The Half Moon of Judgement

[kai]

26 October 2013
Waning Half Moon

Between the light and dark sides of the moon is only a narrow, straight line. It makes sense that the judges and lawmakers of their kind would be born to such a moon, called to walk such a line. It makes sense, too, for this to be the appointed night for the leaders of the closing, closed Cold Crescent to be judged on such a night. Wisdom in that; to wait until the full moon had waned them all away from such overwhelming purity of rage.

Tonight, though, they are wounded, punished, a little longer: the relief of judgement does not come, not even when the heavy tread of the Great Alpha brings him to the place where they are held. None have tried to run. None have considered escape. For all their failings, they are honorable garou. They try, at least.

They even lift their heads to look at the Great Alpha as he approaches. Beside him is the Ritemaster, and it is the Ritemaster who speaks.

"The Beloved Horror attacked Cold Crescent," he says flatly. "Again."

Some of them flinch. Warning Threshold does not. But he looks ashen. He looks haunted. The others hang their heads, and he closes his eyes, waiting to hear the worst. He wonders who was there. He prays, selfish as it may be: not Richard, not Hosea. Not my brothers. He has an errant thought about someone else, someone who should have had no reason to be there that late at night, and he is as ashamed of that errant prayer as he is of his selfishness.

"A group of Cliaths and a couple of Fosterns were in the lower levels," the Master of Rites goes on. "The scout who brought us the news doesn't know many details of what happened, but --"

there's a beat of hesitation in the Ritemaster's voice, always so cold, and Warning Threshold dares to open his eyes again. He does not dare to hope.

"Three of the Beloved Horror are dead. Three escaped. The pit was opened, but only briefly."

No one says anything for a moment. Then Forge, stunned, barely able to form the word in her shock:

"How?"

--

They do not know how yet. That news will come, in fits and starts and only if the Galliards and others who were in the lower levels that night share it with those they meet, but for now, all that matters is this: Cold Crescent is guarded again, at least underground, where the tunnels meet the pit. The judgement of the Garou who once led that sept is postponed.

[kai]

27 October 2013
Waning Half Moon

Another sunrise and sunset go by, another moonrise; the garou who failed their sept so entirely do not die, are not pardoned; no judgement at all is handed down yet. The Great Alpha meets with his council, with his pack, with the guardians of Forgotten Questions. He meets with the leaders of the tribes and a few who simply stand out as pinnacles of achievement among their auspice. He consults with his mate, in their den alone. He does not go to the Cold Crescent, for he has only left Forgotten Questions once since he became its Elder.

Where they are guarded, the five leaders of the sept that is in a strange almost-defunct limbo can do very little but wait. They talk; they wonder. Among them, only Retribution's Fist glances at their guards and back at Curved Sky and Warning Threshold, a silent glance that implies escape. They both shake their heads to the Adren, and to his credit, he takes their caution, and he cleaves to what honor he has left, even if his mind will not stop coming up with ways out of this, ways around this, ways to explain this in a way they will all understand.

In the end he keeps coming back to the only real defense he has, and the one that he has already voiced, and the one that he bitterly thinks may mean the least: we did the best we could.

--

Over the hours, the 'how' comes out. And it gets muddled in the retellings, but the gist -- and the names -- start to come across. The calling of an Incarna. The exorcism of Green Dragon. The recalling of the spirits of the Black Spirals so that Green Dragon could not rush back into that void. People are asking questions about what that even means, how the Beloved Horror did such a terrible thing to themselves in the first place, but there are few answers. The battle, and the wolves who nearly died, and the wolves who healed them, and the chaos that ensued.

It keeps coming back to the final tally: not a single one of the Cliaths or Fosterns fell. Three of the Beloved Horror did, and they did not rise again.

When those that were there walk through Forgotten Questions and even around the city, other Garou -- and some kin -- are watching them, sometimes whispering, sometimes just staring. Some of those stares aren't kind, and are simply wary or suspicious. Many of them are just simply, flatly respectful. An incline of the head. A subtle bump of the shoulder or a nod in their direction. It isn't too much. People aren't quite sure yet what happened down there, and the wolves of Forgotten Questions in particular are a restrained, down-to-earth lot for the most part. But the point is: the garou and kin of Denver know that something happened down there, something that once again halved the Beloved Horror, and that these twelve survived it. These twelve did it.

--

Guards remain posted at the roots of the tunnels leading from the pit out into the city. If the Beloved Horror tries to come back to that mine of nightmares, as strong as they are, they are weakened, and they are halved. They will be stopped.

Or at least slowed down.