07-17-2013, 11:14 AM
When it comes time for the Athros to speak, Warning Threshold is not there, but of course he's not: he is in the sept in the city, looming over Denver, keeping watch. His company is thin: a few Guardians who sacrifice their night at the moot to patrol the city, and a ghost who lives atop a stone plinth in a church courtyard. But there is
a tall man, his head shaved clean and a bit shiny, his body barrel-shaped despite his height. He is wearing eyeglasses and a dark blue suit with a reddish-orange silk pocket square and a golden tie. There's an earpiece with a little cord running down behind his ear and under his jacket. He is not garou. He is in the umbra. One of the Elders brought him, and stands in physical contact with him in lupus, the man's hand in the Elder's fur.
This is Richard York, and he is Warning Threshold's half-brother. He is also the Head of Security at 1999 Broadway, and most often seen strolling the lobby, chatting with tenants in the charming way he has that makes them think, really, he's just a figurehead. He also nudges ne'erdowells out the door with an easygoing so where are you headed? and a smile that does not quite hide the feral sharpness of his teeth. He does not look threatening. There is only the sense about him that more threatening things wait behind him, and that is as it should be, for that is the truth.
"Good evening," he says to the assembled, though it is the Elder beside him who holds the bone in their teeth. "Some of you may already know my brother Richard, but he speaks tonight in my place."
Warning Threshold. A different voice, and not the right body, but Richard may as well be possessed by his half-brother, for all he indicates he feels anything he says.
"Those of you who are not new to our borders also know that last month, we suffered casualties while transporting the cub known as 'Fern' to the caern. The Beloved Horror attacked us, as well as our kinfolk, and killed Wind on Concrete and Slaughter. We have howled for them and buried them. But one was lost who we cannot bury, one who cannot hear us when we howl for him, because the Spirals took him.
"Champion of Honor is still touched by the totem of his pack. He is still holy enough for the spirit to abide, but his mind is silent. We cannot reach him. Our questing stones hang sullen and still. We do not know what has become of him. We only know that he is alive, and that -- if he is being corrupted -- the taint has not spread enough to sever him from his pack."
There are Guardians here tonight, from both septs, who know the man. There are garou of all ranks who have run with him, hunted with him, argued with him. Some even remember the last time he picked up the bone as Truthcatcher himself, when he was still a cliath. Even some of the newcomers know his face, and his voice, and some of them were there when he was taken. The silence in the gathering is of palpable thickness, heavy with anticipation of the inevitable.
"I charge the wolves of these septs, No-Moons to Full Moons and all those in between, to look for Champion of Honor. Find the Beloved Horror. If he is still bound to us, I have faith it means he has not betrayed us. But knowing he has spent a month in their hands, perhaps not even able to know how we search for him, leaves a cold weight in my stomach. He must be found. He must be rescued and cleansed.
"And if we cannot save him, we must save ourselves."
The Elder returns the bone to Law in War. The kinsman walks back to his spot, his hand never leaving the Elder's fur. Around him is the buzz of technology, so clear in the spirit world that it's distracting to many of them, but he remains. He is there in his brother's stead, eyes and ears.
a tall man, his head shaved clean and a bit shiny, his body barrel-shaped despite his height. He is wearing eyeglasses and a dark blue suit with a reddish-orange silk pocket square and a golden tie. There's an earpiece with a little cord running down behind his ear and under his jacket. He is not garou. He is in the umbra. One of the Elders brought him, and stands in physical contact with him in lupus, the man's hand in the Elder's fur.
This is Richard York, and he is Warning Threshold's half-brother. He is also the Head of Security at 1999 Broadway, and most often seen strolling the lobby, chatting with tenants in the charming way he has that makes them think, really, he's just a figurehead. He also nudges ne'erdowells out the door with an easygoing so where are you headed? and a smile that does not quite hide the feral sharpness of his teeth. He does not look threatening. There is only the sense about him that more threatening things wait behind him, and that is as it should be, for that is the truth.
"Good evening," he says to the assembled, though it is the Elder beside him who holds the bone in their teeth. "Some of you may already know my brother Richard, but he speaks tonight in my place."
Warning Threshold. A different voice, and not the right body, but Richard may as well be possessed by his half-brother, for all he indicates he feels anything he says.
"Those of you who are not new to our borders also know that last month, we suffered casualties while transporting the cub known as 'Fern' to the caern. The Beloved Horror attacked us, as well as our kinfolk, and killed Wind on Concrete and Slaughter. We have howled for them and buried them. But one was lost who we cannot bury, one who cannot hear us when we howl for him, because the Spirals took him.
"Champion of Honor is still touched by the totem of his pack. He is still holy enough for the spirit to abide, but his mind is silent. We cannot reach him. Our questing stones hang sullen and still. We do not know what has become of him. We only know that he is alive, and that -- if he is being corrupted -- the taint has not spread enough to sever him from his pack."
There are Guardians here tonight, from both septs, who know the man. There are garou of all ranks who have run with him, hunted with him, argued with him. Some even remember the last time he picked up the bone as Truthcatcher himself, when he was still a cliath. Even some of the newcomers know his face, and his voice, and some of them were there when he was taken. The silence in the gathering is of palpable thickness, heavy with anticipation of the inevitable.
"I charge the wolves of these septs, No-Moons to Full Moons and all those in between, to look for Champion of Honor. Find the Beloved Horror. If he is still bound to us, I have faith it means he has not betrayed us. But knowing he has spent a month in their hands, perhaps not even able to know how we search for him, leaves a cold weight in my stomach. He must be found. He must be rescued and cleansed.
"And if we cannot save him, we must save ourselves."
The Elder returns the bone to Law in War. The kinsman walks back to his spot, his hand never leaving the Elder's fur. Around him is the buzz of technology, so clear in the spirit world that it's distracting to many of them, but he remains. He is there in his brother's stead, eyes and ears.
my whole life is thunder.