07-18-2013, 05:25 PM
None of the moot positions were taken unopposed, but this one is the only one that had six Ahrouns vying for it. Six wolves of the fullest moon, the highest rage, the shortest tempers, the stiffest necks. The one that had won in the end; well. It can hardly be argued that he barely deserved it. How long had he been in the area, anyway -- two days? And a Shadow Lord, too. A Shadow Lord of Fenrir blood. A Shadow Lord of Fenrir blood who might as well be packless, nevermind that he hangs around with that skinny oddball of a Fang Theurge and that sly sphinx of a Lord Ragabash.
So, this month, there are plenty of eyes on Storm's Teeth when the talesinging begins to wind down. A few pairs might actively hope he'll fail. A few are curious, interested. Most just want to see what he's all about. If he's up to snuff. If he even knows how to lead a Revel, when he doesn't even seem to know how to run in a pack properly.
Don't think Erich isn't aware of the eyes on him. Drifter, pseudoloner that he was, he's well aware when he's being watched. He's well aware of the interest that turns his way every time the tales take a lull. Every time there's a longer pause between one story and the next.
And as the night wears on, as the moon climbs higher, as the fires burn lower -- he's aware, too, of a growing burn within himself. That restlessness of rage, licking like a fire at the marrow of his bones.
--
The last tale ends. They know it is the last, because no one else steps up. And because they can feel it behind their breastbones. The urge to run. The urge to hunt. The urge to shed their facades, to stop pretending to be humans, to stop pretending even to be wolves. The silence doesn't last long. It begins to fill with murmurs, with chatter, with voices; the errant snarl or snap. The ambient noise rises.
And then it falls. Quickly, expectantly. The grey(ish) wolf crowded with the rest of the Cliaths gets to his feet. He stretches, lazily and luxuriously, first digging foreclaws into the earth as he arches his tail; then dragging his hindlegs out, flattening his pelvis toward the ground. When he's done he shakes his thick fur out and trots out of the crush, into the emptied center of attention.
All eyes on him, then. His heart beating fast in his chest, awareness and exhilaration both. He stands in the middle of the ring for a moment. He looks around, his fur riffling as his heavy head swings this way, then that. He gives a little prance, hopping his forepaws off the ground. A small cloud of dust goes up as they strike again, four times as big.
Hispo-wolf now. He lolls his tongue at the gathered Garou. He paces back and forth. He ignores the audience. He sniffs the dirt, his tail wagging slowly. He sits. He yawns. He flops down at one point, as though he'd forgotten entirely his job here. A moment later he gets up again, suddenly tensed -- but then it goes nowhere. He's practically teasing them. He's making them wait. There's a rising anticipation that he allows to build, and build, and build, until it borders on frustration. On fury.
An instant before that line is crossed,
(and he knows where that line is because he feels it himself. oh, he feels that frustration, that fury, the short leash on the terrible beast that he keeps locked in his breast fraying, fraying; he feels it better than anyone)
Erich Storm's Teeth throws back his head. His sides expand outward. He lets loose this howl. Lets it roar across the sky. And it is not beautiful, it is not ethereal, it is not haunting. It is raw. It is red. It is visceral, and terrifying, and brutal, and --
it is joyful. It is joy itself. The exhilaration of survival. The celebration of the hunt. The elation of battle and the exaltation of the kill. The revelry in and of their most violent, destructive selves: that is what that howl encompasses.
And with that howl Storm's Teeth works some of the only small magic an Ahroun is capable of. He calls from the heart of the Caern a prey-spirit; a sacrificial lamb of an Engling that spirals beautiful, and ethereal, and haunting from the very earth. It lights them all with its radiance, blue-white and shimmering, and then in an eyeblink it is gone, fleeing into the night.
Erich Storm's Teeth, with snarling howls in his throat, with savage laughter in his heart,
plunges into pursuit with the Sept on his heels.
So, this month, there are plenty of eyes on Storm's Teeth when the talesinging begins to wind down. A few pairs might actively hope he'll fail. A few are curious, interested. Most just want to see what he's all about. If he's up to snuff. If he even knows how to lead a Revel, when he doesn't even seem to know how to run in a pack properly.
Don't think Erich isn't aware of the eyes on him. Drifter, pseudoloner that he was, he's well aware when he's being watched. He's well aware of the interest that turns his way every time the tales take a lull. Every time there's a longer pause between one story and the next.
And as the night wears on, as the moon climbs higher, as the fires burn lower -- he's aware, too, of a growing burn within himself. That restlessness of rage, licking like a fire at the marrow of his bones.
--
The last tale ends. They know it is the last, because no one else steps up. And because they can feel it behind their breastbones. The urge to run. The urge to hunt. The urge to shed their facades, to stop pretending to be humans, to stop pretending even to be wolves. The silence doesn't last long. It begins to fill with murmurs, with chatter, with voices; the errant snarl or snap. The ambient noise rises.
And then it falls. Quickly, expectantly. The grey(ish) wolf crowded with the rest of the Cliaths gets to his feet. He stretches, lazily and luxuriously, first digging foreclaws into the earth as he arches his tail; then dragging his hindlegs out, flattening his pelvis toward the ground. When he's done he shakes his thick fur out and trots out of the crush, into the emptied center of attention.
All eyes on him, then. His heart beating fast in his chest, awareness and exhilaration both. He stands in the middle of the ring for a moment. He looks around, his fur riffling as his heavy head swings this way, then that. He gives a little prance, hopping his forepaws off the ground. A small cloud of dust goes up as they strike again, four times as big.
Hispo-wolf now. He lolls his tongue at the gathered Garou. He paces back and forth. He ignores the audience. He sniffs the dirt, his tail wagging slowly. He sits. He yawns. He flops down at one point, as though he'd forgotten entirely his job here. A moment later he gets up again, suddenly tensed -- but then it goes nowhere. He's practically teasing them. He's making them wait. There's a rising anticipation that he allows to build, and build, and build, until it borders on frustration. On fury.
An instant before that line is crossed,
(and he knows where that line is because he feels it himself. oh, he feels that frustration, that fury, the short leash on the terrible beast that he keeps locked in his breast fraying, fraying; he feels it better than anyone)
Erich Storm's Teeth throws back his head. His sides expand outward. He lets loose this howl. Lets it roar across the sky. And it is not beautiful, it is not ethereal, it is not haunting. It is raw. It is red. It is visceral, and terrifying, and brutal, and --
it is joyful. It is joy itself. The exhilaration of survival. The celebration of the hunt. The elation of battle and the exaltation of the kill. The revelry in and of their most violent, destructive selves: that is what that howl encompasses.
And with that howl Storm's Teeth works some of the only small magic an Ahroun is capable of. He calls from the heart of the Caern a prey-spirit; a sacrificial lamb of an Engling that spirals beautiful, and ethereal, and haunting from the very earth. It lights them all with its radiance, blue-white and shimmering, and then in an eyeblink it is gone, fleeing into the night.
Erich Storm's Teeth, with snarling howls in his throat, with savage laughter in his heart,
plunges into pursuit with the Sept on his heels.
BECAUSE OF LIGHT AND DUTY AND REASONS.