May: Cracking the Bone

[kai]

Eternal Reassurance (or, more accurately, The Rare Quality of Eternal Reassurance Known Four or Five Times In a Life) loves it when people complain that his name is inaccurate, because he is seldom reassuring. He loves to give them that wry smirk of his and explain that his name was given to him by a Galliard with a literary streak. It's his little test, you see: he loves to be reminded how much smarter he is, how much better-read, than everyone else. Not that he gives that impression, of course. People walk away from talking to him feeling illuminated. Enlightened, even. If, perhaps, a little put off by his loquacity.

The Silver Fang is young, though, and it's generally hoped that he'll grow out of his know-it-all streak. He's been given the bone for May -- the antler shed of a mule deer stag from the park -- to see how he handles the responsibility.

After the last Hey! of Raspberry Sky's song has faded and the guitarist has put his instrument away, there is only silence for a few long moments. The garou settle into their spaces. The younger ones stop jostling each other. There are only a couple of cubs this year, and they are kept tightly in check next to their mentors as they are at every moot. The quiet hangs heavily, until they can once again hear bullfrogs and night-birds calling to each other. The wind moves the short trees, the long grasses.

For that time, the Master of the Howl and Caller of the Wyld for this moot stands in the center of the circle, arms at her sides, palms out and slightly upturned, looking not up but down at the earth beneath her feet. Eventually, though, the gnosis being sacrificed to Earth seeps into the caern and she yields the gathering to Eternal Reassurance. He walks forward, in linen slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, carrying the antler shed in both hands, though it is not heavy.

"Welcome," he says, smiling, though it's sort of unnecessary at this point to welcome anyone. "Tonight's agenda for the cracking of the bone is as follows: a review of ongoing points from last month's moot, which precede new points and issues that have come up since. These include challenges, sept concerns, plans to address noted or ongoing concerns, and of course: motions for justice. To those new faces I see out there, we would love to hear your introductions and the plans you and your packs have. As is our tradition, recognition of one another's superlative deeds will be presented under the direction of this month's Talesinger."

He gives another wry, lopsided smirk-smile. "If you can stop yourselves from patting each other on the back that long, that is."

There's a little laughter. Not a whole lot.

Eternal Reassurance, recovering from a bit of humor falling flat, clears his throat and lifts his voice again: "I beg the Elders for their exceeding wisdom."

Later, after the few Elders of the septs have spoken, Eternal Reassurance takes the bone back and invites each rank, one by one, to speak:

"I beseech the Athros give us their leadership.

"I humbly request the advice and guidance of the Adrens.

"I ask the Fosterns to share with us what they have learned."

And finally, when many, many, many other Garou of greater rank and longer experience have spoken: "I invite the Cliaths of the sept to speak, if their words warrant the attention of these gathered septs."

--

[The cracking of the bone will remain closed until I have some time (hopefully Sunday) to write some posts for speeches from NPC garou regarding the current storyline. After that the floor will be open! Stay tuned.]

[kai]

[Folks, Sorry about the delay -- the last couple of days have been kind of insane with things taking precedence over gaming. I'll post some comments from the FQ Warder in soon, but in the meantime, assume your characters have leave to introduce themselves, plan packs, etc.!]

[kai]

One of the first garou to take the bone in hand-paw and speak to the assembled is not one of the elders but the Warder of the Sept of Forgotten Questions. She is hulking, primitive thing, black furred from the tips of her ears to the end of her tail. Her eyes have no brightness to them, indeed no color to differentiate them from her fur but for the paleness of her sclera. There is no disruption along her body to that endless darkness, except for a nasty patch of scar tissue along her left side. It is mostly hidden, but when she twists a certain way, the moonlight hits skin and reveals the emblem of a death she endured, and returned from, long ago.

Many here do not know her name. She has been the Warder here since long before the Sept of the Cold Crescent was formed and the only Garou who remember the Warder before her are already Adrens and Athros themselves. Most call her simply: Warder-rhya. Quietly, but officially, she did come to be known as Forgotten Warder, which is an even more apt title: every time a wolf or human feels momentarily safe in the borders of this sept, they are able to forget the necessity of her office and the things she does to keep this land sanctified. It is a semi-rare thing to even see her present for an entire moot; the size of the bawn here requires constant vigilance.

"You have heard," she begins, her voice clear and level, lifting each syllable of the High Tongue into a low but angry growl, "of the death of River of Clouds, son of Pegasus, one of Luna's tricksters. Many of us knew him as a cub, called Little Raven. You have heard how he was mutilated. Our Theurges and our Galliards say it was a rite, but not one of mysticism or to call some tainted spirit. This is a rite of passage.

"The pack known as the Beloved Horror, servants of Whipporwhill and Green Dragon, have returned."

There is nary a ripple, or a whisper, among those gathered. Some of them don't know what the hell she's talking about; others know that if they so much as cough right now, she'll put that antler through their chests.

"They seek to grow their numbers. My brother --" and one can tell, somehow, how formal that term is, a title more than an endearment, "-- Warning Threshhold is with a cub they stole even now. She is just one, perhaps of many. But twisting the minds of cubs is not the only way that our enemy increases. And killing our packmates and tribemates and littermates is not the only way that they attack us.

"We remember," says the Warder, though a few in the crowd tonight do not, "the tenacity of the Beloved Horror. Those we shed blood with are honored in the Graves. But they are few and we are many. They are hungry and we are vigilant. They have only the Wyrm, and we have Gaia. We have Luna. We have Earth, Thunder,"

a roar goes up, from many a black-furred wolf in the gathering, though few are equal to the roar with which the Warder speaks the name of her own totem.

"Falcon!"

And another roar, white-furred princes and queens of the nation lifting their voices. And again, and again, with each naming:

"Stag! Unicorn! Pegasus! Fenris! Uktena! Wendigo! Owl! Griffin! Cockroach! Rat!"

It is noticable that so few howl for Owl, howl for Griffin -- none at all, in the latter case. There are precious few lupus in the crowd, and even fewer of them who are willing to shout for the totem of a tribe they sometimes have to distance themselves from. But despite how few wolves are allied to some totems versus others -- for example, the whooping for Stag and the snarling and barking for Fenris nearly had to be cut off by glares from the Warder -- every totem is honored. Every tribe is remembered.

The Bone Gnawers let their voices die down. The Warder stands tall, hulking, her hand-paw gripping that antler like it's a klaive.

"We will have their skins drying in the sun by summer's end."

[kai]

Later in the cracking, an Adren Philodox by the name of Conquers Without Destruction steps forward. It is actually quite far along; he forsook his 'turn' to near the end, after a few disputes have been heard and after a few garou have taken the bone to tell the assembled about deeds over the past month, or journeys taken and completed.

"If you seek the honor of leading our moot next month, speak now. Bear in mind that though there was no Fool this month, the seat is always open to a New Moon who wishes to test the gathered septs."

Man of few words, this one.

--

[The floor is open to PCs who want to challenge for Caller of the Wyld/Master of the Howl, Truthcatcher, Talesinger, Wyrmfoe or Fool for the June moot!]

[kai]

When the time is right -- after elders and athros and adrens and fosterns and most packed cliaths have dried out the air with their talking -- Avery does take the invitation that is always given to new wolves. She walks forward and take the bone, inclining her head to her tribesmate.

"My name is Avery Chase, Reverence of Dawn, From Whom the Stars Shall Not Be Hidden By Sunlight. I am a cliath in rank, beloved of Falcon, and I am a Philodox.

"My kin have come here with me from the east. Two are my blood-kin: my father and younger brother. Eight more are more distant relatives and the children of bloodlines allied to my family, and I am responsible for their care and safety, as well.

"I have no pack, yet, and claim no protectorate beyond the residences that my kinfolk and I occupy or the property that I own in and around the city of Denver. Though I live primarily in the city, and will spend most of my time with the sept of the Cold Crescent, I have given chiminage to Earth and I am an ally to and defender of this caern.

"If you are seeking a Philodox for your pack or need neutral judgement in a dispute too minor to take before our elders, my contact information has been given to the Guardians and Warders of both septs. Thank you," she finishes, with a small incline of her head before turning to hand the bone back to the Truthcatcher.

[errin]

When the Warder of Forgotten Questions speaks, Nina stands at rigid attention, her weight shifted forward, her whole lupine body poised with the intensity of her attention. She has a vested interest in talk of the Spiral pack - they all do, of course. These wolves have faced them before, lost friends, brothers, sisters to them. They knew River of Clouds, watched him rise from cub to Cliath. But it was Nina's friend who was approached by that stolen Spiral cub, and it was Nina who realized that girl's connection to River of Clouds' murder. It was the threat not only to War in Law but to the city, to the sept's and this Caern, that convinced her to dig her claws into this city.

The Warder's words stir the blood. Shouts go up. Nina's fierce howl joins the roar for Fenris.

Later, when night has grown long and more important matters have been settled, she rises to her four feet and slips through the crowd, weaving swiftly through older and more experienced wolves. Just before she reaches the center she snaps to her breed form so that she may stride up to the the Truthcatcher with the confident swagger only the two-legged can achieve. She takes the bone, inclining her head to Eternal Reassurance before turning back to face the crowd.

"I'm Nina, called Underdog, Cliath Rotagar of Fenris. I have no kin and no territory of my own, but I've pledged my services and my life to the defense of this city. I have given my chiminage to Earth. I have paid my respects to Cold Crescent. If you need a scout for your pack, you can find me in Cold Cresecent's tower building." Her eyes lift to the heavens and she thinks for only a second before giving a firm nod of her head. She returns the antler to the Truthcatcher and heads back to reclaim her place among the other Cliaths. She stays there, with a handful of other Get or other Ragabashes, until it's time for the Revel.

[Joey]

Law in War retains his lupus form through the exchanges between Garou of rank, wideyed in the moonlit dimness; the better to see their actions and faces. Ears raised and turning; the better to hear their needs, wants, and to put names to those new faces. Nostrils flared; the better to pick out their scents, separating each ingredient from the simmering stew of rage in which he finds himself.

A stillness takes him, an attuned reverence to this part of the moot where the truth is judged and disagreements are settled. It becomes grave, hackles raised and throat threatening a snarl, when the identities of those who murdered River of Clouds are named. His riotous barking joins that of the deafening rabble when Rat is named.

There is a part of the Philodox that is happy for the unbridled release of frustration. A more analytical part – the part that understood (as much as he could hope to) humans, the part that was Garou and made him different from the family he might have had as a wolf – also recognizes what she has done. Given them an enemy to throat, stoked the fury within, and bound that fury with an invocation of totem against that foe. That part of him is impressed and takes note of the Warder's bearing.

Jack Rabbit's head rises again, long ears like his ape-namesake's turning with interest, each time the passing of the great antler comes with a mention of pack.

Jack remains silent as Garou of greater rank speak, and is still quiet as Garou who have called the Caern theirs for longer than himself. But when they are through, he becomes a squat crag of muscle and sharp ends, queuing up to take the antler when the chance is finally given.

"Rabid Jack Rabbit, deeded Law in War. Wolf-born under a half moon. Cliath son of Rat. Kin on iron horses run with me and they are mine as I am theirs. Show them succor. I will do the same for yours. Mistreat them and learn your mistake," the antler now held at his side, fingers gripped around the root where it once joined a living thing. Still able to feel the energy alive within it.

He raises the antler. Looks at the root. Following along its lines to their sharp ends where they terminate.

"Maybe took a pack to bring this down," a beat as he turns it, then lets it fall back to his side.

"And it might take a lot of pack to bring down the bastards," the High Tongue taking on a more aggressive tone from that of his earlier introduction.

"Lone wolves who will have me for a packmate," looking to the Claiths assembled, to Nina, to Avery, to Keisha, and still on to the next. "Let's not wait to find out if we'll lose more lives for want of another pack. Let's not wait to be found. The need is now."

"Scouts. Other Judges. Singers. Priests. Soldiers. Find me during the revel," an exuberant growl, kicking his leg into earth at the thought of coming release.

"Find me after," said with a simple but expectant shrug.

"Find me," lips of the snout curling up in an ugly smile.

"Together we'll find a pack to call our own."

[Samael]

As others make themselves known, Keisha watches and listens. She takes in their names, their ranks, their Auspices, all the other details. She also watches their body languages. The youngish Child of Gaia may come off like the TV version of Felicity Smoak with her tendency talk herself into corners, but she's a fairly astute judge of character and she takes in the information provided by Avery, Nina and Jack. Nina and Jack she already knows of course, from the situation with the Spiral at the bar. They both get smiles and nods of recognition and silent greeting.

When Jack has finished, she steps forward, the end of her staff hitting the ground in sync with the opposite (left) foot. "I'm Keisha Ballard, Still Waters to the spirits, a Cliath Crescent Moon of Unicorn's Children. I am new to this area, having arrived from Portland, Oregon and the Sept of Cleansing Light, where my parents--both kin--still live. I am here with two kin, my uncle and aunt, and claim them under my protection."

"I do not have a pack and am actively seeking one. If you have need of a Theurge for a pack or wish to deal with spirits, you are welcome to find me. Both septs have my contact information; you can also contact me through my kin at the Goddess Gallery in Denver."