fire and through the rock, disappearing in that instant.

Golden snarls his agreement and launches after Ahmose, his wings curled tight against him.

With the grace and power of Weasel Lightning-Branch roars his wordless reply, leaping into the flame, ready to run as soon as he hits something solid, eyes looking all around for anything.

They land on a road suspended in the sky, a mighty track spinning far to the west, its uneven surface composed of ashes, cinders, dust, sand, bone chips, mud; every kind of footing. This path is a ghostly echo of all those the tribe has ever travelled, and Ahmose runs it in hispo, claws ticking on stones and cedar, the noise absorbed by the air around them. ~Run!~ he growls, ~Run with all your being, and do not stop. Falter or slip from the path, and you will be destroyed. To the west, chidren of Anpw!~

Golden also takes to hispo, his eyes turned Westward as Ahmose indicates. He growls encouragement to his Tribesmates, and begins to make use of his considerable stride.

A tall, lachrymose woman reaches from the darkness and barely touches Ahmose’s coat as he sprints by. “/Why/?!” she calls after him.

Her form dissipates into nothingness the instant she calls.

Lightning-Branch lurches into the near-wolf form, the better to run and look all about him, moving as fast as he can while still listening and looking.

No less enthusiastic, but perhaps a little less vocal than the other two (being far more focused on the looking about, landing, and running), Fast-Draw Occurs just behind and scrabbles just after. To all fours and Hispo he ends, howling a brief encouragement to augment Ahmose’s words… a sound which is cut short by the sudden luminescence of a bulky human arm. “You could have saved me,” it growls, angry. And is ignored. The Philodox lurches forward.

In the distance, an equine-shaped figure can be seen, every inch of its body blazing with orange flames save its neck, which pours black ichor from a gaping wound. The sight causes Lightning-Branch to growl with dismay, but he moves no slower than before.

Golden’s ears pin at the sights and sounds, but he carries on, mindful of his pace and their constantly shifting surroundings.

The dust of the road kicks up other forms; a lanky child whose sad eyes speak of innumerable things. He himself says nothing, merely reaches out to Tim and then disappears again. And a woman, arm dripping blood, eyes wild, appears right in front of Desh, snarling, “You are the betrayed!” He pelts through her, and she vanishes in a burst of flame.

Lightning-Branch continues to pound across the dusty earth, eyes scanning the horizon and ears pricked high to listen to the dead winds.

A brittle shadow of moldy green and wispy black coalesces into an older, matronly woman, and she reaches out towards one of Golden’s shoulders, her hand briefly forming into a claw shape–but his legs carry him on with only a whining snarl of acknowledgement, and she disintegrates just as she came together, whispering, “Murderer,” to the Striders’ wake.

In the distance, far forward, possibly miles away, other crinos forms can barely be spotted. They melt into the dust. When the Walk’s Garou lope over a portion of the road paved in granite and stone, it trembles underfoot, with the sound of thousands upon thousands of others running this same road.

With a shake of that mighty Hispo head, Fast-Draw presses forward, despite the sudden flash of heat. But then he’s confronted again, this time by a cold visage of a hateful old man what swells into being from the dim dark. “Give him back to me!” The image rushes the Philodox, who growls and barrels forward, almost to spite the thing.

Two girls, hair and eyes black, one a few years older than the other stand in Lightning-Branch’s path, hair fluttering in the hot blast. When he dashes by they call as one, “He will find you!” before two gunshots ring out and they disappear in the blink of an eye.

The road changes. It runs first through misted sky; but soon it changes. Sometimes it runs close to the ground, along a riverbank, through a dark forest, through a narrow cleft in sheer blasted mountains, or even over a gray and tossing sea. Sometimes it arches high over swirling gray mists, where the darkness below smells of death and distance and memories of things that will never be again, and perhaps never were. Susurations of just barely unheard voices surround.

To (Lightning-Branch, Golden), Ahmose pages: Up ahead, there’s sort of a faint but growing sensation. It’s not really quite Wyrm, but it’s becoming something more familiar.

Golden flicks his ears at Lightning-Branch and Fast-Draw, listening back at them and then in front of himself, towards Ahmose. His attention fixes there, and though he can spare no breath to give a warning, he growls it, and his hackles stand even as he runs.

A man, curiously flexible, tall, almost saturnine, emerges from the mists. ~Their earts and minds,~ he says, in the shared tongue. ~Not mere violence, but moral suasion and strength.~ He fades again, but there is something urgent in the sound of his words.

The shades of some wolves run beside the Walk’s garou for a time, tongues lolling, eyes sparkling.

Lightning flashes miles up ahead, a sickly purple-pink flare.

~Sense something,~ Lightning-Branch gasps audibly over the distant cacophony, taking the moment for ragged, bone-dry breaths as the running continues. ~No stopping, but careful!~ As he says this a black serpent wriggles into the sky above him, going on until it is well out of sight.

Fast-Draw spares a few glances towards the vista, towards the wolves, but only a scant few. Must keep running. A burst of speed – catching up, now. Oh, wonderful. Foreboding flashes. Maybe rear not so bad. More running!

Golden’s eyes widen a touch at the sight of the man, but he doesn’t falter–just.

A black jackal emerges from the air around them and snarls, ~One Caern, in the west! It dies forever, so do we all die.~ He runs alongside them for a time, and then he simply disappears.

A woman falls from the sky, reaching for Tim; since she is a ghost, all she can do is hiss angrily before she falls through the road (now made of macadam) and away.

Golden barks at the jackal, but his eyes remain on the path ahead. ~No!~ The denial is fierce and more than a little desparate.

~Push!~ The Philodox breathlessly pants foward, towards Golden. ~We… are the future.~ No more breath. The short sentiment will have to do. And more running. So much.

The Ragabash answers with a grunt, and surges on, his fur shuddering against the ghost’s form as it passes through him.
On this incongruous road of macadam, they run through what appears to be a Caern; with a firepit, a pool, an earthen mound, and innumerable lupine and crinos forms, dancing around a wheel; it disappears an instant after it is seen. The lightning flickers again, miles away. The road turns to dirt and cinders again, and the dust wreaths their forms, the light from stars shining, multifaceted, all around them.

Lightning-Branch continues to push ahead, throwing his fury into a new burst of energy. He is unflagging, for now. In the distance and rapidly drawing closer is a gray-haired, wrinkled old woman dressed in hide – even in her old age she bears stark resemblance to the Mongolian. She calls something to him in his native tongue, spreading her arms wide, gaze imperious – and a shuddering whine of dismay rattles from Chulash’s throat. His limbs scream, bodily fighting an urge to break down as he just manages to continue pushing forward.

Fast-Draw continues to remain behind the rest, urging the rest forward with short yips and barks when he can spare breath. Many spectres that don’t look so different from the cowboy in homid blink in and out, taunting and cajoling with promises of failure and broken oaths. Infuriated more than anything, Fast-Draw gnashes his teeth and dismisses them with a cold shoulder. Or tries.

From the edges of the dust, a thin thread of fire coalesces and whirls around the woman, and then it leaps at Chulash, tinged with that same sick purple that calls from the lightning. Luckily, Chulash paces past it, and the world changes again; the path, now earth with nuggets of gold in it, rockets above another Caern, this time its Umbra, with that earth air fire water, fire pit, pool, earthen mound, a table of stone in the center. This is a wheel of seasons, with spirits of Falcon and Chimera, Wendigo and Pegasus, all of the tribes dancing on the ground and in the air. Thunder cracks, somewhere below them.

~The Wheel…~ Golden mutters it so softly the words don’t drift far past him; he’s careful in dividing his attention between the sights and the road, but there’s concern in his eyes.

To (Ahmose, Golden), Lightning-Branch pages: Sense Wyrm on that lightning stuff?

To (Golden, Lightning-Branch), Golden pages: Oh my.

~That lightning,~ Lightning-Branch barks out between breaths. ~Made of Wyrm! What happening to Wheel?~

~Don’t fall.~ Fast-Draw urges from behind them, also glancing now and again at what could be rather dark portents. He seems moderately more concerned with his tribe mates, at the moment.

The lightning crashes down not a mile ahead, as they gallop toward it; some of the trail has been obliterated, nuggets of earth and stone falling down and out of it, leaving huge pits in the wider pathway, and more falling off all the time; it’s possible to jump them. Probably.

Golden rumbles back to the others, ~The Corruptor tries to stop us. Be ready to jump!~ The strain in his voice suggests it’ll be one hell of a leap they’re making.

Ahmose laughs, his hispo voice low. ~As ever.~

A deep growl rises from Lightning-Branch’s throat. ~Bring it on!~ he snarls, muscles furiously working and eyes darting about as he makes his way, preparing for the inevitable jump.

Ka-thump, ka-thump. Paws seem to be hitting the trail as fast as Fast-Draw’s heart. Or is it the other way around? With mental preparation, limbs are steeled, ready. Here it comes.

More earth falls. Next to Desh, the jackal reappears out of the air and leaps across the rapidly growing pits (they could well be called a chasm by now). Lightning strikes the path next to Desh, and he loses just one ounce of speed, as the path crumbles underneath him.

~Fast-Draw!~ Golden barks. Though he keeps running, his eyes fix on Ahmose for some indication of whether or not they can double-back to help him, or if the road can only go forward.

Lightning-Branch snarls as the path continues to crumble, and when the lightning strikes he calls out, ~Fly! Jump!~ to the philodox.

Ready the jump, gain a bit of speed and… Zap. Holy Lightning, Batman. A sudden, sharp dodge and a loss of speed… and ground. Craaaap. Screw the careful preparations – LEAP. Like Heeeell he’s gonna fall on his umbral-ish tush. The Philodox follows shortly after the Jackal, but the ground is not forgiving. Claws reach and scrape as the Philodox’s forepaws find purchase on the othe rside, but his hind legs don’t. There’s a very long (and yet very short) moment where he almost feels suspended above a very, very (very) long drop. Determination wins, however, and with an infuriated roar and no small amount of scrabbling, his rear paws grip the crumbling road, propelling Fast-Draws forward as there’s a telltale crack and sliding behind. Definately no going back. Yee-haw.

Golden howls at the half-moon’s success and redoubles his efforts, tongue flailing as he pants.

Desh, indeed, has more earth fall underneath him; those strong rear paws have propelled him to the edge of the cavern yawing beneath him, but the jackal, before Ahmose can fully slow, has caught the Philodox by the scruff of the neck and dragged him forward. ~Auspice-mates look after their own,~ he rumbles, and then he’s off again, lost in the dust of the road. Ahmose, who has slowed to the briefest of halts, lolls his tongue expressively at Tim and starts off again. The lightning cracks at Chulash’s feet, as he jumps; he hits solidly on the ground, but his left rear leg is, clearly, having some issues.

A growl pumps out of Lightning-Branch’s maw with every step he runs now, maw hanging open to expel heat, frame jolting with pain as he barrels on through the gauntlet before him.

Fast-Draw yips a brief thanks to the Jackal, but he’s not about to waste that excellent bit of grace with an overlong congratulations. Already speeding forward, he’s behind Lightning-Branch again, encouraging his tribe-mate forward with a sharp bark.

As the road turns to solid air, above them, inverted, they can see that old Wheel; and then it quakes and melts into familiar terrain, a waterfall plummeting over a chasm into a pool, steam vents airing into nothingness, a rocky spar jutting outward, air swirling about in gusts of energy all around. A Chimera curls around the white rock in the center and regards the evanescent, uncertain images of Buffalo, Cougar, and Magpie, off in the distance.

~Our Walk~, Golden rumbles to himself. He matches his pace to only a few lengths ahead of Lightning-Branch and Fast-Draw, careful to keep them within his hearing range.

This Caern is somehow less vital, less energetic, than the Wheel. It is beautiful, it is magical, but it is, ineffably, reduced.

The image captivates Lightning-Branch as he runs on his injured leg, but Desh’s bark snaps him back before he can slow even a bit. The Theurge nonetheless makes note of what he sees.

Fast-Draw growls his concern, but the road moves ever-forward. ~Careful,~ he warns the both of them. Clearly, the Philodox is no fun.

A very young jackalish wolf dashes through Desh and up into the air, fading into invisibility only slowly.

Golden whines at the Caern’s lesser nature, but runs ever onward.

They run. This Caern is in the midst of fading away when a blast of snow and ice overtakes it, Buffalo standing, quiet, chewing his cud as all around him the frigid air creates cracks in the stone. And then they run through it, the ground beneath them turning into solid lava beds, cutting their feet into ribbons while they run on it; blood drips behind them. The world around them seems to be a placid lake, vital and blue, with a small community of seals barking placidly nearby. None too soon, the path turns back into white-grey concrete, with the sandblasted remains of a double yellow line down its center.

Fever and fury spit from Lightning-Branch’s eyes and mouth, froth building up around the fringes of his muzzle. The anger is a mixed blessing, as it gives him further impetus to keep on pushing through despite the immense exertion he has already undergone.

Fast-Draw involuntarily shivers in spite of himself. Probably the Jackal. Brr. There’s little time to really take in the vista, however, as the road becomes suddenly uncomfortable. Behind Lightning-Branch goes the Philodox again, mindful of his foot and ready to push him forward.

The injuries to his feet slow Golden down some, and he flags briefly, then shakes and pushes himself again as Lightning-Branch does. His ears lay flat, and his wings remain tightly furled.

The saturnine man reappears; he stands on the edge of the road, flexible, almost unnaturally so. ~It is our hope,~ he says, as if conversing with someone unseen. ~It /must/ be.~ His words resound, solid, as if draped in stone. ~If it continues, through change and more change, birth and rebirth, we, our people, stand.~ They run, on ice now; a blast of cold so frigid as to feel warm runs through them, as Wendigo’s winter welcomes the new change; and, barely, in the distance, they can see a pulse of vivid, bright, overwhelming energy from a white rock too far off to truly be understood as rock. It is too far off for them to know if it is the Walk’s centerstone, but there is something familiar about it. Around it flows earth and air, fire and water, and there are the calls of Falcons and Griffins, a Stormcrow and a Pegasus. Conversationally, the man says, as if to someone standing beside him, ~Its nature is change, and so is its joy.~ And then he is gone, as is the distant rock (or Caern), and they run beside a calm mountain, the wind blowing gently among them.

~Wyld,~ Lightning-Branch heaves as he continues to run, a respite given as the vistas change once again. Whether what the Theurge said was a question or a statement is impossible to discern.

Golden tries to divide his attention between their sites and the path, eyes and ears taking in everything they can.

Fast-Draw has his eyes mostly on the path, quick to bark a warning should a danger present itself. Still, his eyes flick towards what’s to be seen occasionally.

They run, westward; they run, and the road turns from dust to stones, mica and jasper and innumerable others. Beside them, the mountain’s leaves turn from spring to summer; and then begin to burn with the fall.

One more shape among the umbra’s changing shadows slides in at the rear of the speeding Striders: smaller than those in Anubis’ form, but no cub, to judge by the scars.

Golden’s ears tip back to the one joining them, but he keeps his eyes on the road and waits to hear from Fast-Draw or Lightning-Branch if it’s friend or foe.

Lightning-Branch’s speed flags, and though he continues to push on his leg gives him grief – the presence of the fourth is detected amongst the others as he backslides, turning a sharp glance to the newcomer. ~One of us!~ he barks to the others.

Fast-Draw, being between Lightning-Branch and the newcomer makes sure to maintain his intermediary position. Only at Lightning’s bark does his form relax a little. A little. But still have to keep running.

Ahmose snorts a greeting and keeps running.

A dark, drawn, unhappy looking man stumbles onto and through the path, speaking angrily in what seems to be Aramaic; as Tim steps through his arm, it solidifies briefly inside his leg. Blood drips, and the man falls through the hematite strewn path and is gone from sight.

Ahmose pages: (So, yeah, that’s about an agg of shoulder ow.)

You paged Ahmose with ‘Ow!’.

Sepdet’s breathing is labored; will is keeping the runt of a Garou going as strength fails. She gives a sharp, high yip to hail them, trailing into a soft whine of respect directed towards Ahmose.

Golden barks in surprise and lurches forward, his rhythm jostled out of place by the ghost’s very real arm. He stumbles, attempting to regain his footing and gasping in pain.

~Go! Go! Go!~ Lightning-Branch bellows from the rear to Golden ahead, the alarm of the sudden mishap triggering yet another burst of manic energy.

Ahmose deviates in his path slightly to nose Tim’s hocks, breath soothing. Up almost a mile ahead, there’s the flash of a familiar stone, dripping the blood and earth that they anointed it with at the beginning.

Fast-Draw rushes forward, and is there to help Golden up as best he can, should the Ragabash need it – but concedes to Ahmose. Otherise, zooming forward! With a quick glance back to check on the newcomer too.

Sepdet’s ears flatten back at the stumble, but her own feet are none too steady: she simply minds her feet to make sure she doesn’t add to a potential collisoion. ~Stone’s near,~ she calls out to bolster spirits. Tim, at least, should recognize the voice, roughened though it is by crinos vocal chords.

Golden shakes himself, splittle flying, and fixes his eyes on the rock ahead. He listens back to Sepdet, then snarls and focuses, putting what little strength he has left into this final stretch. He’s not much faster than Lightning-Branch or Fast-Draw now, barely able to keep ahead of them.

Ahmose lopes slightly ahead of Tim, eating ground quickly; soon, he rockets through the stone, and lands, not on the edge of a familiar cliff, but in a small cavemouth; he emerges from it, looking confused, near a misshapen grove of trees that only Tim would recognize.

Ahmose pages: Eg, y’all are in Spokane. (But it’s easy to get home, given as no one’s alerted against you and you killed like 9/10ths of them anyway.)

Golden charges through the stone, and once across the threshhold he lopes until he’s walking in slow circles to catch his breath. Presently he too notices they’re not where they began, at the Mountain Bowl, and sniffs, peering out of the cave. His ears flatten against his head almost immediately. ~Traitor’s Grove,~ he growls, exhaustion rather than any real attempt at stealth softening his voice.

<OOC> Ahmose: (So you can, being Striders and all, get home in like 2 hrs.)

Lightning-Branch’s paws crush and spray the earth beneath him, pushing off against the ground behind him with all the force he can muster until he is finally through the stone, where he finally stops, muscles twitching all over his massive frame. Taking labored steps with the weight of tree trunks in his paws, he shifts up to the war-form for the added strength and falls to all fours, breathing the noisome air of this tainted place as though it were the only air left in the world.

Fast-Draw thrusts forward just after Lightning, darting to the side as flops out the other end, so as not to be-rear the theurge. Seeming less worse for wear than perhaps the other two, the Philodox trots forward to check over each of them with concern. ~Both of you alright?~

Sepdet flies through the stone, hits the ground and rolls in an undignified heap of limbs. She lies there for a moment, then rolls onto her elbows and peers at where they’ve landed. ~Where–?~ That question she discards with a head-shake, straggling down to four legs so she can stand. ~All paws accounted for?~ she asks with vague cheer.

Ahmose looks mildly alarmed. Panting only a touch, sides slowing as he speaks, he looks to Tim. ~This is not a place to stay for untold hours, am I correct?~

~No. We sent most of the Corrupted back to Gaia in the battle,~ Golden’s eyes narrow as he scans the horizon, ~but not all.~ He looks over Ahmose, then Fast-Draw and Lightning-Branch, and finally Sepdet, who he pants at in a greeting. ~It shouldn’t take us too long to return to the Walk with our Gifts,~ he says, and turns his head to lick at the injury on his shoulder. Now that they’re not running for their lives, the injury doesn’t seem quite as bad, but he winces as the battlescar pulls uncomfortably. ~We need to be careful until we’re further away. There may still be watchers here.~ One ear turns to Ahmose, and then Sepdet. ~Is the rock no longer in the Watercat’s territory, then?~ he wonders at them.

Lightning-Branch grumbles and pushes himself up off of the ground, now standing on two feet to near his full height. In a few places around the back of his right leg bits of fur are missing and multicolored bruises show out. He turns to Sepdet and curtly introduces himself: ~Lightning-Branch, spirit moon man-born to Owl’s people, claimed by Weasel for the Blizzard’s Teeth pack. First rank.~

Ahmose flicks an ear, as if in dismissal. But then he explains, ~At times, the rocks call to each other, even the quiescent ones. And evidently, there were those of our tribe here, at a time not this one.~

~Seems so,~ Fast-Draw returns to Septdet just after Lightning, eyeing her with caution. It’s not an unkind look, but simply a wariness born from experience. ~I only know the story in passing.~ His tail flicks to indicate the cave and environs. Ahmose is offered a brief glance of interest before the Philodoxen’s eyes return again to the metis, and she is offered a simple nod. ~Judges-with-a-Fast-Draw, man-born half-moon of Owl’s. First rank.~

Hope-Star’s ears prick at Ahmose’s explanation. Another stone. Maybe the shadow lingering here will help hide it. Her manner towards the elder is easy, respectful. Then she turns to catch the other’s scents. Her whip-tail wags behind her, despite the ominous surroundings, and she sniffs to catch their scents. Hope-star, Owl’s own, Seer. Formerly of the Hidden Walk. And a few other things, but we should be moving, yes? Wise fool, need a healer’s touch before we trot?

Golden grunts at Ahmose, both to indicate understanding and disappointment. He glances at Sepdet, then at the ground, thinking. ~It will take a bit of work for us to be allowed to go to the rock of the Wheel freely,~ he says to no one in particular. Then, to Fast-Draw, ~Remind me to tell you about it. I’m a sorry gibbous, but I remember most of it.~ He blows out a breath at Hope-Star. ~No, but thank you Hope-Star-rhya. We should save your spirit for…if we need it later.~ He slips down into lupus and begins to smell the air, checking for anything untoward.

Ahmose pages: To the south, there’s some concentration of Wyrm. I mean. In addition to the BIG HUGE BANE in the center. But he’s asleeeeep. Feels like a long ways away. Maybe even a couple miles.

~I have heard your name on the lips of the elders here, Hope-Star-rhya,~ Lightning-Branch tells Sepdet, testing his purpled leg gingerly for a moment before straightening out again. ~Never thought I would meet you. Soon let us have words, but let us move now.~ He melts back into the hispo form, refreshed enough to consider traveling again.

Fast-Draw seems to well agree with the onward sentiment, and not having much to add vocally, merely grunts his assent. Time to go.

Ahmose licks his haunches — where some blood is flecked — and yawns cavernously, before padding over to linger near Sepdet, watching Tim with interest.

Must avoid the south. Golden’s scent drops away as he peers out into the Umbra and gets familiar with the area he’d hoped to never look at again. Corruption there. Not too close. But be wary. He stops, looking behind himself at the cave one last time and flaring his wings, then slips forward out into the open.

Hope-Star has heard bright things of you, Lightning-Branch, from the spirits. She dips her eyes to Ahmose. And you, elder, I have never been so glad to find your scent on the spirit-paths. To Tim, she raises a querying snuff. Not south — which way? I’d take a pebble for a guide, but the rocks here smell strange.

Ahmose Liberty Taker (not his official name) licks Sepdet’s ear, and then says, ~West,~ as if speaking an incontrovertible truth.

Fast-Draw, a bit restless after All Of That, awaits the elders to give the word to move out.

~I do my duty,~ is the only comment Lightning-Branch has to offer on the matter of renown, instead slinking over to Tim’s side, prepared to move.

Golden agrees with Ahmose, flicking his tail. The outline of his body grows indistinct as he uses another auspice Gift, and he ghosts forward. He chuffs back to the others and starts towards a spot of cover, his eyes shifting to the Grove itself now and then in wariness. This way.

You paged Ahmose with ‘And +Running Water and +Blur.’.

Hope-Star gives a relieved chuff of laughter, bumping the underside of the older wolf’s muzzle. Ah. Of course, master. Then she raises nose and ears and limps after the no-moon, falling back into watchfulness.

Ahmose trails behind Sepdet, a certain vague fondness in his posture.

At the Rock Outcropping
 The rocky wall of the caern flattens out here, a more stable and solid area than around the steam vents or even the caern’s center. A small outcropping juts out slightly over the caern, forming a natural dais from which to address the gathered. The stone bears chips and faint stains from past abuses that can’t quite be rectified. Scrub grass and mosses eke out an frail existence on this otherwise inhospitable terrain.
 The forest surrounding the caern’s border is far less dense than the rest of the nearby forest. Scattered, centuries-old oaks stand majestically over their fallen, decaying, moss-covered comrades. This peculiarity seems to surround only the area just outside the caern.
 The caern circles away from the walls east, towards the swirling area, and south, towards the steam vents; the center is southeast of here. A dangerously slippery, muddy trail winds up towards the rim of the caern from here. One false step could result in tragedy.

Contents:
Fast-Draw
Ahmose
Lightning-Branch

Obvious exits:
Windy Spot Center Steam Vents Up the Trail

Lightning-Branch allows himself a moment’s pause as he lopes nearly blinded by mist down towards the rocky floor of the outer wheel. Huffing a breath, he shakes out his fur in the chilling fog. ~So passes the hinge of the year,~ he states.

Hope-Star disappears from the group as they plunge into the forest near the highway, as abruptly as she arrive. But a small brown woman comes loping into the caern a short time after the rest of them, limping but triumphant, toting a pair of bottles under her arms. Home brew, to judge by the corks and lack of labels. ~And we cheat Sutekh’s curse one more year, for all our old enemy’s spite. Here, cousins. Drink fit for a lioness: my uncle’s finest.~

Golden has spent much of the trip doubling back numerous times to make sure they haven’t been followed. On this his last pass to come back to the rest of the group, he flies, and lands with care for his injured leg. He huffs an agreement with Lightning-Branch, and shifts to Glabro as the drinks are offered. ~Thank you, Hope-Star-rhya.~ He doesn’t reach to take one immediately, though, instead looking down at the care with a thoughtful expression.

When they reach the Caern, Ahmose shifts to homid. The contrast between his earthy, friendly, melliflous crinos and hispo, and his taciturn homid could not be more clear. His hoarse voice says one word. “Skoal.”

~Such voices,~ Lightning-Branch muses, his mind at last allowed stillness to reflect. ~What was it all? Advice? Goading, a fire under the feet? Or none of these?~ At the sight of the bottles, he snaps back into his birth form, tall, dark and stocky, a muted smile on his face. “Now must not be a time to think,” he says, correcting himself. “Such thoughts must grow until their appointed time. What better time than now to drink?”

Sepdet wrinkles her nose at Ahmose. ~Sorry, master. Onion beer.~ She slips a sharp nail into the cork and pops it, setting it on the rock for any to take as will. Then she moves towards Tim, a silent question in her eyes. Chulash’s comments garner a raised eyebrow. ~Prophecy, sometimes; a goad to complacency, others. And taunts, yes, the spirits who speak to us this night are not all allies. Rememeber and chew what you heard.~

~All of that,~ Tim suggests, ~and maybe at the same time, none of it.~ He doesn’t sound concerned by this contradictory situation, and settles himself on the ground, heaving a sigh. He meets Sepdets eyes, then looks back at the Caern indicatively. ~We saw here–the Walk, the Wheel–among…other things.~ He doesn’t elaborate, though his voice suggests there was a good deal more that he’s still sorting through like the confused contents of another’s desk.

Sepdet leans towards them eagerly. ~The Wheel?~ she says, plaitive. ~Which way is it turning this time? I’d hear, if you have a mind. Or chew my own dreams, if you’re weary. And…here, wings are handy, but you’ll be wanting that leg.~ So saying, she scoots over to Tim without preamble and sniffs at the wound– her manners even in glabro betray a few fourlegged habits — before setting her hands over it and humming under her breath. ~Ouch.~

Ahmose’s mouth twitches. “Skoal still,” he tells her, and then settles against the center stone, watching the three of them.

Lightning-Branch helps himself, drinking down about a third of one of the bottles in one go. He shakes his shaggy black hair out, sighs a heated breath and, setting the bottle back down props himself up against a rock. “It must have been the Wheel of old, and spirits of all Tribes danced about it,” he comments while he is still sober. “It was displayed beneath our paws. Later, above us, Hidden Walk was revealed. Diminished… for now.” The exhaustion weighs on him as the drink begins to seep into his bones.

Tim echos Chulash, saying, ~Buffalo and Magpie. And the table stone, and the earthen mound.~ He pulls a face as Sepdet reaches to the injury, but doesn’t move away. ~It’s not too bad,~ he murmurs, and holds still. To distract himself from the healing, he goes on, ~And a winter wasteland. Wendigo’s way, maybe.~

“What was, echoing,” suggests Ahmose, from his rock. Despite his earlier words, he has yet to drink. “Could be an important difference. Mirrors and reflections.”

Sepdet is silent, marshaling her focus on spirit work, but her eyes are bright as she listens. Oddly, some of the weariness and strain in her thin frame bleeds away as she tends the wound, not touching: it’s clearly an activity like knitting, for her, something to do with her hands. She grins up at Tim — a wink, perhaps an apology for being forward — then sits back on her haunches, thoughtful. ~Wendigo’s ice. I hope you are right, master, that those were past echoes. I respect the Wendigo’s claim to this place, yet I still dread that they may claim all of it again someday. But what will be, will be. This caern changes. Weak, strong, up, down, ebb, flow… no wonder the lady of changing dreams finally claimed it.~

“Chimera,” Ahmose says, crow’s voice dubious. And then he rises smoothly to his feet. “Back later. Young one — ” This is addressed to Chulash — “Seek me out in the weeks to come. I am promised to the east, for the spring.” And then he rests his hand on the rock, and is gone, through the gauntlet.

Tim bites his lip as the odd, internal injury heals, then sags. ~Thank you, Sepdet-rhya,~ he says, entirely sincere. He watches Ahmose depart, chewing over everyone else’s words. ~Past and future loking back and forth at one another.~ He sounds to be in agreement. ~I’ll have to meditate about it some.~

Lightning-Branch lets the fiery draught course through him, and turns to bow his assent to Ahmose. He then turns around again, listening before he replies: “As it stands there are too few Wendigo to accomplish such a task. But it is as you say, elder. Here’s to hoping that the past brings good spirits and no rancor to divide us.”

Sepdet raises a hand to Ahmose as he slips out, then reaches for the bottle to take her own turn. It’s a strange taste for those not used to it; sweet onions are not a common base for beer in this part of the world. But it’s warm in the belly. ~Here’s to hope,~ she agrees wistfully, and tips back a long draught.

Tim takes up the other bottle, uncorking it and having a drink. He blinks at the taste, and has a bit more, then sets it down and sucks in a breath. ~To hope,~ he says. Looking back to the Caern, he goes on, ~There was hope for us there on the Dead’s Road.~ Absently, he amends that to, ~For me.~

Chulash has another draught, testing the brew’s taste against the flat of his tongue before swallowing. “Never needed a drink more than after that,” he admits, a wry ghost of a smile creeping onto his features, and the breathy chuckle that follows rings devoid of mirth. “It is good,” he adds, idly.

Sepdet sets the bottle down, a third remaining, and draws her knees into her chest, propping her chin on her arms.. ~Good to hear it,~ she murmurs to Tim. ~The running, it helps outrun some shadows.~ She nods slightly to Chulash. ~You’ll sleep a long while, so be sure to find someplace you can dream without being disturbed. Sometimes the spirits add footnotes.~ She winks.

Tim nods at Sepdet, and he gazes to the west. ~I know a good place for that.~ He looks back at Chulash, and gives him a crooked smile. ~So will *you* be performing the ritual next year?~

“Oh, yes,” Chulash says, closing his eyes and allowing some weary if genuine mirth to enter his expression. “Tonight is a night for the sleeping circle.” Whatever that means, he turns to Tim and addresses his question instead: “I would be honored to carry the knowledge of this, one of our most auspicious rites. A proving of the soul, where secrets are written on the heart. Hopefully it won’t take all year to read them.” A yawn fills his mouth to gaping, and he thumps his exposed chest as if fighting back acid reflux. “Definitely tastes different coming back up…”

The moon is growing darker, and soon it won’t be bright enough to safely venture into the Umbra. There’s a few more days to pass before that time, though, so Tim crossesover just at the edge of Meg’s woods. As he makes his way towards Chu’mana’s den, he hunts as well, seeking a mouse or a rat to heard towards her–a fresh kill to offer, and a cooperative hunt, rather than something dead at another’s hand.

The umbra’s animal spirits are already becoming scarce as the moon wanes, and the only prey scents are old. A sudden shift in the breeze brings Tim a sharp new scent, however. A mouse, hiding under a shrub very close by. The breeze shifts just as quickly back the other way though, and the mouse bolts from cover, a little grey blur running away from the Strider.

Golden darts after the mouse, reaching for his Tribal gift and giving a beat of his wings so he can hover over ground obstacles rather than go around them. He tries to herd it, rather than outright attack, keeping himself downwind so the mouse can smell him and be urged on, rather than think he’s no longer there.

The strategy works as though Tim had written the book on it, and it’s not long before they near Chu’mana’s den. The mouse hurries along, heedless of where– BANG, there she is, fangs sunk into her prey right in front of Tim.

Golden halts, dropping to the ground on his haunches with a small crunch of dry grass and loose rocks underneath him. He folds in his wings and sits, waiting while Chu’mana eats. His eyes, ears, and nose scan the immediate area,
keeping watch over the rattlesnake spirit.

It doesn’t take long. The mouse spirit gave up after a few seconds, and rather than having to go through the lengthy process of swallowing that a snake in the material world would do, Chu’mana simply absorbs the essence of the mouse. She coils up, looking satisfied, though there is no word of thanks. *The Owl child has returned,* she says simply.

The process fascinates Golden, and he watches with open curiosity once he’s certain nothing has followed him to the den. He listens to her snake’s voice, old familiarity in his posture. He shifts to hispo, moving back in the process so the rattlesnake isn’t crowded or loomed at. In as much as a dire wolf body can be flattened down, he does so. ~I return,~ he confirms, one ear splaying. ~And I have brought wisdom–some of my people, some of the world, if you would hear any of it.~

Chu’mana’s coils slide against one another, slowly. *Share with me,* she says, watching Tim through half-lidded eyes.

~I believe, as a race, Gaia’s warriors display a shocking lack of foresight.~ Golden says this slowly, like he’s never put the thought into words before, and then glances away from Chu’mana and out over the dim Umbral landscape. He admits, ~And though we follow Owl, his own children are just as guilty as the others in this. Maybe even guiltiest of all.~ He grunts a bitter laugh. ~We thought otherwise, and for our pride we lost our home. Probably forever.~ Here the Ragabash pauses, waiting to see if this topic interests the spirit at all.

The snake continues to stare at Tim, saying nothing. Her coils move and slide, though her head remains still. Her eyes may be open just a /touch/ wider now, though.

Golden goes on, licking his muzzle. ~Owl’s children were driven from Egypt by the leechers of life.~ His fur ripples as he relates this, the reaction to the raw topic easier to control on a lower moon. The anger is still there, though. ~But we lost that battle as much as they won it. When the life-eaters first emerged among us, they were not one camp but two. The ones who followed Osiris, and the ones who followed Set.~ The later name comes out more like a curse, and his ears pin for a moment. ~Enemy of my enemy is a worthwhile strategy, and our leaders chose to use it. They let the two camps battle one another, figuring the victor would be weaker when the fighting was done. We laid low. But they didn’t watch the two camps otherwise, and failed to notice that while Osiris had chosen to ignore us, Set had not.~ The name is more of a name now, and not something nasty to spit out.

The patterns on Chu’mana’s coils have started to move and change a little now, and her eyes are open just a little wider than before, as well. Still, she says nothing.

~They lacked the foresight to ask themselves about the other possibilities.~ Golden entertains them himself, his posture defeated and sad for his ancestors’ failing. He also begins to watch the snake’s coils and patterns, as if he mind might find the answers his people needed there. ~What if the battle between the camps didn’t weaken the victor? What if the humans we lived among turned to join the leeches? And we still attacked Osiris if we came across his followers as much as we did Set’s, which gave power *too* Set.~ He lets out a long, slow breath. ~They set no scouts on Set, and while we turned a blind eye to him, he made certain to build a reserve force. When he defeated Osiris, we attacked. And found ourselves facing an army as powerful as the one he had begun with.~

Chu’mana flicks her tongue, eyelids lowered briefly in what seems like amusement. *What did the children of Owl do then?* she asks, sounding interested despite her lazy manner.

~We fought,~ Golden replies, his voice wry. ~Gaia’s warriors always have. We fought hard and well, but Set let us spend ourselves like sand against his army. In that time, he whittled us down, and drove us out of Khem.~ There is the sense of an absense there; something he’s left out. A chasm of grief sits in that place, but he keeps relating the rest of his people’s hard-earned wisdom. ~Since then we claim almost no Caern for ourselves, and take no fixed homes on Gaia’s face. Only in our hearts and the hearts of others. What right do we have to a den, when we couldn’t even defend the first one, our most beloved one?~ His eyes continue to follow the snake’s pattern. ~That is our wisdom, and it cost us everything. To underestimate your enemy is to risk everything.~

*One wonders,* Chu’mana says, absently. *If Gaia knew when she made you, how far you would stray.* Her tongue flicks again in that gesture of amusement. *You have brought me knowledge, and demonstrated insight that is strange in a wolf. This pleases me. I will stay, for now.*

Golden ducks his head closer to the ground in assent. ~It may be she needed us to.~ His nose twitches as he considers that. ~For some reason that we don’t yet know.~ For a moment his eyes spark, as if to say, ‘Or for a reason we do’, but he doesn’t give voice to that.

Chu’mana uncoils and slides past the Strider, off into the brush. *Return when the moon is full again, if you wish to seek wisdom…*

Golden watches Chu’mana go, and gives a chuffs of both farewell and agreement. ~I will,~ he adds. His bearing turns that into a promise. Then he shifts–not to lupus, but to homid, and steps away from her den some distance. Once there, he pulls a few things out his bag–a bracelet of snake vertebrae, a glyph-carved, stout branch of ashwood, and his prayer rug–and dances rattlesnake’s rhythm to the mantras of the Nagini Devi.

Burial Mounds
This wide clearing in the midst of short, dark pines is rough with wild grass and bare stone. The air is a bit cooler up here in the foothills than below, and the majestic peaks of the nearby mountains rear up over the eastern treetops. There is a vine-covered boulder standing under the edge of the somber evergreens to the east. The air here is prenaturally still and the grass waves not at all for there is no breeze that blows through the pines. It is silent, no call of bird thrown from the treetops to dance gaily in the open spaces. Occasionally chill fingers run up your spine.
There are +views here.
A faint path leading downhill to the west is the only exit from the clearing.

Contents:
Norman
Viv
Charlene
Speech-and-Silence
Jason
Jacey
Paul
Kaz

Obvious exits:
Forest

The Burial Mounds are quiet. Soft showers of rain fall from the steel-grey skies, falling to the earth and soaking in, chilling the unprepared to the bone. A gentle wind from the south ruffles hair and collars, sending the rain swirling in flurries that vanish when the wind’s force is spent – an apt setting for a funeral. Charlene stands at the head of a deep grave cut from the living earth by claws, wrapped in a long overcoat, her hands stained with dark soil, one fingernail cracked, her hair hanging in long, stringy tangles, her hat elsewhere. She shifts to Crinos and howls, long and loud, her voice echoing over the bawn. ~Come gather to honor one of Gaia’s fallen! Firestoker is returning to Gaia’s embrace! Come and bear witness!~ She shrinks down to Homid and waits…looking quite exhausted.

Golden arrives from the direction of Edgewood, his fur shimmering with the rain that’s fallen on it but not quite soaked in. He grunts at Charlene, the sound part greeting and part condolences for the affair that’s about to begin.

Lurking at the outskirts in lupus, deliberately holding himself aloof from the proceedings, the Groundskeeper prowls. He fades in and out between the trees, seeming very much the observer and not a participant. Norman, meanwhile, slips apologetically in on two legs, bundled up in his tatty coat and ragged scarves. He is soaked, huddled, withdrawn, thin and pale. He avoids meeting anyone’s eye, and sidles himself into an unobtrusive spot near the assembling group.

Speech-and-Silence has spent much of the last week or more at this spot, and his crinos fur is wet and dirty. He’s kept his distance from other garou even while septmates have also been present at the mounds. But when the call echoes out, he follows Charlene’s lead, shifting from crinos down to homid, in which form he looks little better than the Fury; his always lean body is positively emaciated, his hair is a bird’s nest, and his eyes are hollow cavities in his white face devoid of any emotion and almost empty of any sign of life itself. In this form, he walks slowly over to join Charlene, his sunken eyes avoiding any contact with Viv.

Viv, on the other hand, looks very much as normal; short, truculent, and leather-clad. She stands, feet apart, by Charlene, her jaw set at a firm angle that hints that she will stand for no nonsense at this sacred event.

Having spent some time digging and prepping the grave for Devlin, Paul now stands next to Viv. Silent, short, angry looking. It’s the Get theme for the evening, it seems.

For those who care to look, in the ground Devlin’s body rests, nestled carefully on a bed of corn husks. His body is outlined by leaf-covered branches and sweet-smelling mosses and herbs; rosemary and sage, oak and elm leaves plucked by a wolf’s jaws and carried in a leather bag that has never felt the touch of a steel tool, all tinged with water from the dreary day. Devlin’s body has been lovingly washed, no evidence of the trauma suffered during his death, his most comfortable clothes, all meticulously cleaned and pressed without the slightest hint of blood, making him look almost like he did before, even in it’s current state. The herbs do a decent job of hiding the smell of death, but every now and again, the wind blows just so, bathing the unwary or unlucky with the sickly-sweet scent of decay. Two coins rest on his closed eyelids, copper from the looks of them. Charlene clenches her hands into fists, taking a small step forward, looking to the gathered Garou. “Thank you for coming.” Her voice is strained, nearly cracking. “This is something that we do not wish to do but what needs to be done to make sure Devlin returns to Gaia and then, with time, returns to us again.”

From the forest edge, a little later than would be expected, Jason arrives in an outfit others may not have seen him in before. He’s wearing a linen tunic over his jeans and t-shirt, the fabric embroidered in bright colors with celtic patterns and Fianna glyphs. Beautifully crafted images of sword and axe bearing Garou battle Wyrm-things. He has his guitar slung over his back and a cub, Jacey, in tow. The ragabash’s demeanor is solemn, eyes on his fallen tribemate. He’s pointedly ignoring the Get, but he does give a nod to Tim and a smile to Kevin and Charlene before taking up a spot, quietly, eyes again on the body.

Golden’s ears flick back at the mention of rebirth, or maybe in response to a change of the wind that brings with it the smell of the grave. Otherwise he is silent and attentive, dividing his attention between the grave and Charlene. As Jason and Jacey arrive, he glances at them and skews an ear in greeting.

Kevin doesn’t reciprocate Jason’s smile, though his eyes meet the Fianna’s for a second before they return to Devlin’s body. The Walker remains silent and stock still otherwise.

The gathered Garou each gain a small, curious glance as the cub follows after Jason. She takes up a spot beside and just slightly behind the Ragabash, eyes dropping to the body so carefully laid for rest. She’s otherwise somber, hands folded before her.

Viv gives Jason and Jacey a look, and a nod, and then glances to Paul alongside her. There’s an imperceptible coolness between her and her tribemate at the moment which may be due to the solemnity of the situation. Or may not.

Oskar stands behind his gathered elders, looking as serious and as somber as he can manage. Which is to say, very. He ignores the rain and ill-weather stoically, his pale eyes looking toward the open grave.

Charlene looks from one Garou to another, clasping her hands in front of her, knuckles going white as she squeezes her hands together tightly. “We have come to honor the memory of one of our own. Devlin Flynn McIntyre, known as Dirt-Tongue, also known as Stokes the Spirit Fires.” She pauses for a moment as Jason appears, giving him a slight nod of thanks, taking in his manner of dress, the guitar, before her attention snaps back to the task at hand. “We are only in this life for a short time before Gaia calls us home. The humans, when they bury their dead, mark the place with a stone. There are three things on every one of them. When the person was born. When they died, and the dash in between. It is what we do in that short time that we are here; during our dash, that endears us to others. That puts our mark on the world. That gives our friends and septmates reason to mourn their passing.” She pauses for a moment, looking to Kevin. Looking to Viv as well before stepping back.

From behind the excavated mound, Charlene pulls a small leather bag, stitched together from deer hides with a bone needle and sinew. It is opened to reveal the contents to those gathered; a small steel mirror, an antique cutthroat razor with a stag bone handle, a triangular-bladed dagger, a large-mouthed chalice that wouldn’t seem out of place at the local pub, a couple of books, and a small flask of whiskey left over from New Years from the stash at Edgewood. It is placed on the ground at the edge of the grave, the Galliard stepping back and looking at the gathered Garou. “If you have something for Devlin’s journey. Something you’d like to leave with him, come and place it in the bag.” Who would like to speak first?”

Norman shrinks still further into himself at the prevalent mood, more gloomy even than many another Gathering. The Godi turtles into his battered clothes, as though he could somehow manage to pull himself into non-existance. The ritual proceedings draw the only flicker of alertness from him that he’s displayed so far, and his sunken eyes flick this wat and that, as though others’ feet will be be an indication of those who have something to say.

Kaz emerges from the thick trees, in her usual coat and jeans, and hangs back a bit, still near those trees, watching silently.

Jason stands with one hand pressed against his stomach, looking on the body of his fallen tribemate with an expression of pain, bordering on nausea. He stays still and quiet, not reacting to the arrival of others nor the words or actions of the Fury. It’s taking all his effort just to keep stoic, his jaw working silently. One hand sets on top of Jacey’s head, standing beside him.

Oskar waits, and watches, to see if any others approach the grave with offerings. He’s not going to be the first, but he cannot hide that he has something to give.

Kevin stirs into motion. The gaunt, pale Glass Walker steps forward toward Charlene, still avoiding any eye contact with or any acknowledgement of the existence of the quartet of Fenrir nearby. He digs into one pocket and pulls out a small packet, slightly frayed, about an inch square each side, some unknown item wrapped in red wrapping paper and then bound up over and over with huge and unnecessary amounts of Scotch tape until no fraction of its surface is uncovered and unsealed. His mouth working silently, he drops this token into the bag along with the items it already contains, and takes a step back, although not as far as his original starting point; he’s only a couple of paces from the grave’s edge, but there he stays. For now.

Golden shifts to homid, and his clothes start getting wet in the light rain, though for once he doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls a small, white, pointed thing from one of his pockets: an antler tip, carved and stained with Garou glyphs and a few human words. He steps forward and drops it into the small pouch, saying, “Hope the palm of her hand’s comfortable, big guy,” and then he returns to where he was standing before. He doesn’t, it seems, have anything else to say, and he generally avoids looking at anyone else (though his eyes do flick to Kaz when she arrives).

As the bag is presented, Jason licks his lips and digs around under his tunic to pick out two objects from his pants pocket: A harmonica and a travel-size bottle of whiskey. He steps towards Charlene, stiffly striding up to the Galliard. He drops two items in the bag, pauses, and leans forward to whisper some quiet words into the bag as well. As he straightens, he gives Charlene another tight smile and puts a hand on her shoulder before leaning in and offering a whisper to her, too. When he leans back, his eyes are wet and he gives the Fury’s shoulder a squeeze before moving back to stand by Jacey, shoudlers tight and head bowed in that walk all guys have when they don’t want anyone to see them tearing up.

You paged (Jason, Jacey) with ‘In case that was Way Too Obscure, the ‘palm of her hand’ reference is to the old Gaelic prayer, “May the road rise up to meet you…”, which ends with “And until we meet again may God hold you in the palm of his hands.”‘.

Viv doesn’t make a move to add anything to the memento-bag. But her granite eyes take note of each person who contributes, and the nature of their contribution. Kevin and Jason’s inadequately concealed shows of emotion each earn a slight curl of the Jarl’s lip.

Moving jerkily forwards, tensed as though he expects to be stopped, Norman creeps towards the bag. One thin hand burrows into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a palm-sized patch of birch bark, surface patterened with black and dull-red-brown and half-hidden in his grip. He bends to put it in the bag and then, unless interrupted, moves back away. Only the dignity of the occasion seems to be restraining him from scuttling back again rather than walking. Unlike some of the others his face is a blank, hollow and drained.

Paul steps forwards after a few seconds- his expression distasteful and.. suspicious at each garou that fails to hide their feelings. He seems to be watching everyone like a hawk, but does not speak while he walks up. A token carved from bone is produced, in the shape of a stylised hammer. This is dropped into the bag without a word, the boy standing straight and at attention for several seconds, before he about-faces and returns to the small knot of his tribe.

Kevin is near enough to see that little hammer go into the back, and for the first time he looks directly at Paul. His eyes somehow contrive to be both empty and lifeless, and yet also be filled with deep, utter, boundless hatred and contempt for the young blond Get. Once more, apart from the look, Kevin doesn’t stir a muscle.

Oskar checks, and counts, and makes absolutely certain that he is the last one, bar none, to deposit something. Once he is absolutely sure, he approaches the bag. He walks with that slow, measured military pace, his jaw set powerfully. At the bag, he reaches into his jacket, and extracts something wooden. Perhaps a small carved boat, with symbols or glyphs cut deep in it? Its just a flash before the young modi puts into the bag, executes an about-face, and marches back to his tribe.

Charlene rests a hand on Kevin’s shoulder for a moment before she speaks. “I did a lot of thinking.” Charlene murmurs as she crouches by the grave, closing the bag slowly, tying it with the rawhide thong around the top before taking up a handful of soil in her hands, letting it trickle through her fingers in small clumps. “Researched burial rites of the Celts, listened to my teacher. And threw a spin of Devlin on it, or at least, tried to.” She takes another bottle – the mate of the one in Dev’s grave. “My friend is dead.” Charlene says softly, lifting the bottle, a small swallow of the liquor causing her to shiver after she lowers it from her lips. “My pack is gone, it’s trickster laying before those gathered here, resting in gaia’s embrace. My heart is broken.” She sloshes the liquor around in the bottle for a moment, looking down into the grave. “I remember Dev. He could be caustic, annoying…an asshole, frankly, without even trying too hard. But he was good at heart and in deed. He loved more deeply than most people could. He lived life to the fullest. He should have died in battle with the Wyrm, but sadly, his tounge got the better of him with full moon high in the sky.” She coughs, rubbing a dark handful of earth over her closed eyes, leaving a dirty smear, just looking down at the body for a moment. “Go dte tu Slan, Devlin-yuf. Go mbeannai Dia thu.” She lifts the bottle in a wordless toast then stands, looking to the others. “Let’s Drink to Devlin. Fair warning, though. It’s been awakened, so drink lightly unless you want to be carried home.” She offers it to the closest Garou – Kevin. “Do you have a memory you’d like to share? Do any of you? If so, take the bottle and speak.”

Jason is able to keep himself together, staring through Charlene with a pained expression, though the Gaelic phrase seems to strike a chord with the ragabash. His throat catches in a small sob and he puts an arm over his eyes, teeth clenched as he rides out the wave of emotion.

Kevin takes the bottle. For a second or two he’s silent, mouth working; and then he loses the battle he’s been fighting all through the ceremony, and starts to cry. “It wasn’t right,” he manages to say in between sobs. “It wasn’t right. How could anyone die… who was… so alive? Who loved life so much?” He stares at the grave for a second. Then gives Paul another look of contempt. And then the normally abstemious Glass Walker lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a long, greedy, desperate gurgle from it before letting it fall away from his face, a trickle of the contents dribbling from his mouth and forming a counterpart to the tears running down from his eyes as he holds the bottle back out to Charlene.

<OOC> Charlene: In case it was missed. Awakened booze left over from New Years. Jet fuel wishes it were so potent.

Paul merely watches Kevin, meeting his gaze impassively. One gets the impression he’s making mental notes of some sort.

Jacey casts a look up to Jason, brows furrowing slightly. To his sorrow she offers a small pat to his elbow, gaze returning to the gathering.

Charlene takes the bottle and walks, slowly, ’round the grave, offering the bottle to whoever wishes to take it. “just pass it ’round if you have something to say.”

The burly Gnawer stirs, now. She brings her own bottle out of her pocket — it’s small, but it’s evidently quality. She paces forward, slowly. “I didn’t know him any too good,” Kaz says. “But I’ll drink to assholes; I’ll drink to love, to passion, and to tryin’ damn fuckin’ hard. F’Gaia and f’himself.” It doesn’t seem as if she’s paying all that much attention to the tension between the Walker and the Get, save for one look to Kevin; she continues forward until she reaches Devlin’s body. Instead of drinking from her own bottle, she pours it, ceremonially, into the ground. And then she takes a swig of Charlene’s bottle, coughing slightly as she does so. “We’ll miss you, kid.” And then she fades backwards again.

Jason slips an arm around the cub at the pat, hugging her tightly up against his side as he lets his arm fall away, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he turns wet eyes back to the proceedings.

Kevin meets both Kaz’s and Paul’s look with a fairly glassy eye, the long swig of awakened liquor having evidently hit him pretty darn hard.

With a glance to the others, especially Paul and Kevin, Tim steps forward and reaches to take the bottle. He holds it up, and after a second or two of thought he speaks what sounds like song lyrics, but his untrained baritone voice turns them into poetry more than anything else. “The Garden of Eden has vanished, they say, but we know the lie of it still; just turn to the left at the bridge of Finea and stop when halfway to Cootehill. ‘Tis there you will find it, I know sure enough, when fortune has come to your call. Oh the grass it is green around Ballyjamesduff, and the blue sky is over it all.” He tosses back a short drink, grimacing at its strength, and says, “Fuck yeah,” under his breath. Then he offers the bottle to the next person interested, or Charlene, and moves back to where he was.

Viv steps up to take the bottle. She holds it in front of her like a shield as she speaks. “I think he was a good man and a good garou,” she says. “He wasn’t perfect. None of us are. If he’d been perfect he wouldn’t be lying there now. But Gaia is tolerant of our imperfections so long as we fight for her, as we were made to. And she’ll take him back and remold him, and send him back to us some day. And maybe next time around he’ll get that glorious death in battle which he was denied this time. I really hope so. Really.” She hefts the bottle, and jiggles it a bit. “Slainte, as your people say. I’ll drink to you, Devlin.” And she does just that, wiping her mouth with her hand afterwards as the powerful liquor burns into her.

As Kaz stuffs her hands in her coat pockets, she smiles, just slightly, at some of what Viv says. Particularly, it seems, her toast.

You paged Jason with ‘And that song, which I imagine Jason would know since it’s from one of the better known Irish lyricists, is ‘Come Back Paddy Reilly’.’.

Charlene takes the bottle from Viv once she’s finished, giving her a nod, then walks slowly around the grave one last time, stopping, momentarily, in front of the cub, Jacey. If she wishes to speak, the bottle is offered, but if not, the Galliard moves to Norman, to offer the bottle to him.

Withdrawn as he is, it seems as if Norman wouldn’t have taken the bottle at all if it Charlene hadn’t actively given it to him. He holds it silently, starting at it, fragments of thought almost visibly slotting into place. He speaks to the bottle rather than looking up. “You honored Stag. W-we should all honor our own Totem. S-sometimes that m-means we don’t get along. But if it helps you to find Gaia, I’m m-making it right with Stag. Because you asked me to show you how. And I n-never finished that.” He gulps from the bottle with an audible ‘glug’, and holds it back out to Charlene almost helplessly.

Jason takes a breath as the proceedings start to come to an end, looking like he’s coming out a fugue. The Fianna ragabash catches hold of his control for a brief moment, and takes the bottle, stepping forward. He comes up to stand beside the body laid out. He stares down at him for a moment, fingers tracing one of the Garou figures on his tunic thoughtfully. Slowly, solemnly, he turns towards the gathered Garou…his eyes flash over the Get, and briefly there’s a look of intense anger on his face before he drops his eyes down to his hand again. His jaw works quietly, looking frequently like he’s about to says something…then stopping. Finally, he lets out a sigh and takes a long swing from that bottle before setting it down on the ground by his feet. He turns his guitar around to his front, giving it a testing strum. Sounds alright…

His fingers move in a quick rhythm over the strings, and it’s immediately apparent to everyone that this isn’t a traditional Irish hymn. Despite the tears glistening in his eyes, Jason’s voice is strong and clear as he sings, eyes falling above the heads of the gathered and staring off at some distant point.

Devlin, I heard ‘em say you drink too much and didnt turn out right.
They call you just a walking, talking disappointment to your face.
Devlin, your dirty mouths a well thought out precursor to a fight.
I think those fools are stuck in fantasies of better time and place.

They keep telling you just walk it off, yeah walk it off
When life drags you down and skins your knees
And all you ever say to them is knock it off, yeah knock it off
Devlin, I get you even if your mama dont
Devlin, I love I’ve got a brother with a backbone

The guitar rings with one final chord before Jason slaps his hand down over the strings, and silence reigns among the mounds again. Quietly, perhaps a little more self-possessed after that, he stoops and picks up the bottle to pass it back to Charlene with a wan smile for the Galliard, and goes back to take up a spot beside his packmate, offering a little comfort to the Walker.

<OOC> Jason: (And here’s the song to link OOC: http://tinyurl.com/ygnejny)

Charlene takes the bottle, looking first to Norman with a great deal of respect in her eyes, then to Jason listening to the song. When all have spoken and sung, the bag with the mementos is moved into the grave, placed gently on Devlin’s crossed hands, about waist level. With a soft sob, the Galliard takes the last of the awakened liquor and pours it out around Devlin’s body, the awakened scent blotting out all but the strongest odors – blotting out even the scent of death. “We thank you for your life, Devlin.” she intones, her voice choked. “We thank you for all you’ve done in the service of the Sept of the Hidden Walk and for Gaia. We thank you for your laughter, your memory, your soul. The sept is less for losing you.” She climbs from the grave, standing at the head, in between Kevin and viv, reaching back for a small bucket of batons, soaking in what appears to be more of the awakened liquor. Several are pulled forth and, with the spark of flint and steel, set alight. A torch is offered to Kevin, Jason, Tim, Viv. Everyone. Even Jacey is offered a torch. Even Paul. “Let us send his body to Gaia, so his soul may fly free.” Charlene calls, the flame blazing in her right hand. “At the same time…”

Paul wordlessly takes the offered brand, holding it high. He still does not speak and his face has dropped into an inscrutable poker-mask.

Jason’s song made Kaz close her eyes to feel it fully; now she opens them again and takes a torch, standing silent.

Tim sways a little as Jason sings, following the song’s beat, and then when the Fianna falls silent he sighs and digs at the ground with one foot. He accepts his torch with a nod to Charlene.

Jacey hesitates briefly before accepting the torch, casting a look up toward Charlene. It lasts but a second before the gaze is dropped to the earth again.

Kevin takes the torch in a hand which shakes for a second, as though he’s about to drop it. Then for another second he seems about to clutch it to his body and set himself alight in some kind of inadvertent suttee. But neither of these happens, and he just clutches it, tears still running silently from his eyes.

Norman’s hands seem numb and fumbling as he clumsily takes the offered brand, holding it like an automaton. He blinks at the flames, and finally looks up to try and catch Charlene’s eye. His face is blank, his overall manner decidedly adrift, but if the Fury glances his way he gives her a small nod that looks approving. Out in the shadows around the edge of the burial mound, Hummingbird can be glimpsed once again, the Uktena paying closer attention as the flames start to appear.

Viv’s torch is held high and proud as befits a Get, angled slightly over the grave. Her face is solemn, respectful.

Oskar takes the brand, since one is offered to him, though he waits for his Elders to do so first. He mirrors Viv, holding it high and proud like she is.

Jason’s eyes have spilled over with tears and he gives Charlene another wan smile as she hands him the lit torch. The distraction of Kevin’s grief as Jason wraps an around around his packmate’s shoulders is enough to keep him silent for the moment, holding the torch before him and watching Devlin’s body slowly come to its final resting place.

Kevin suddenly takes a deep, sobbing breath, lifts his torch high, and throws it with such force down onto the corpse that sparks and glints jump up from the impact.

The torch falls into the pit. The awakened whiskey catches almost instantly, burning with a brilliant orange flame that fills the pit, completely, wreathing Devlin’s body in flame, his face brilliant, beautiful even, before it’s obscured by dancing motes of light. The heat is terrific, the light illuminating the faces of the mourners, the roar of the fire making it difficult to hear unless one tries to be heard. Charlene looks to all the gathered Garou and nods, adding her torch to the pyre. “Thank you all for coming.” she says softly, patting Kevin on the shoulder lightly, taking a step back from the flaming pit.

Kaz jostles backwards at this, alarm brief but there; but then she sends her torch flying as well, before retreating from the heat.

Murmuring under his breath in Hindi, Tim throws his brand in as well. He lingers in the face of the heat, almost relishing it, before backing away and turning his face upward into the rain.

Viv throws in her torch, and takes a step back from the sudden inferno.

Paul speaks a few words in a guttural northern tongue, mostly under his breath- and then hurls his own brand into the pit before stepping back again.

Oskar waits for his Elders, and tosses in his brand. He retreats back to the assembled Tribal knot immediately after.

Jason’s arm around Kevin’s shoulder tightens and those near him can hear him choking back a sob. He holds his torch high for a moment before tossing it on the fire as well. Looking up finally, he sniffs deeply before calling out in a loud voice. “Charlene-yuf has done a wonderful job of helping us mourn Devlin’s death. But that’s only the first half of how we’ll remember him tonight. Next, we’re to celebrate the memory of his life! Touched drinks are in the Sept Compound, and dancing and music to raise our spirits.” Taking a deep breath, a smile slowly spreads over his face. “Let’s honor Devlin with our stories and our joy that we knew one like him!” And he’s letting go of his packmate, turning to look for Jacey, ready to head out.

Jacey steps forward, watching the flames before she gently tosses in her own torch. At Jason’s voice, she looks to him and moves to follow his lead.

Collecting himself during the casting of the brands, Norman straightens and carries his own forward, seemingly oblivious to the heat. His clothes are so drenched that perhaps he truly doesn’t feel the force of the flames. After saying a few words, drownes by the noise, he steps back once more. Turning away he finally starts to seek out other faces in the crowd, warily nodding here and there as he catches an eye. He doesn’t move to follow out of the clearing yet.

Charlene bobs her head lightly to Jason’s praise, stepping around the blazing pit to talk to Norman, leaning in to whisper something to him.

Kevin turns away from the fire as it starts to blaze. He gives Jason a silent look, as though some unspoken communication is passing between them.

Kaz smiles at Jason, sadness still there, but a growing laughter in her eyes. She heads towards the woods, possibly for the Compound.

Avery walks up the path from the west, slowly, somberly, looing at those gathered and then lowering his head, in apology for the lateness of his arrival. Still, he goes and looks for a torch–or at least a branch–to add to the fire.

Norman looks slightly nonplussed at the Fury’s quiet murmur, then whispers something in reply as he waits to join the tail end of the exodus towards the Sept Compound.

Jason gathers up Jacey again, herding the cub along with him as he moves towards the forest edge. He stops at the edge, catching the eye of each gathered there. His gaze notes that the duties of mourning aren’t done, and woe betide those who don’t follow.

Viv breaks into motion to follow Jason.

Charlene moves towards Avery after Norman’s whisper, a smear of dark mud across her face, the girl looking atrocious, but okay. “Glad you could make it, Avery.” she says with a small nod, holding out a branch soaked in some strong-smelling liquid. “Add your part and then follow. The party’s about to start.”

Tim stays in the rain a little longer, but feeling Jason’s look, he rubs his hands over his face and moves to follow the Fianna.

Oskar follows behind Viv.

Avery takes the branch and smiles, “Thank you. I didn’t want to miss this.” He goes, kindles the fmale and adds it, watching for a long moment, before turning around and following the others back into the forest.

Paul turns on his heel, heading away from the Pyre in the opposite direction to all those bound for the wake, a look of sheer disgust on his face as soon as it is turned from the others. “So many tears for a litany breaker.” He mutters to himself sarcastically. “Justice, you will be done.”

Hummingbird comes closer in as the majority of the Garou leave, settling among the mounds and watching the fire.

<OOC> Tim: Per 3, Diff 7: No successes. Paul’s comment goes unheard.

Tim is almost into the trees when he stops and looks over his shoulder at Paul. He blinks once against the rain and the smoke, then shrugs and moves after the others.

From The Sept Compound, Jason can be heard to howl, ~The spirit of Devlin Flynn McIntyre has passed on! Honor and Glory to his memory! Join us in celebrating his life!~

The Sept Compound
Sweeping branches of trees form a sort of natural roof overshadowing most of this clearing. In the center of the clearing is a fire pit with several old logs polished from use for seats. A stack of firewood is discreetly piled up at the base of an old spruce under a tarp. At the edge of the clearing and extending back a bit into the woods resides a rough wooden structure with a slate tile roof. A stone slab rests off to one side of the clearing in a place of some prominence. Nestled among the winter-browned grasses are a few hardy perennials that, come spring, will create a profusion of color in the clearing. (+view works here)
A faint trail leads off to the east, and a bit north.

Contents:
Charlene
Nik
Oskar
Jacey
Norman
Kevin
Viv
Jason
Stone slab

Obvious exits:
Forest

As the group travels towards the Sept Compound, Jason shifts up briefly to warform to let out a howl that’s mournful and heartfelt, but full of promise. When they arrive, the Fianna leads them all to a smoldering fire that’s just barely living in the light rain. Set all around that fire in a circle are all manner of alcoholic bottles. Beer. Wine. Whiskey. Scotch. Brandy. Vodka. Jason is leading the procession while strumming out a song of remembrance, a song about a Scottish Soldier…

Kevin takes up a place conveniently near the bottles, and proceeds to start drinking himself into oblivion. He doesn’t otherwise contribute to the proceedings by song or story.

Tim lags a bit behind, and is somewhat wetter for his tardiness, but presently he joins everyone else in the Compound. He doesn’t drink any more than he’s already had, and listens more than he speaks.

Viv borrows Jason’s guitar when he finishes, and performs a wordless, thrashy strummed tune full of jagged minor chords and dissonance which somehow manages to fit together to make a tune that isn’t unbefitting to Devlin’s memory.

Nik melts out of the trees in homid, apparently having heard the commotions and have come to investigate. He glances briefly towards Jason, giving him a nod, but otherwise doesn’t partake in the boozing.

Norman claims a bottle of vodka, either oblivious to or uncaring of the selfishness as he slumps cross-legged on the outskirts of the gathering and keeps the drink to himself. The level in the bottle drops without any noticable change to the Get’s blank expression or withdrawn demeanour, and he makes no attempt to initiate conversation or interaction with the others.

Oskar follows along with everybody to the party. A party? The young Get is totally lost. He walks around for a few minutes before retreating off to some corner where is out of the way to loiter awkwardly.

Avery joins the celebration as well, watching, listening, oilskin jacket wrapped around his body as he looks around. He doesn’t grab any booze, yet, and looks around. When he sees Nik, he gives a deep nod tot he other Shadow Lord, but otherwise watches for a while, mostly silent.

As the singing and story-telling really get going, Tim moves to a corner of the Compound and starts to roll himself a cigarette. There’s a bit of ritual in the action, and in the first drag his takes once it’s been lit.

Jason hands off the guitar to Viv, looking fairly happy to have another adding their voice to the song. He even headbangs along with it as he stoops to pick up a bottle of whiskey from around the fire. Ahhhh, Touched booze, is there no memory you can’t eradicate? He gives a slightly surprised look to Avery, but toasts the Shadow Lord anyways. When he spies Nik, he smiles at the other ragabash and points him towards the booze. Then he’s heading off to where Tim is rolling up a smoke and he shares a few quiet words with the Strider.

Jason whispers “Thanks for those words, Tim-rhya. Just wanted to say, Dev would be honored to be hearing those lines from another’s mouth like that.”

Tim looks askance at Jason, gauging the other Ragabash thoughtfully, then nods and goes back to looking out over the rest of the Gathering. After a second, he says something so low it doesn’t carry beyond the two of them.

You paged Jason with ‘Just one word, a name: “Corcoran.”‘.

Nik makes a face at Jason as he gestures to the booze, waving it off. Oof… no thanks. He eyes Avery for a tight-lipped moment, then drifts over to him. “Hey. So who was this guy?”

Charlene arrives a few moments later, her coat trailing behind her. She’s washed the mud from her face, her hair still stringy. A shower will be definately required later. She takes up a bottle of the awakened booze (adds a little to a small flask. Shhh!) and takes a swig, sitting down with her legs crossed at the ankle. “Damn sure kills the pain right quick.” she says, her eyes closing as the first punch of booze hits her belly. “Glad this is finally over.”

Avery looks to Nik, “Fianna Ragabash. Marek’s close friend and roommate. He had a mouth on him, though, and less sense than guts. Not one to back down from a fight he thoguht he had a chance in hell of winning.”

Jacey, having trailed in after Jason, lingers near the fire. With a stick in hand, gathered up from the ground, she pokes at the coals to keep a little life in them through the rain.

Jason smiles at Tim’s answer and gives him a small nod before coming over to take a seat by Charlene while Viv thrashes away with that music. “It took a while. Feels kinda good, y’know?” he says, taking a long swig of his bottle, “Mmm…to get Devlin put to rest. Gives me hope he’ll be reborn sooner.”

Oskar loiters. He does a good job of it.

Nik snorts at that, perhaps in a low chuckle. He glances back towards Jason with an assessing expression, then shakes his head. “That always helps.” He drifts away then, sliding his hands into his pocket as he gestures towards Tim. “Booze aint my thing, but you have enough for another one of those?” He tilts his head towards the cigarette.

“Yeah, it does. Kind of sucks that it had to happen, but someone had to do it. I just hope I sent him off right.” Charlene giggles softly, clinking her bottle against jason’s lightly. “Dev, for a no-moon, could fight pretty good. Saved me from a truck spirit that had gotten infected by banes a while back.”

Avery nods, “He also coul teach things in a way that people learned…actually.” He gives a wistful smile, then goes to the center of the clearing and clears his throat. “I don’t know any songs appropriate for the moment, but I would like to share a story. Back before my Rite of Passage, Devlin gave aan object lesson in what a pack is supposed to be like. He claimed that Aiode and I were in a pack and started to lash into her, and I stood up for her, getting him to back down. But the key point was that packmates are loyal and stick together. Devlin taught me that, and I’m grateful.”

Still watching the rest of the group, Tim nods again to Jason as he joins Charlene. He catches Nik’s motion, then answering by pulling a few things out of his inner jacket pocket: a plain tin of fragrant tobacco, Indic script scrawled on the lid; a collection of papers in a waxed envelope; and an old, chrome, Zippo lighter. He offers them over without much comment over than a faint smile.

“You did your auspice proud, Char,” Jason says, clinking his bottle against hers and taking a swig, wincing at the power of the drink. “Heh, that’s cause he was more Fianna than most Fianna. Which means having more passion than brains sometimes, but who says that’s a bad thing, when you got a good heart like Dev did?” He falls silent when Avery shares his story, grinning and raising his bottle to the Shadow Lord. “Slainte!” And back the bottle goes.

“I remember that. Think I called him an asshole before running off.” Charlene laughs and lifts her bottle to Avery’s story. “He taught a lot of good lessons. Loyalty, friendship, how to really piss of people wihtout even trying.”

Nik nods his thanks to Tim, giving him a bit of space to enact a similar ritual. The cigarette is packed lightly, slowly, and rolled tightly, before he gets up to return the items with another nod. He lights up, handing over the Zippo once more. Seemingly a social butterfly tonight, he sees Oskar milling about and regards him cooly for a moment. Then he heads over. “Not drinking?”

The Fianna cub remains doing her own thing, poking and proding the burning wood to keep it from failing in the drizzle. Her gaze travels about, ears open, observing the adults through sight and sound.

Tim restashes his things and gives Nik a small salute with his own smoke. After a minute or two, he moves to sit down next to Jacey. He doesn’t say anything, just begins assisting her in keeping the fire going with the occasional bit of wood.

Avery nods and steps back from the center to let anyone else take the place. He grabs a bottle of dark beer and cracks it open. “Has anyone seen Marek recently? Is he doing all right?”

“W-w-wasn’t an asshole to me,” Norman says, not obviously directing the comment to anyone in particular. There’s no hint of the vodka he’s already downed, only his usual stutter. “Too many assholes int hw w-w-world,” he adds angrily, and tilts the bottle he claimed again to tip another long slug of the clear liquid down his throat.

Oskar is about to change his loitering location, eyeing another isolated out of the way place over across the way. Then Nik talks to him, and he turns his head to face the Shadow Lord. “Sir, no sir.” He says, a bit quietly so he doesn’t interrupt anyone, though very clear. A polite tone, his eyes are even low.

Jason grins to Charlene and laughs. “He was the good kind of asshole. The one who was more worried about speaking the truth than politics. Sure, he pissed a lot of people off, but he did it the way a Ragabash is supposed to. By telling them things they don’t want to hear.” Though he glances over at Norman and winks. “Cheer up, man! It’s all in the best of spirits, here. No place to be mean at a wake, y’know?”

Nik watches the Get for another moment, tilting his head as Marek is mentioned, but not seeming to have an answer for Avery. His own gaze is dominant and aggressive, but not rude. He takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette. Then, casually, he holds it out to Oskar.

Jacey offers a small grin to Tim, something uncertain and somber. She accepts his silence with her own, content to sit and mind the flames.

“Hey Jacey. C’mere.” Charlene motions to the cub. “Did you know Devlin at all?”

Tim frowns at Avery’s question. “Can’t say I’ve seen him,” he admits after a second. He blows a smokering into the fire, which is promptly shredded by the flames, then adds in another branch. He returns Jacey’s smile, his own tired and a little sad.

Oskar blinks his ice-colored eyes, looking at that cigarette. For a moment, he says nothing, but then he takes a breath and squares up. Shoulders up, feet snapping together, hands meeting behind his back. “Sir, no, thank you sir.” He nods his head once or twice, his jaw set firmly.

Avery shrugs a bit, “Maybe I should check on him soon to see.” He walks pack over towards Jason and Charlene. “Where do we go from here?”

Nik holds it out for another few beats, but then replaces it between his own lips with a ‘suit yourself’ shrug. His hands go into the pockets of his hoodie and he just walks away. Joining Tim and Jacey near the fire, he hunkers down, the Californian muttering about northern weather.

“It’s for Devlin.” Norman looks up at Jason, and lifts his bottle. It would seem like a toast, were it not that the way in which he presents the vodka seems better suited to the presentation of evidence before a court. His voice is very solemn, yet devoid of any real emotion. “And for Stag. I promised, you s-see. S-so I’ll do w-what Stag w-wants. Too m-many assholes. But n-not for long.”

“To risk sounding like Rambo at the end of first blood part two. How will we live? Day by day.” Charlene leans back a little. “Paul’s training Oskar military-like. I had to tell him to quit calling me ma’am.”

Jason grins as Charlene calls his cub over and the Fianna ragabash lets them speak. He turns a baffled look to Avery as he comes over, taking a swig of that whiskey in his hand. Already, he’s starting to sway in place from the drink. “Where do we go? On. We go on,” he says simply, peering at the Shadow Lord in a mildly baffled way. And Norman only compounds that confusion as he blinks at the Get. “Stag asked you to do what?”

Charlene yells that part to the room as if to get everyone to tell Oskar to mellow out.

Jacey extends a curious look toward Nik, not unfriendly but wondering. Any questions that may have come from it are dropped soon as she’s called. The cub’s eyes turn toward Jason and Charlene before her form rises and trots over to join them. “No, just heard some sad stories of… things.” Her tone is apologetic, for having not responded more quickly or for not knowing Devlin, or both even.

“Good luck with that,” Tim mutters under his breath, mostly for his and Nik’s benefit.

Nik glances up only briefly, but doesn’t seem to have any input of his own to add. He merely smokes, a faint smirk on his face, before turning and watching the fire once more.

“Hey, that’s fine.” Charlene responds to Jacey, offering her the bottle if she wants a drink. “Was that the first rite you went to? It was the first one I ran.” The alcohol is taking effect, Charlene’s cheeks starting to turn rosy. “Are you a galliard? I don’t think we ever got introduced. Anyway…” drink from bottle. “I’m Charlene Song-of-Vengeance, Galliard of the Black Furies. You’re Jacey….that much I know.” She smiles.

Jacey casts such a look at the offered bottle, one could easily guess that she’s had an encounter with hard drinks before. “Yes it was,” she replies, “You did a good job.” Her attention shifts back to Charlene more fully. “I’m also called Head-In-The-Clouds, or just Clouds, and a Galliard.” There’s a pause and then, “Of the Fianna,” said uncertain of whether that’s already known.

Norman looks, in some ways, more focussed than he does usually. There’s an intensity to him that usually only appears when he’s performing a Rite. “Stag didn’t ask,” he replies clearly, and takes another gulp of the vodka. “I talked to a Yale spirit from the Grotto. You s-see, Fenrir, Fenrir doesn’t care about protecting the Weak. But Stag w-wants valour. Defending the weak. Yale s-said. But. S-see. I can do both. M-make the weak s-strong. By killing the things that m-make them w-weak. S-so it’s okay. It’s okay. You s-see? W-won’t always be weak.” he frowns, then turns to visually seek out Oskar. “Got things to teach you,” he says, and, losing the thread of his attention, returns to the bottle, focus gone.

Jason blinks after Norman’s explanation, much of it seeming to go right over his head. He frowns a little, cocking his head and just staring at the Get as he tries to parse that with his booze-filled brain. “…well, good luck with that!” he says cheerily, toasing Norman and taking another drink.

“Oh, I like her, Jason.” Charlene says with a giggle, retrieving the bottle when it’s not taken. “I don’t normally drink an’ I’m going to be regretting this in the morning, but it’s a party an’ it helps to make the pain a little less.” Her head swivels back slightly, her eyes closing. “I hope I never have t’ run one of those things again. Not because of what happened.” She nudges Jason in the ribs a bit too hard, leaning over. “Fenrish wants one thing, but Stag charged Devlin with somethin’ else, so Norm’s takin’ on th’ stag’s task…I think.” Her attention swivels back to Jacey, a grin appearing. “‘Nother galliard! Great! If you need pointers or jus’ want to shoot th’ shit, let me know.”

Oskar is confused. Barring Norman actually coming over to fetch him, he loiters over toward the other good loitering spot.

Tim watches Norman around another drag from his cigarette. He let the smoke out slowly, frowning in thought, then sits up and rubs the back of his neck.

Avery drinks a bit, being a bit quiet, but watching now. The bottle of beer is about half down. “He’s trying to do something for Stag in a way that Fenris approves of? I think?” He looks down at the bottle and shakes his head before draining the rest of it in a long pull.

Jacey had looked toward Norman as well during his proclamation. Then with a shrug she turns back to Charlene and Jason. “Okay. But.. maybe when you’re not drinking?” She grins slightly, casting another look toward the bottle.

“Fenris’ Tribe owes Stag’s,” Tim says bluntly, the first really audible thing he’s said all afternoon. “Norman’s trying to do something about that.” His statement sounds more like a guess by the end, and he looks over at Norman for confirmation.

Nik seems content to sit and smoke, the Shadow Lord more interested in what’s being said than piping up.

Charlene bahs and puts down the bottle, enough awakened booze in her to get her nice and tipsy, but not completely wasted. She may be buzzed but she’s taking in all that’s said. “Rule one ’bout bein’ a galliard.” she slurs, sitting up a little, giving Jacey a look. “Listen t’ everything. Your head’s gotta be like a tape recorder. You ain’t a judge. You jus’ listen an’ repeat. You tell stories. You send messages. You don’t judge.”

Jason winces, more in surprise than anything else, at the nudge to his ribs from Charlene, though he blinks at the Fury for a moment. “Oh! Well, hey! Good for you, then!” It’s clear he still doens’t know what to think of that, but he’s putting on a happy face for the occasion as he nods to Norman once more. He chuckles at Charlene’s approval of the cub. “If you wanna teach her, you’ll have to talk to Cole-rhya, seeing as he’s the resident Galliard. Though I don’t think he’d mind having some weight taken off his back. Oh, and if you’re hurting the next morning, Char, howl for me. I got a Rite to clear that right up.” He winks and leans back a little, finishing his beer before standing up and going to retrieve his guitar.

“S’not about Tribe,” Norman tells Tim, rather owlishly. “S’about Stag. Garou’s different. Garou can think one thing and Stag s-something else and Fenrir s-something else. I’m a /Godi/. I make s-sure w-we’re okay w-with spirits. /Fianna/ can think w-what they like.” He looks around the group, clutching the vodka in front of him like a talisman. “Devlin w-was my friend. And he cared about /Stag/. You don’t have to drink, Oskar,” he adds, off following another mental butterfly as he catches sight of the cub. “But you can if you w-/want/ to.”

Tim makes a low sound and nods at Norman, working through the reply as best he can. Though his comprehension of it isn’t certain, he doesn’t evidence any argument with it either, and raises his cigarette in a salute.

Jacey nods slowly to Charlene’s words as she sinks into a crouch. “I do that already.” Her attention drifts back toward Norman and the other adults responding to him, watching quietly.

“It’s a good party,” Avery says as he relaxes. “Remember the triumphs and tragedies. Tell them so that we remember, and learn.” His eyes half-close, then. “It’s not just the tribe that needs to be good with the sprits..iss each one, right?”

“Hey, I’m learnin.” Charlene says, putting her bottle down after being sure to cap it – no sense in wasting perfectly good booze, after all. “I’ll talk to Cole once I’m a little more screwed on straight. You’ll probably be hearin’ from me in the morning if I can get enough energy up for a howl.” She turns her attention to Norman, listening. “He’s doin’ the same thing I’m doin’.” she says, her eyes closing. “My pack’s gone, an’ I’m p’rformin’ chimnage to Panther ’cause of that. I want to keep her happy with th’ sept.”

Jason chuckles at Charlene as he slips his guitar back around his shoulders. “I’ll come looking for you, then.” He just looks a little blank at the mention of doing stuff for spirits. That’s never realy been his cup of tea.

Jacey lifts up from her crouch as though perceiving a dismissal and returns to the fireside. There she resumes her self appointed task of watching over the flames, keeping them dancing and hot.

Nik finishes his cigarette and tosses it into the flames. See, he’s helping!

Oskar loiters!

His cigarette done, Tim tosses the remains into the fire and gets up. He approaches Jason and Charlene, and says, “I’ve got a cub to get back to. It was a good Gathering, Charlene.” To Jason in particular, he adds, “Condolences. He was a good kid.”

“Thanks, Tim.” Charlene says with a smile.

Jason starts idly plucking at his strings, slowly picking out the beginning riffs to some Irish reel. He smiles and nods to Tim. “Thanks for coming, Tim-rhya. It was good to have another friendly face along.”

Jacey draws little doodly things upon the ground beside the fire with the charred end of her stick.

Oskar loiters in the direction of Jacey, like a professional wanderer.

Nik tugs his hood up over his head. “Well this was nice.” He says smoothly. “I am going to….” He steps towards the table, picking up one of the special brews. “…gank one of these for my own enjoyment and…” He dips his head towards Jason, and then Jacey, the Fianna he knows of. “… my condolences.” His voice is light. “Jason. Can I have a word with you, if you’re not too busy playin’?”

Tim pats Jason on the back. “Not a prioblem,” he says. He’s about to move off, but when Nik addresses Jason, the Strider lingers a little towards the edge of the Compound, curious.

After casting a look toward Oskar, the Fianna cub scratches a line in the dirt between herself and him. A true look is wrought, the girl looking up at the teen as though daring him to cross. Seems she’s not forgotten her first encounter with the boy.

Oskar leans forward a little bit, and uses his toe to erase the line. He hasn’t forgotten either. “Hello. Jacey.” He speaks low to her, a conversational tone. As usual, his inflection and tone is all muddled, the cub clueless about getting his point across when he’s not barking sirs and ma’ams. “Are you doing better?”

There’s something near a growl when her line is erased and the girl climbs to her feet. Stick in hand though pointed downward, Jacey continues to stare up at Oskar. She doesn’t respond to the older cub, merely watches him, knuckles of the hand gripping the stick gone white with tension.

Jason grins at Nik and nods. “THat’s what they’re there for. Hmmm? Oh sure, let’s go over…” Jason pauses when he sees the face off between Jacey and Oskar about to begin. “…on second thought, is it something you can tell me here,” he asks, turning his head towards Nik while keeping his gaze locked warily on the cubs.

Norman takes a couple of tries getting to his feet, still clutching the vodka. It might be a surprise that it only takes him two tries, given the level in his bottle, but the Get seems to be holding his drink quite well so far. He starts lumbering towards Oskar and Jacey, not noticing that he’s shed one of his scarves on the way.

Nik waves off Jason’s concern, having obviously glimpsed what was going on. “We’ll talk later.” Casually, he sets aside his pilfered bottle, circling the pair of cubs. This may seem a deja vu between he and Jason… and once more involving a Get cub.

Tim stays put, his attention now shifting to the situation between Oskar and Jacey.

Oskar headtilts a little bit at her, his stance open and loose. He doesn’t appear to be looking for a fight, his hands are open, arms at his sides. Its a *friendly* way of standing that he adopts, as he continues to speak. Calmly, but with muddled affect, as usual. “I was worried. Its been….a while?” He seems unsteady, conversationally.

The Get’s tone and appearance doesn’t seem to matter too much to Jacey. She takes a half step forward, intent on shooing the boy from where she’s decided her personal bubble begins; concequently, it begins well on the other side of the now rubbed out line. “Go,” she states, firmly but quietly, stick pointing to a spot well away over Oskar’s shoulder.

Norman rocks to a halt a couple of yards back from the two cubs, watching them both without speaking. His expression has returned from blankness to its more typical faint frown.

Jason lingers as well, silently, head tilting up and away to watch some sparrows fly by, though he keeps a look out from the corner of his eye at those cubs.

Nik drifts behind the Get cub, remembering his name from when Norman had called it earlier. “Now isn’t the time, Oskar,” he says smoothly, that faint curve to his lips indicating that he finds the tense moment entertaining, his green eyes flickering to the Fianna cub beyond Oskar’s shoulder. He is sharp still, not having tried the booze yet.

Paul has been present for much of the wake, though lurking at the edge and avoiding any contact with people, just nursing a bottle with /very/ small sips. For all his anger, he seems more deflated now than anything else. As the little scene between the two cubs developes however he begins to cross back towards the throng, an almost paternal look on his face.

Oskar takes a look at the pointing stick, and then at Jacey. His eyes are mild, and dark, dark – almost swallowed by his pupils. He blinks, and tilts his head very, very slightly, studying her body language. Then he hears Nik, and nods slightly. “Sir, not time for what, sir?”

Tim tracks Paul’s movement towards Jacey and Oskar, then looks at Jason, now wary.

Nik’s own posture is easy, but not too much so to be ignored. He glances at Jacey, at the stick. “For trying to make friends. Yeah? This is a wake. People are mourning. Lot of ‘em don’t want to talk.” He ventures a scarred hand out to pat the Get on the shoulder. “C’mon, buddy, let’s go get something to drink.”

Jason looks to Tim at that, eyes wide with a look of “Can you believe this shit?” Still, as Nik steps in, the Fianna looks distinctly calmer, even as he moves to stand a few arms lengths behind Jacey.

“Good s-start,” Norman says quietly. “N-now give it time.” It’s not commanding, but it has the flavor of a gentle order. “M-meet s-some others too. Try s-some beer, if you w-want.” He gives Oskar one last look before turning to head for another part of the Compound, where other Garou are sitting.

Jacey continues to hold her ground, despite the intervention of the adults. Unwavering, the pointed stick remains showing the way somewhere away from where she stands and her eyes continue to stare up at Oskar.

“Oskar, come.” Paul instructs his cub, beckoning him away. “As he says..” He gestures to Nik, blanking on a name for a moment. “There’s a time and place for it. Now isn’t it. Step back and get merry. You can consider that an order.”

A grey wolf with a ragged coat shambles slowly into the Sept Compound, pulling up short as he notices the people crowding the place.

Tim rolls his eyes, agreeing with Jason’s sentiment. The other Garou’s various interventions keep him from doing anything just yet, though.

Oskar shrugs a bit at Jacey. Then he gets direct orders, and in response he peels away from her, walking away calmly to demonstrate his self control. He steps away many feet, but seems unsure how to be merry. He stops by the table with the drinks and picks one up to stare at it.

Nik breaks away as Oskar does, apparently losing interest in the conflict as soon as it’s resolved. He once more picks up his booze and gestures to Jason. Now?

Only after the older cub relents does the younger drop her arm and turn away. Jacey casts her gaze about, looking to Nik then Paul, once toward Jason and finally Tim. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, she returns to the fireside.

Jason lets out a breath of relief and he comes over to lay a hand on Jacey’s shoulder, leaning in to murmur quietly to her. He gives her shoulder as squeeze and looks up to Nik, nodding. He heads off in whatever direction with the Shadow Lord, curious what he wants to talk about. Though he detours to snatch up a Touchd beer on the way.

Paul wanders over to Oskar, keeping close to him- and throwing the occasional suspicious glance towards the fianna. “It’s a drink, Oskar. You drink it.” He explains to the cub. “Just.. take it slowly. Moon is fat, emotions are high and we don’t want more mess.”

Snakepatcher twists an ear forward and the other back, as he regards the gathering of people, then he paces through the people, weaving around their legs in an inspection of their scents.

Jacey paused in her retreat to the fire to hear Jason’s words. Once he’s left her to her own, she sits before the fire, jamming her stick into the coals with a little more force than necessary.

Tim drifts closer to Jacey once again, murmuring a low-voiced hello to Snakepatcher as he makes his way through those Gathered. He casts a narrow-eyed look back towards Paul and Oskar, then busies himself with writing in the dirt around the fire. Garou and Indic glyphs mix, are smeared out, and drawn again.

Nik leads Jason a little ways off, but still in plain sight of everyone else. Should someone come by, he doesn’t seem to mind the eavesdropping, speaking to the Fianna in low tones but not whispers.

Oskar fumbles around at the table, and finally selects a bottle of liquor in an weird shaped opaque bottle. He opens the stopper, sniffs it, and then raises the bottle to his lips. He tilts his head back and lifts the bottle up for a moment.

Other than a small, sideways glance toward Tim the Fianna cub appears absorbed in watch the fire spark and dance to her administrations.

Jason pops open his beer, regarding Nik with a mildly baffled air as the Shadow Lord speaks. He shrugs and responds in those same low tones before taking a swig of his drink.

Snakepatcher circles about the space, pausing to raiss his head to watch Jason be lead off by the Shadow Lord. He snorts softly, and repeats his circle to arrive a second time at the fire, this time stopping for an inquisitive inspection of Tim’s glyphs.

Nik actually looks angry for the first time this night, growling something to Jason beneath his breath.

Oskar lifts the bottle again. He caps the top, and holds it casually in one hand as he wanders around more.

Jacey lifts her gaze from the flames to look toward Snakepatcher. It’s not a lingering look but more one of acknowledgement to his presence.

Oskar guess there isn’t anyone to mingle with. Sad Oskar.

Jason’s bafflement changes to vague irritation and he nods to Nik, muttering something back. Nik’s angry response gets an agreeable, dark nod from Jason. Not a good conversation topic. One of the things Nik mentions catches Jason by surprise and he gives Nik an audible “Congratulations!” and a pat of shoulder. And then back to seriousness, he shrugs amiably and makes another low comment.

Silver Avenue, West Side
From Thirteenth to Fifteenth along Silver Avenue’s north edge, the St. Claire Sports Facility sprawls northwards. The southern side of the street is covered with small buildings, the fifteen-story Tribune building towering above them by more than ten stories, along where Fourteenth ends. Small restaurants are set into some of the buildings, catering to the businessmen and those who come to the sports facility. Souvenir shops litter Fifteenth Avenue along the side of the sports facility, up to Jellico Lane: caps, shirts, stuffed animals with team logos or colors, buttons and other sports-fan paraphernalia are sold all along here. At the intersection of Jellico and Fifteenth, at one of the major exits from the sports facility across the way, a larger restaurant has a souvenir shop to one side, mimicking a Hard Rock Cafe and even, apparently, reaching for the same atmosphere. Along Jellico Lane, the shops tend to cater more towards the sports enthusiast rather than the fan: fishing stops, equipment shops, sports clothing shops for the athlete. At the intersection of Thirteenth and Ellicott a tall hotel rises, providing a place for overnight visitors to stay.

Obvious exits:
St. Claire Gun Club Channel 23 St. Claire Tribune Rat and Raven Pub Ramp to Interstate North East South

The shopping district livened up a bit earlier in the afternoon when the clouds parted and it warmed up, but as the day moves on the sky closes in once more and the shoppers start to thin out. The high school and prep school crowds mill around in little bunches in their place, some window shopping and some deigning to spend a few dollars on a manga or a latte. Tim moves among them easily, looking more appropriate to the Montrose District than in this commercial part of town, and as such his tell-tale jacket occasionally draws a glance when he goes from one store to another.

One of the shoppers in this zone is a small, very-well-dressed blonde girl. Turning her head as she surveys the windows of passing stores, she catches glimpse of her reflection. Clucking her tongue, she seems bothered by -something- she sees. The theurge actually stops and smoothes both her hair and brows, touching the skin beneath her eyes where dark circles stand out against her pale skin. Shaking her head, she turns to start down the street again.

Sitting idelly outside a store drawing in a small sketchbook, Donovan pays little attention to the world around him until he notices a figure he has see before among the crowd of people.

Tim spends some time toying with crappy, plastic glasses in a knicknacks store, then abandons them and moves back out onto the street. His eyes pass over Donovan and stop there, and he tips his head in a polite but not overt hello.

Zosia normally would not even -look- at a knickknacks store. But this one has a Tim in front of it. Looking rather amused, she starts to head in his direction. Thus, she spies Donovan and gives him an idle once-over as she nears the older Strider.

“Hey…Tim right?” The teen asks as he stands up to greet the man in front of him. “What are you doing around here?” The sketchbook lays open on the boys backpack. A small owl and wolves are clearly the main objects on the page.

Ah, the great outdoors. Tim checks his distance from the store front, making sure of the legally mandated distance, then pulls out a pre-rolled cigarette and an old, chrome, Zippo lighter. He doesn’t quite get around to lighting up, though, because he sees Zosia, and then Donovan addresses him. He stops and gestures at the teen with the cigarette. “Shopping. You?” His eyes travel to Zosia, watch her for a moment, then move back to Donovan.

You paged Zosia with ‘That was *definitely* a ‘this is a person of interest’ sort of look.’.

It isn’t clear if the Silver Fang was going to just pass Tim by or stop. But at that look, she does walk up with a pleasant smile on her face. “Hello,” she says in a mild voice. “Fancy seeing you here.” She has a soft southern accent, her voice pitched low. “Who’s your friend?”

“I was just passing time here drawing a bit.” Donovan says in reply to Tim. “Hello, my name is Donovan, miss.” Donovan says politly to the young woman as he extends his hand in greeting.

“A blooming artist,” Tim asides to Zosia, though his tone’s a little wry. “Met him in the Park the other day. He goes to the ah,” he nods out towards St. Uriel’s, “place Syd works at.” He tips his head to look down at Donovan’s sketches. “These are coming along nice,” he says with encouragement.

Reaching a hand out, Zosia shakes Donovan’s hand. It is a firm, business-like grip, out of character with her young, blonde looks. “Nice to meet you, Donovan,” she says, nodding to Tim’s latter words. “And a rather fascinating choice of art subjects.”

Realizing that he left the book open when he set it down, Donovan hurriedly kneels down to stuff the sketchbook back into his bag. “That…that’s nothing really just random drawings…they don’t mean anything, really. Sometimes I just doodle and don’t even know what I’m drawing.” The cub rambles out nervously.

Tim flicks a glance of shared knowledge at Zosia, but straightens away from the sketchbook and regards Donovan with growing interest. He toys with his cigarette and asks, “So, how’ve you been holding up?”

Zosia’s eyes meet Tim’s before returning to Donovan. She doesn’t say anything else yet, her left hand absently holding the strap of the purse on her shoulder and the fingers of her right hand drumming quietly against her leg.

Donovan says “Not bad I guess. That thing we talked about before isn’t getting any better, but other then that, no real complaints right now.” Eyeing Zosia with nervous caution, as he begins to pack up the remainder of his belongings.”

Tim watches Donovan with a bit more intensity than necssary while he gathers his things. “Well you know, maybe you just need to talk to someone about them.” He sounds like he has some people in mind.

Zosia merely offers a reassuring smile at Donovan. She can’t really fade into the background but she can let Tim take the lead–which she is. Still, her eyes slowly move toward the surroundings as she starts to gauge the crowd.

Looking slightly less nervous, but still not at ease, Donovan stands and looks about as if he was a cornered animal looking for a way to flee. “It’s getting late and I should get home before my mom worries about me…she hates when she get’s home and I haven’t done my homework…” He studders out, while turning to leave.

It’s like a lightswitch goes off; Tim’s tone turns placating. “Hey, look, no pressure. But you sound like it’s bugging you and like you need shit when you’ve got school, yeah?” He clearly intends to follow after Donovan, and gives Zosia a backwards, forlorn glance. “Zosia here knows all about that kind of thing.”

<OOC> Zosia: Zo’s going to switch on Persuasion, I think.

“What, undue pressure from parents or school being annoying?” Zosia wasn’t -precisely- paying attention when Tim started speaking, having been looking down the street toward what Tim will recogize is one of her cars. “I could go on for -ages- about annoying parents.”

As Donovan walks away he bumps into a window shopper, dropping the bag he hadn’t yet slung over his shoulder. “Why don’t you watch where your going!” Donovan explodes at the young woman in a very uncharateristic manner, causing the large, muscular man with her to take notice of the hot headed youth.

Tim pockets his cigarette and lighter and moves forward, angling himself to get between Donovan and the young woman–or, more likely, her much bigger escort. There’s an uncanny grace and precision to how he places himself. “Sorry, I let him have a bit too much sugar for lunch,” he assures the two of them with a toothy smile.

<OOC> Tim: And Persuasion and a point of Willpower there. But sadly Tim is a pathetic Charisma 2. c.c

Zosia rolls her eyes and gives the pair a long suffering look, sighing as she does. “I’m so sorry. I’ve warned him over and over.” Tim now earns a long suffering look. “But he hasn’t listened.”

<OOC> Zosia: Zo has Cha 5. It’s fine.

“What the hell are you two talking about!” he continues on his rant. Pointing a Zosia “You…I don’t even know you I just met you!, and you…” He turn his attention to Tim, “I hardly know you either!” The over excited young man stands red faced and breathing heavily.

In the face of the rant, Tim fixes his expression to resigned calm and informs Donovan, “Diet *decaf* Dr. Pepper and *bagels*, not donuts, from now on big guy.” Then he gives the man and young woman an apologetic look. He’s nowhere near old enough to be a father, but maybe passable as the Misunderstood Uncle.

As Donovan rants, something drifts into view from the periphery of Zosia’s vision. An ethereal form that only she and Tim can see ghosts up to a parking sign next to Donovan and lands on it with a single back-sweep of its broad and silent wings; a short-faced owl kinfetch. He looks down at Donovan pointedly, turning his head nearly to ninety degrees, and then straightens to fix each of the two Garou with a direct and expectant Look.

Zosia sniffs and says in a disdainful voice, “Denying you know me won’t make me stop dating him.” It isn’t clear who she might be talking about though the inference that it is Tim is strong–or would be to an outsider. The arrival of the fetch draws the bulk of her attention regardless. She clears her throat and stares at it intently. Though perhaps she’s sulking!

Still taking short quick breaths though slightly calmer looking, Donovan picks up his bag and turns his attention back to Zosia, who to him looks like she is staring at nothing. “What are you looking at?” he snaps.

Tim’s face goes blank as he absorbs what Zosia’s said and prepares what will probably be an inappropriate response. The sight of the kinfetch stops whatever he’d *planned* to say, though, and instead he tries to be soothing again. “Look. You wanted to get home. So let’s get you home, yeah?” The owl kinfetch fluffs up his feathers as Donovan snaps as Zosia.

“I’m looking at your destiny,” Zosia says without moving her eyes. When she speaks next, there’s something odd in her voice. *We will take him somewhere safe. Thank you.* She finally pulls her eyes from the spirt and looks to Tim. “My car’s at the end of the block, sweetheart.” And she’s -grinning- then, without a lick of shame as she indicates the direction.

“What are you people talking about! I’m not going anywhere with you. You might be cute, but that doesn’t mean I’m getting in your car. If I wanted to drive I’d take my own car!” The cub says, he anger begining to rise again with his voice.

The kinfetch flares his wings once in a clear sign of thanks to Zosia and sweeps off the parking sign, circling by Donovan and Tim. The tip of one wing just brushes the cub’s head, and then he’s gone.

Tim lets his eyes track the spirit, then he says in a low and insistent voice, “Don, listen. You wanted help with your dreams? We can help you with that. Just let us drive you home. That’s it.”

<OOC> Tim: And, more Persuasion, and another WP there.

“I’ve had a lot of bad dreams and learned how to come to terms with them. -We can help you-,” Zosia says in a quiet, sincere sounding voice. “And just a ride home.” She watches him carefully as she says that.

<OOC> Zosia: Ditto.

The cub brushes his head where the spirit’s wing touched him, at the same time he takes a deep breath and noticiblly works to bring himself under control. “Yeah…s.sorry about that I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I guess I could use a ride home, and someone to talk to…That guys was huge wasn’t he…what /was/ I thinking?”

“Too much sugar,” Tim repeats with what is, for him anyways, a winning smile. He turns it on Zosia, and it gains a bit of sly humor. He nods towards Zosia’s car and asks, “Is that one of the roomier ones, dear?”

“It’s the Audi, darling,” Zosia says, turning and slinking down the street toward the lot that holds the dark blue car. “Plenty of room for all of us.”

Donovan looks around and walks in the direction indicated by Tim, and follow Zosia to her car. “You said you used to have these dreams too, right? And what did you mean when you said you were ‘looking at my destiny’?” The now sedate cub implores as he looks at Zosia.

Tim keeps a little behind Donovan, and nods for the teen to take the back seat behind the passenger. He takes the seat behind the driver for himself. He scans the street as he goes, taking note of anyone still watching them.

Zosia slides into the driver’s seat, smiling back at her passengers as if this isn’t actually a kidnapping but just a pleasant ride home for milk and cookies. “Everyone has bad dreams.” Once the pair of them are in the car, she turns it on and starts to pull out, moving as quickly as traffic will allow. “But me and people like me have em worse than most. People like Tim, too. And you.”

Not paying attention to where the car is going, the young cub watches Zosia in the rear-view mirror. “What do you mean people like you, and Tim,…and /me/?”

“I had dreams about owls when I was,” Tim tries to gauge Donovan with a quick look, “maybe a little older than you. In my last year of high school. But that was a long time ago.” As he speaks he takes out a pair of black leather gloves and pulls them on, making sure they’re nice and snug. He absently asks Zosia, as if it were a natural part of the conversation, “How fast can you get us there?” The car drives on, and the city rolls by–but not in the direction of Donovan’s home anymore. In fact it might never have been going there.

“Please. This is a new car,” Zosia says in a drawling sort of voice. “And it’s an -Audi-. We’ll be there in no time. For the record, I dreamed about falcons. But I’m a different tribe. Same basic idea though.”

Donovan says “Tribe…what does that mean?” Donovan looks out the window and stiffens as he notices that he is nowhere near home. Then he looks at Tim putting on gloves as he asks, “Where are taking me? This isn’t the way to my house, and what are the gloves for?” The cub curses himself with the notion that they never knew where he lived in the first place.”

“Good,” Tim replies to Zosia. “Should be enough time.” He looks over at Donovan, and his expression is all business. He registers the cub’s questions, then answers them with a simple proposition. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way is you sit there, stay calm, and do nothing until we get you home.” He says the word home like it has nothing to do with where Donovan lives.

Zosia’s eyes flick to the rear view mirror, a cool, distant blue. She doesn’t speak for now but concentrates on driving. Very fast, it must be noted.

The poor cub looks from Tim to Zosia, “What? So you can lock me in some closet to be your sex slave or something you sickos? I thought you were my friends, and that you were going to help me, and now you’re kidnapping me.” The cub starts to get aggitated again with the wild scenarios going through his head.

Tim gives Donovan a very, very disappointed look. “The hard way,” he says with a sigh. In an eyeblink, he’s swinging at Donovan’s chin with Rage-born speed and vicious accuracy, aiming for a straight knockout punch.

<OOC> Tim: 1 Rage, 1 WP there.

The laugh from the front of car likely dispels any worries about Zosia aquiring a new sex-slave. “Honey, I have an incredibly hot husband who will let me do anything I want to him. I don’t need to pick up some teenaged kid for that sort of thing.” And then Tim’s beatin’ the cub. “Don’t you dare let any blood get on the leather.”

The poor cub lost in his own imagination had no chance to even see the blow before it struck him. His head falls back against the window as blood trickles from his nose and lip.

Tim sits still, ready to strike again if he has to and wary of any attempt on the teen’s part to fake him out. Seeing nothing, he yanks a handkerchief out of one jacket pocket and quickly holds it against Donovan’s face. He gives Zosia a smug look. “Your leather’s safe for now.” He relaxes back in his seat and keeps a watchful eye on the cub. “Thanks,” he says after a moment.

“Any time, sweetheart,” the Silver Fang says in a saccharine voice. The speed of the car does not ease up as she take a tight turn. When she speaks again, her voice is back to normal. “Good timing on that. That spirit was rather…insistant.”

Luna’s half-lit face leaves the Umbra a stark facade of shadows and light. In the darker portions Wyrm spirits have begun to open their eyes, waiting for the new moon to give them leave to roam, but for now they can only watch as Golden leads Hummingbird to Chu’mana’s den. The Strider drifts through the Umbral forest in lupus, moving with conscious silence.

Where the Strider moves with deliberate care, Hummingbird’s paws are set down with seemingly instinctive softness, tension thrumming through him as he keeps skittishly close to the other dark moon.

Here in the Umbra, the den is easier to spot than it might be in the realm. A small rise in the ground produces a ledge of rock, and underneath it the shadows promise plenty of safety and shelter for even a very large snake. The undergrowth is heavier here too, with bushes crowding together so that the approach isn’t easily spotted by an unfamiliar eye. Golden pauses when they’re some steps off, and his ears go forward as he sniffs and listens. Here is where we would bring her a kill.

At first glance, the area appears to be deserted, but then there is a sound. Tick, tick, tk-tk-tktktktktkZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ as the chilling, unmistakable buzz of a rattlesnake’s tail sounds its warning. And what before was just the play of shadows on undergrowth starts to move and slide, coiling up into a pile of rings with the snake’s head in the center of it all. Slitted, unblinking eyes gaze out at the pair of Garou, forked tongue flicking in their direction. A hiss combines with the buzz of the rattle in a way that Fernando understands…

Hummingbird’s ears slick back and he retreats a half step, one forepaw ending up poised mid-air. She wants to know what we want, he notes for Golden. Only less politely, he adds with dark amusement.

Golden goes still as he hears the familiar sound, then retreats a step or two as well. His wings twitch in response to Hummingbird, and his tail drops a notch. I came to offer chiminage. And to ask her if she wants to stay here. He blows out a breath. Or go back to the desert that blooms.

You paged Aerynvale with ‘I.e., the Sonoran Desert, so Southern Arizona.’.

*That one offers Chiminage. That one asks if you want to stay here or go back to the desert that blooms,* Hummingbird states, crouching low and giving a very precise head-turn to indicate the Strider. *I ask you what you seek.*

The buzzing grows louder for a moment, then dies away. The entire snake ripples as she draws a deep breath. The tongue flicks again, and her coils begin to writhe, sliding against each other without ever coming undone, and again, Fernando understands. *Chiminage of what? A mouse, a rabbit. These things are good, but I could have them anywhere. A snake as I wants more than these things. What can the Owl-child offer that will keep my /interest/?*

Golden’s ears slide back now as well, and he watches Hummingbird for a translation. He’s relaxing a little more, maybe because no biting has happened yet.

Hummingbird keeps crouched with his head turned a little aside from the snake, looking watchful and decidedly cautious. She asks if you can offer something interesting, he reports. She says she can get prey anywhere.

True. Golden agrees to that with a huff of breath, and considers. His eyes flick back towards his wings, then return to the snake. Owl asks us to seek the unknown, and go to it to find what others will miss. I can bring the knowledge I find. His tail waves. Not stories. I am no gibbous. But wisdom. I can meditate on it with you.

Hummingbird relays that word for word this time, eyeing the Strider then laying down completely and stretching his nose out onto his forepaws.

Chu’mana’s rattle ticks once, twice, then settles down. *Share wisdom with me, hmm,* she says, speaking more and more in coherent words, at least as far as Fernando can understand. She sounds vaguely disinterested, though. *Rattlesnake’s wisdom is not for the faint-hearted. Meditate with me and he will know my venom. Ask him, secret-keeper, if he would know my venom. And tell him, that the venom is the least dangerous part of it.* She blinks once, a hint of amusement in the tone.

~She says her wisdom is not for those who are weak of spirit,~ Hummingbird says, taking Hispo. His language in this form is rolling, archaic, eloquent and quaint. ~She says that those who would meditate with Rattlesnake must partake of her venom, and asks if such as you are willing to do so. She also says that this is the least dangerous part of what you would attempt.~ He looks back at the sname, and says something more, an even odder speech that is only partle comprehensible to Golden. Something about sacred plants. *Does your bite lead to the path that is cousin to the path of the sacred plant juice, sister?*

Golden resettles his wings as he listens, then shifts to hispo as well. He casts an interested look at Hummingbird when he speaks directly to Chu’mana, but he answers he addresses the spirit. His Mother’s Tongue is, it must be said, nowhere near so lovely to hear, if perfectly understandable. ~I’ve been rattlesnake’s son twice in my life. It would be an honor to share wisdom and meditate with you, and practice those ways again. Your venom is my due for what has passed.~ Though he doesn’t mention Unsolved-Mysteries, a low whine lurks in his voice, and it’s not hard to read from his posture that she’s foremost on his mind. ~If you would stay here, in this place that’s not like the Blooming Desert, then it would be as much a benefit for me, to be with another from my home.~

*Perhaps,* Chu’mana says to Hummingbird. *Perhaps it leads to /my/ path. Maybe it leads where I wish it to lead. You would have to try it to find out,* she says, mischievous for a moment before becoming emotionally opaque. She stares at Golden, the moonlight glinting in her eyes, and it seems there is a bidding in them, for him to step forward, just a pace, putting himself within her reach.

Aerynvale pages: The bidding part, it’s almost like a suggestion. There’s definitely a choice involved.

Hummingbird had contrived to start translating even before Golden finished speaking, his lupine body-language reflecting the Strider’s words and making them understandable to the rattlesnake-spirit. His eyes glitter darkly at her response, and he licks at his nose. He says no more to Golden as the spirit moves closer.

Golden stills as he did when first hearing the rattle, but this time instead of retreating he moves forward into striking distance. He keeps his ears and tail neutral, and his eyes meet Chu’mana’s now and then only to flick away before it can become a stare of challenge.

The moment Golden steps within range, there’s a snap of motion from Chu’mana. Really, just the impression that the snake spirit moved, struck and retreated. One might not even be sure it happened, except for the sharp pain in Golden’s left foreleg, followed quickly by an intense burning sensation. Really it’s like someone is driving a hot, rusty nail into his leg. Chu’mana sits calmly, though, watching the Strider, for whom the spirit world has suddenly become much more vivid.

Golden doesn’t flinch at the strike, though it’s not clear if that’s due to his own resolve or Chu’mana’s speed. His lips writhe back at the pain and his ears pin, but he steadfastly stays put and makes no sound. As the venom spreads, his eyes roll and he stares around himself fixedly at various things. A small rock holds his attention for nearly a minute, and his wings sag to the ground like a falling, white mantle. He blinks at looks back at the rattlesnake, then Hummingbird, then the snake again. ~How often would you…~ His attention wavers, drawn by something beyond them in the shadows, and it takes some effort for him to look back at Chu’mana. ~How often should I come?~

Pack> Golden’s foray into the Umbra with Hummingbird has taken a turn for the…something, anyways. His consciousness swims on the pack link like a drunken dancer. ~Man,~ is his eloquent comment. It’s almost exactly like after Isabel’s funeral so long ago.

Pack> Jack’s quiet for a moment, and then he warily asks, “Where are you?”

When Golden looks back at Chu’mana, it quickly becomes clear that the ride isn’t over yet. The patterns in her scales shift and move, changing shape from diamonds to pent- and hexagons to circles and back again. The colors of the scales shift through a muted version of the spectrum, shades of brown, of green, sometimes red and blue. And then she begins to move, coils sliding out until she’s stretched full length upon the ground. She turns, making a circling with her body, then a square, then crossing over herself to make patterns the mind can barely follow. She seems impossibly long, to criss-cross over herself so many times, impossibly huge. The pattern is ever-changing, always moving, and Golden’s mind is drawn in until he is lost within it. Chu’mana’s shifting body is a maze for him to wander through. The patterns in her scales almost form images to him, just over the edge of comprehension. *And now,* says the snake, clearly to the Strider’s mind. *Where will you go from here?*

Pack> ~The Shadow.~ Golden’s response carries with it an awe and surprise that indicate this is not just anyone’s Shadow. It’s become something wild and unknowable, like a rollercoaster perched on the top of the first, huge drop.

Pack> Jack blinks. “Did y’drop /acid/ or somethin’ before you went?” Wry, that, but it takes a bend for the more serious. “What happened?”

Hummingbird sits up, his hackles rising. It is impossible to seperate out his mingled reactions of deep distrust and utter fascination. Something about Tim causes him to stare for a long moment before he drops his eyes.

Golden’s claws dig into the ground like he’s trying to hold onto it and not fly away–or fall away. He pants and stares hard at Chu’mana, eyes tracking something only he is seeing. Presently, his breathing slows, and confusion trades places with curiosity and wonder. ~It’s tempting to follow the Elder Brother’s path,~ he admits. ~But first I should find wisdom to bring back to you, then we could meditate on his maze.~ He’s silent as he thinks. ~I will go where Ghost takes me next, and bring back to you what I find there. And a prey-chiminage.~ He finally tears his eyes off the snake and looks over at Hummingbird; it’s hard for him to focus, but he assures himself the Uktena is still there.

Pack> Golden wavers dangerously on the link. (Apparently the rollercoaster just did its first drop, straight into a corkscrew.) For a moment he flails, and then, he manages to grind out, ~Chu’mana.~

You paged Aerynvale with ‘Elder Brother -> I’itoi, man in the maze’. He’s a big Southern Arizona figure, and supposedly he is hiding in Baboquiviri peak with lots of super awesome powerz. He’d be a pretty major Uktena thing.’.

Pack> Jack blinks again, confused. “–she bit you again?”

There’s a feeling of not necessarily withdrawing from the maze, but rather of being /let go/. Tick, tick, tick goes Chu’mana’s rattle, and there’s the impression that she’s a little disappointed that Golden didn’t follow the maze this time, but that she’s looking forward to whatever he’s going to bring her. The shift patterns in her scales settle down, but don’t entirely stop, and she retreats into her den without another word to either Garou.

Pack> Golden feels much more detached, but at least he’s not spiraling out of control. ~Yeah. She–I wanted to find out if she wanted to go back. South. So we’re working something out. I think she’ll stay.~

Pack> Jack still seems slightly confused, but he never claimed to know much about spirits. “–so she -bit- you?”

Hummingbird peers into Golden’s face, hrmphs thoughtfully to himself, and blinks. ~Is that you still, Golden-rhya?~

Pack> ~I needed to show her I was willing to follow the wisdom wherever it was.~ Golden’s becoming a little more coherent now. ~Like with Ghost and the unknown? Only this is a maze. *Everything* is a maze.~

Golden watches Chu’mana go. His eyes still flick to random things and the wildness still lurks in them, though it withdraws when he hears Hummingbord, and he skews an ear to the Uktena. ~Yes. I think.~ He paws at the ground. ~So this begins,~ he says, more to himself, and chuffs. He looks over at the other Ragabash. ~I will teach you to hide your scent in a few days,~ he promises. ~When…this is less. I don’t know if I could do it just now.~ He seems like he might try anyways, reacting instinctively to a challenge set by his own words, then doesn’t. ~Thank you, Hummingbird. If there is more you need beyond the learning, please ask.~

~No sacred leaf for /you/ yet,~ Hummingbird says, looking amused at Golden’s expense for the Sytrider’s present state of partial disorientation. ~As was agreed, we do.~ He glances at the den. ~Do you think she would bite me?~ he wonders aloud, although from the tone of voice he doesn’t expect an answer.

Pack> Jack doesn’t particularly sound envious of the experience. “You gonna be able t’get out’ve there? You there by yourself?”

~No leaf for me,~ Golden agrees. ~If you wanted to follow the maze, and offered chiminage,~ he answers promptly, but then he blinks and considers Hummingbird anew. ~Maybe,~ he adds. ~I suppose I’ll know more about…that…after I meditate with her again, and follow it myself.~ He’s anticipating that, despite the effects.

Pack> ~Hummingbird’s with me. And I can sleep in Forest-Spirit’s woods if I need to.~ Golden’s attention continues to drift like a boat being tugged by strong and gentle currents.

~Will you be able to catch the prey-offering?~ the Uktena asks, still peering at Golden. ~There is also a better place for a fire than the Compound, if you seek wisdom in the flames. I can show you…~ he stands ready to depart.

Golden stands and shifts back to lupus. That would be good, to firewatch. I…think I can catch prey, once my eyes are clearer. He looks to the Den again, pensive, then turns to Hummingbird with a clear intent to follow him.

Pack> Jack seems a little sated, at least. “Aight. Let me know if y’need me to do anything.”

Hummingbird gives the Fostern one final slightly dubious look, then leads him away from the den.

Pack> Golden will. Now in his wolf form, his thoughts turn to simpler instinct. Hummingbird takes me somewhere to firewatch.

Pack> Golden asserts he will, though his mind instantly gets distracted over how leaves in a bush are so very pattern-like.

Firdaws
 Firdaws is a converted former barn with thick stone walls and pale wood floorboards, painted white throughout. The front door in the north wall opens straight onto the main room, a rectangular area roofed by thick wooden beams high overhead. Either side of the door, against the wall, is a pair of dark wood bookshelves formed of several open-fronted cubes. Large windows have been knocked into the south wall, catching the sun during the day and making the place appear light and spacious. A white couch the size of a small bus faces these, with a thick sheepskin rug on the floor in front of it and a low table nearby. A spiral staircase offset towards the eastern side leads to a raised area set against the east wall.
 To the west is a kitchen range open to the room with pleasant light oak cupboards, green marble worktops and an island with tall stools, an as-yet-unfurnished area that may be intended for dining, and a second floor above with doors either side of a central hallway. The hallway extends on out into a traditionally-constructed wooden flying walkway that sweeps overhead, through the open central area, to the east side. Here on the ground floor level is an office, a bathroom, and a relaxation area with large television, DVDs and games consoles. Above these is a balconied hallway leading to more doors, that is met by the flying walkway.
 Various items of art have been placed around the walls and on the shelves, +view for more details.

Contents:
Shaozu
Zosia

Obvious exits:
Front Door Back Door

Relaxing now that the dangerous topic of what-Ellie-is has passed, Zosia starts to adjust his arm with one hand. “You have to support her head. She can’t hold her head up properly yet. And you have to support her body with your arm too. And relax.” She fusses iwth said arm, however, before handing over the baby.

Shaozu does relax, maybe a little too well–it’s weird the way he just slows his breathing and becomes very calm. He slides Ellie into his arms, letting Zosia adjust him, and cradles the soft fuzzy little head in one hand. The slow, perfectly even rhythm of his breathing lets the transfer happen without so much as a fuss. “She’s so light,” he whispers.

A familiar motorcycle engine can be heard to those with sharp hearing, and a minute later Joaquine drifts over towards Zosia and Shaozu. She waits to be addressed, eternally patient; her eyes soften at the sight of Zosia and Shaozu fussing over the baby.

Where Shaozu is relaxed–and were she a bit less concerned about the baby, Zosia might have noticed the strange shift in breathing–Zosia is tense. The arm is moved and adjusted several times unnecessarily until she finally settles back. Once she’s relaxed a touch, she looks up toward Joaquine, her brows raising in confusion before she grins sheepishly at her. “You remember Shaozu, right?”

Shaozu without complaint allows Zosia to tug his arms for optimal baby compliance; he moves very fluidly, she barely has to touch him before he’s obeying her. Ellie snoozes on throughout it all. Perhaps she’s soothed by her uncle’s slow calm breathing. He ignores Joaquine with the blithe ease of someone used to having family retainers bustling about, but when Zo speaks to her he looks up at her with a quick smile.

“Yes I do,” Joaquine says. She nods at Shaozu in greeting, and her training turns the next single word into a graceful recognition. “Senor.” The older woman is all grace, despite her battle-axe appearence. She waits for Shaozu’s response, though it’s clear she wishes to address Zosia again by her posture alone.

Zosia’s fingers wave away the need for Shaozu’s response; she is visibly curious now that the woman has her attention. Besides, Shaozu is all about the new center of attention in the house. Her expression asks the question she doesn’t voice: ‘what do you need?’

Shaozu tips a nod at the older lady, a ‘don’t mind me’ gesture, subtle and swift. He leans back on the couch, the better to cradle Ellie against his chest.

Keeping her voice low, Joaquine says to Zosia, “Senora, your other guest is here. Shall I show him in, or did you wish to?”

“He’s here?” Zosia sounds surprised, though it isn’t possible to figure if the surprise is good or bad. “Bring him in, of course.” She glances toward the door but her attention swings back, unsurprisingly, to her daughter and the man holding her. “Oh yes, that’s good,” she says brightly.

Shaozu seems to have zoned out a little bit–maybe it’s the presence of baby, or the deep calm breathing he’s doing, or maybe he’s just woolgathering in that purely-bred mind of his. “Okay,” he says placidly in response.

Joaquine nods and moves back to the front of the house. A low-voiced exchange passes out of Zosia and Shaozu’s sight, and then the guard returns with Tim following behind her. For the moon being as large as it is, he’s entirely at ease, even more so than he has been in the recent past. He nods a hello to Zosia, then his eyes snap to Shaozu, maybe surprised by his presense. That lasts only a second or two, because now he’s eyeing the baby. “Wow. She’s so…small.”

To those paying attention, Zosia grows more tense as Tim enters. It is a subtle thing, not necessarily noticable unless it is being looked for by someone. Either way, she looks from Ragabash to kin and back, a proud smile blossoming on her face. “Small, yes. Perfect though.”

Shaozu looks up at Tim with a truly beatific expression. “Sonahari,” he says happily.

Joaquine moves back, but doesn’t leave the room. She somehow makes her stocky, powerful self a part of the scenery in that way known to all help. Tim looks askance at Zosia and keeps his distance, maybe in response to her tension, but maybe also in a natural desire to not come between a mother and their child. This means he has to peer at the baby, which makes him look like he’s eyeing a sacred specimen of some sort. “Shaozu,” he replies, nodding. “Hope you two had happy, ah, whatever holidays you celebrate.”

“I went into labor on Christmas,” Zosia admits, relaxing once Tim’s intentions become clear. Thus, sitting between the Strider and both kin, she shifts into more the person he’s used to, a smile brightening her face. “More than worth it, of course. A late Christmas present, I guess.” She looks down to Ellie again and reaches out, touching the child’s cheek.

Shaozu comes out of it somewhat and blinks at Tim. “Nothing much, Zosia got me some /lovely/ tea though. Maybe I’ll wager you a cup. How are you?” He smiles at Zosia and down at Ellie. “Just say when you want her back. She seems happy though.”

Tim raises an eyebrow at Shaozu. “Oh yeah? Same here.” He gives Zosia a sly look, which he turns on Shaozu. “She’s got great taste. We can wager them against each other, how’s that.”

Zosia sniffs faintly, not looking the least bit ashamed. “You didn’t get the -same-. It just seemed appropriate for you both. -Anyway-,” she adds, her voice still prim, “I was rather distracted by impending motherhood.” She pauses for a long moment, torn between letting Shaozu continue holding her and reclaiming. She reclaims, her arms going out toward the tiny bundle. “She is happy. But I smell right to her.”

Shaozu relinquishes, maybe seeming a touch regretful under the surface, but certainly not hesitating or doing anything foolish like that to a new Garou mother on a fat moon. “I’m not complaining,” he says. “I love tea. Tim loves tea. We /both/ love tea.”

“Exactly,” Tim says, nodding first in agreement with Shaozu, and then Zosia. “Very appropriate,” he adds for her benefit. “We can wager it in Go and mahjong.” His eyes track the baby as Zosia takes her back, and his tone turns teasing. “So, does a December 26 birthday mean she gets gipped on birthday presents?”

Zosia relaxes so completely once the baby is ‘hers’ again that the very air eases. She even leans toward Tim to allow him a better view of the scrunched little face with the curl of platinum blonde hair above it. “Do you know who her father is?” the Theurge asks in a dry voice. “I’ve never seen a man so enchanted by a baby as him. This kid is going to have to claw her way out of a mountan of presents both days.”

Shaozu gives Tim an amused little look as Zosia goes all squooshy. “Yeah, no problem with the Christmas birthday there.”

“No, I guess not,” Tim says, tone very dry. He looks over at Zosia, and carefully asks, “You know Baptism of Fire already, yeah? For when you need it?”

The tension is back, muted given her armful. “I know the rite,” Zosia says in a low voice. It goes very sharp for a moment–”I -am- Ritemaster”–before she exhales carefully. “The next songmoon, I do the rite.”

Shaozu doesn’t say anything, but for some reason him just sitting there seems calming, soothing in a way that is hard to define and harder to resist. He keeps his eyes lowered demurely.

Tim reacts to the tension with a longer pause in his reply, and tips his head in deference. “Good luck with it.”

Zosia’s head slowly bows and she stares intently at the baby, breathing in and out slowly as she works on her mood. Then: “Shaozu, you -do- understand how dangerous cubs are, don’t you?” When her ice blue eyes flick up toward the kin, they’re full of worry–not all for him, of course.

Shaozu blinks slowly at Zosia, then clears his throat. “Well, more or less. What do you mean? Is there…” He trails off.

Tim runs a hand over his hair. Something about the new topic puts him off; he’s not tense, but he’s certainly uneasy. “Yeah.” He glances at the two Silver Fangs, imparting the hint of a specific event fresh in his mind. “They don’t understand their Rage or how to control it. You never know when they’re gonna go off the deep end. Even the ones like me.”

Zosia pauses and abruptly stands, moving toward Joaquine and offering her the baby with what most would call a fearful look on her face. She speaks about the conversation at hand, however. “Even theurge and ragabash cubs can snap. It’s….overwhelming when you first. The Rage…” She shivers and then tries to move away from the baby as quickly as she can. “And an ahroun cub is -much- worse.”

It takes Shaozu an interestingly long time to reply to this. He doesn’t seem defiant, but he doesn’t give an affirmative immediately either. From such an obediant Kin, it is somewhat remarkable. “That kid at the Rite,” he says, eventually. “The one who was clawing up the trees.”

Joaquine accepts the child without a hitch or batted eyelash. She murmurs something soothing, perhaps for both child *and* mother, and moves so the baby is further away from the two Garou. She doesn’t block Zosia’s view of the child, though. Tim notes the hand off of the baby until he hears Shaozu, and then he looks at the Kinsman with narrowed eyes. “Yeah. *Him*.” His unease transforms into a flash of irritation that gets quelled immediately.

The nature of Shaozu’s reply pulls Zosia’s attention away from the baby. “He’s a Get ahroun cub and that kid is right at the edge. Right at the edge of stability and he’s going to flip one day and kill someone. And it is -not- going to be you because you don’t take it seriously.”

Shaozu drops his gaze immediately. “Yes ma’am,” he murmurs in instant response to her tone. “I am taking it seriously, I promise. I’ll stay away from him.”

Tim lets out a slow breath as he watches the interaction between Shaozu and Zosia, not looking very pleased about it in some way or another. “Look. I don’t want to ruin,” he indicates the baby with his eyes, “anything here, but something’s happened. I can…write it down, or whatever.”

Something about Shaozu’s reaction doesn’t sit well with Zosia either. Staring at the top of his head, she is about to say something when Tim speaks. Turning to Joaquine, she says quietly, “Take Ellie to Ana for me.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she turns back to Tim and waits for him to speak.

Shaozu, with Kin instinct, keeps his head and his eyes lowered, and his tongue behind his teeth.

“Yes Senora,” Joaquine murmurs in reply. She takes her leave with a nod at Shaozu and Tim, another for Zosia, and disappears further into the house. Tim waits until the guard and baby are gone before speaking. “There was a Frenzy at the house. Devlin didn’t make it.” He looks up at Zosia and continues. “I don’t know the details, but Oskar and Paul were involved.” His expression turns apologetic and even sympathetic for Shaozu.

Zosia’s jaw moves as she mulls the news over. Then: “Devlin was shit at keeping his mouth closed. Never learned the distinction between questioning and push and talking too much. It’s a waste though.” Her voice sounds downright clinical–if one doesn’t look at her eyes.

Shaozu grimaces expressively, swallows and hangs his head. Chastened by harsh reality in light of whatever silly thoughts he had of being able to take care of himself–it’s almost as clear as wolf-speech, the way he holds himself.

“He was,” Tim admits, looking away at nothing in particular. “And the moon was big, but either way, it’s one less Garou in the Sept and one less scout. Cole’s gonna be furious. Whichever of them it was,” he certainly sounds like he has an idea of who to pin it on, “is going to have to answer to him, and to Kaz-rhya.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to, you know. But given that Oskar was involved…” His voice fades, and he looks at Shaozu. “Not to say you shouldn’t go to Edgewood at all. Just be careful.”

“The Rage. It’s…” Zosia starts to move restlessly, lookin toward the door then toward her two guests, then toward the back. “We don’t say things to be assholes or controlling or…I had to just send my own kid away so I don’t accidentally -kill- her because I get upset and…Excuse me.” She moves toward the back door, managing to throw it open before shifting (with an abrupt ripping of her clothes) into lupus. With that, she disappears onto the grounds in a blur of Rage-enhanced speed.

Shaozu keeps his head down until he realizes Zosia is fleeing, then looks up with a deeply stricken expression. “I know–” he begins, but then she’s gone. “Shit.” He looks helplessly at Tim.

Tim sighs at Zosia’s sudden exit and makes no move to stop her. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s okay,” he says, gesturing at Shaozu placatingly. “I could’ve guessed she’d get upset. I almost didn’t want to bring it up with the baby and all, but we were talking about that cub, and cubs in general, and she needed to know.”

Shaozu slumps bonelessly back on the couch, staring out into the darkness beyond the door before Joaquine discreetly moves to close it. “She looks so much like Jana, but she’s so different,” he murmurs. “That could be /my/ baby, Sonahari. God, it hurts.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes, going back into that slow meditative breathing.

Tim blinks as the conversation takes a very different freeway exit than he’d expected it to. “Oh.” Joaquine stands ready to escort the two men out–or not–in that subtle way of hers, positioning herself near a hallway. The Strider watches her move, then looks at Shaozu. “Yeah that ah, sounds like it’d suck. A lot.”

Shaozu sits up, whooshing out a big breath. “Did Oskar kill him?”

“Not sure.” Tim’s eyes harden, and he drops the other shoe. “There was a Kinswoman there when things got started.” Something about *that* makes him need to look away. “Devlin sent her out, but she saw Oskar lose it and Paul go in to help stop him. So it could’ve been either of them. We’ll find out after Kaz-rhya talks to everyone.”

“Was…” Shaozu pauses, considering his next words. “I’ve seen kin women act sort of, uhm, not so great. Inciting things among the male Garou. That wasn’t this, was it?”

Tim’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” ‘Personal experience’ might as well be flashing over his head in neon for a moment. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t, *think* this was that. But…” His eyes slide away as he considers the possibility. “Shit, maybe it was. She’s the kind guys would get stupid about, you know?” Even as he says it, he rubs at his eyes again. “What a fucking mess.”

“There seems to be a lot of those around here,” Shaozu says with a wry twist of the mouth. “Do you want some tea? Or are you on your way?”

“You can say that again,” Tim mutters. He nods at the offer. “Hell yes, let’s have some tea. Here, or, back in the city?” Despite suggesting Zosia’s house, it’s not hard to spot his reluctance to trespass on her hospitality in absentia.

Shaozu stands up in a smooth fluid motion. “Come on, let’s go into the city. She’ll be so embarrassed when she comes back, her maternity clothes weren’t Dedicated.”

Tim gets a Look on his face. “Uh, right. I don’t want to add that to the list of shit I’ve fucked up on lately. You drove? I’ve got my bike, I can follow.”

Shaozu’s Prius takes the lead to the tea house. Apparently he’s been coming here a lot because when he and Tim come in the door, there’s a cheerful burst of Mandarin and tea and dumplings are promptly assembled. “You want to talk about it?” Shaozu asks sympathetically once they’re seated.

Tim runs a hand over his face as he gets settled. “Not much to talk about. I got the mess cleaned up. In the house, I mean; the rest is for Viv and Cole and Ms. Kaz.” He glances up at Shaozu over the rim of his teacup, morbidly amused. “Unless you mean the *other* part.”

Shaozu eyes Tim. “Sure. Whatever the *other* part is, out with it. And eat that, it’s good for you, you’re too skinny.”

Tim grunts and has some of a dumpling. He chews it with more deliberation than necessary. Finally, after some tea, he says, “She was a bitch. But I was kind of young and stupid and she was hot, so.” A regretful shrug for the follies of youth, and he continues. “Turns out she had a thing. She liked to gets with her men when the moon was big, and push them right up to the line. Then, you know, the usual.” He makes a face and sips from his tea. “I was a special case, since I’m kind of quieter than most of us. A ah, challenge.”

Shaozu looks moderately shocked. “/Ew/,” he says after a moment, with feeling. “What happened?”

“I *dumped* her,” Tim says with extreme satisfaction. He congratulates himself with another dumpling and some more tea. “I mean shit, it doesn’t matter how good a handle I have on myself, sooner or later something was gonna go wrong. I was *not* gonna be that guy.”

Shaozu grins down into his teacup, but it fades. “That’s fucked up. She had to have gotten herself killed sooner or later.”

“Probably.” Tim has regret for that, at least. He fingers his teacup. “Kin have it rough. Having anything to do with us means you’ve got a good chance to get fucked up.”

“We don’t have a lot of choice,” Shaozu points out quietly, but without blame. “There’s either this, or–” He shrugs. “Besides,” he says, now very quietly, “someone like me? There’s no way they’d let me go.”

Tim stares at a dumpling. It has all the hallmarks of being done so Shaozu doesn’t have to see his real reaction. After a second, he has some tea. “Let you?” he asks with care.

<OOC> (Shaozu pokes at Tim-brain.)

<OOC> Tim: There’s actually *several* trains of thought running parallel. (Someone needs to think less.) The one that’s consuming a lot of attention is ‘YOU DON’T TREAT KIN LIKE THAT’, as in, letting Shaozu go. That’s reinforced by stray thoughts about a cave, ‘Of couse you have a choice’ (linked to Sydney quite strongly), and finally, a crust of possessiveness and over-protectiveness.

Shaozu thinks about his reply for a few moments, sipping his tea. “Well,” he says eventually. “I am very pure-blooded. My family sacrificed a lot to get me engaged to Jana. Her family–they demanded a high groom-price, because our stupid tribe is stupid. Half-Chinese babies, and all. But /my/ family branched off down into Mongolia while the Russians were still clubbing each other with reindeer thigh bones, so /there/. Anyway, I don’t think Zo could stop me, if I wanted to slink away in the night. But, Sonahari–” he looks Tim in the eye. “Tradition and blood ties me up.”

Tim listens to all of that, working to stay calm. ‘Half-Chinese babies’ gets an amused smirk, and the last part makes him scowl at his tea. “Bullshit is what it is,” he mutters. Another drink, then, “Honor. You mean honor binds you.” He looks up at the Kinsman now, his gaze shrewd.

Shaozu looks down. “I might mean that,” he says. Evasive much? “But I have honor for something else in life. I guess…over time, being in this tribe has gotten less important than what *I* want to do.” He looks back up with a dry, “Don’t tell Zosia I said that.”

“I won’t,” Tim promises. A corner of his mouth quirks in a smile. “Ideally, what you should want is to be in the Tribe.” It’s given more as an observation rather than any censure. “But if your Tribe’s concerned about kids being half-Chinese and dowries and that kind of shit, I can’t blame you for wanting, you know,” he shrugs, “other things.” A dumpling falls prey to his contemplative mood.

Shaozu looks at Tim sort of blankly. “Well, of course it does. We’re blood of kings. Without all the crap about the half-breeds and dowries, what are we but a bunch of overbred lunatics? Wow,” he adds contemplatively, “I would get /killed/ for that in front of just about anybody else.”

“You said it, not me,” Tim says to establish his innocence. He manages a smile, though, and gestures with his teacup. “What we say over tea stays over tea, yeah?”