A thrill goes up Avery's spine. She shivers at the sound as she is drawn towards it, and it feels Wyld, and it makes her feel wild. As she and others begin to walk and run from the parking lot or the fields or trails, Avery slips down into the larger of her four-legged forms. She is not a hunter in this body, because hunters must be quick and silent and deadly at times, and this body is built for pure carnage, for pure power. But it sparks the edges of her rage to wear it, and so she does.
When she reaches the site, others are still starting to surround Phoebe. They are in a multitude of forms and shapes. There are hulking grey Fenrir and there are Glasswalkers from Cold Crescent with shaving and tattooing that range from artful to garish and there are sleek, pitch-dark Furies whose voices twine with Phoebe's in near-perfect harmony and there are garou in homid who sing in human voices and there are a smattering -- a sad, small smattering -- of lupus-born who howl because human songs mean so little to them and there are the sometimes rasping, sometimes warped voices of metis there, but even at their most beautiful they mean little because in Forgotten Questions they are often avoided and in Cold Crescent they are often ignored.
Avery breathes in deep and pushes through the Gauntlet when it is time. Here it is easier than any other place, so close to the heart, but she has no pack Theurge to drag her in with her and she is not, like some older Philodoxes, as strong in spirit as in will. She lingers for a heart-stopping count of seconds in limbo before crossing over, finding she has lost the thread of the song. She breathes in deep, and whuffs out, and then
howls.
Now, full-throated, she does not keep her voice soft out of concern for the mortals nearby but howls and howls, lifting her muzzle and letting it out. The spirits gather around her, and underneath them Earth is answering, stirring in wakefulness to Phoebe's song, all but vibrating into their bones to join them tonight.
When she reaches the site, others are still starting to surround Phoebe. They are in a multitude of forms and shapes. There are hulking grey Fenrir and there are Glasswalkers from Cold Crescent with shaving and tattooing that range from artful to garish and there are sleek, pitch-dark Furies whose voices twine with Phoebe's in near-perfect harmony and there are garou in homid who sing in human voices and there are a smattering -- a sad, small smattering -- of lupus-born who howl because human songs mean so little to them and there are the sometimes rasping, sometimes warped voices of metis there, but even at their most beautiful they mean little because in Forgotten Questions they are often avoided and in Cold Crescent they are often ignored.
Avery breathes in deep and pushes through the Gauntlet when it is time. Here it is easier than any other place, so close to the heart, but she has no pack Theurge to drag her in with her and she is not, like some older Philodoxes, as strong in spirit as in will. She lingers for a heart-stopping count of seconds in limbo before crossing over, finding she has lost the thread of the song. She breathes in deep, and whuffs out, and then
howls.
Now, full-throated, she does not keep her voice soft out of concern for the mortals nearby but howls and howls, lifting her muzzle and letting it out. The spirits gather around her, and underneath them Earth is answering, stirring in wakefulness to Phoebe's song, all but vibrating into their bones to join them tonight.
my whole life is thunder.