09-25-2013, 10:31 AM
It's a lot of questions at once. Fern doesn't get around to answering most of them. She scowls at Keisha calling her honey, but the question confuses her, the scowl just becoming a frown of bewilderment. She's not a theurge. She doesn't think like a theurge. All she can do is repeat what she hears. Which may be why her reaction to Sophia digging a beetle from the dirt and saying a whole lot of things that Fern doesn't understand before aiming three questions at her is to just look at her in something that rides the boundary between confusion and disdain. Another question from Phoebe, then.
Fern's hand closes tightly around the flower, her face screwing up. There's a reason cubs are kept in the bawn, behind the boundaries where they can be watched over and -- to put it bluntly -- controlled. Fern is not only a full moon, but a full moon who has killed her own kind, was recruited and nearly a part of a pack of Spirals, who is now getting peppered with questions by a set of garou she has no context for understanding. For an ahroun -- especially a young, damaged, frightened ahroun -- there are few paths that do not end in rage. Including paths that begin with shrinking, with terror, with retreat.
"I don't know," she says defensively. "If it all made sense I would still be there with them, wouldn't I? I did what they told me and I killed a lot of people and cut them apart and tied their intestines together and ate their hearts because they said it would make sense once I did it, okay? I impaled that one guy," she says, strain in her voice, because these days she's surrounded by people who don't know what that's like, what that sounds like, how hard you have to push, the way the body smells -- "And I did it because they said it was what I was supposed to do, it's what I was, it's why I was born like this."
She tosses the flower on the ground between them again, not a throw but a lob, a heavy drop, frowning at the lot of them. She's shaking, and it's hard to tell if it's from trying to control herself or from remembered terror or simple nausea at these memories. "I don't wear flowers in my hair and I'm not your 'honey' and I don't wanna think like that anymore. It's crazy," she says forcefully, defiantly, her eyes shooting with accusation at Sophia when she says that.
Her gaze snaps back to Phoebe. "I had to find people who looked like the ones in the Horror. It's like eating your own heart when you do it, or the hearts of your packmates. And the wolf at the center is like... like a present for each of them, so they have to be the same moon. So I got one for...him, for Th'nak'vis, and I was gonna get that one, that biker guy, for the next one, then you all took me away. I don't know how it works, or if it's all just crazy bullshit," she says, and it's hard not to growl now, not to show teeth, and
it's hard to keep the hair on her forearms from growing thicker and coarser, her ear-tips from elongating, her teeth from sharpening, her eyes from gleaming slightly gold. "I don't know," Fern snarls, her feet scooting back in the dirt. "Okay? I don't know. I'm not like them anymore, I don't know why they do it all. I don't know."
She has coiled down on herself, crouching in glabro now, claws to dirt, very near taking a four-legged shape, bolting-shape, retreat shape. She keeps inching backwards.
Fern's hand closes tightly around the flower, her face screwing up. There's a reason cubs are kept in the bawn, behind the boundaries where they can be watched over and -- to put it bluntly -- controlled. Fern is not only a full moon, but a full moon who has killed her own kind, was recruited and nearly a part of a pack of Spirals, who is now getting peppered with questions by a set of garou she has no context for understanding. For an ahroun -- especially a young, damaged, frightened ahroun -- there are few paths that do not end in rage. Including paths that begin with shrinking, with terror, with retreat.
"I don't know," she says defensively. "If it all made sense I would still be there with them, wouldn't I? I did what they told me and I killed a lot of people and cut them apart and tied their intestines together and ate their hearts because they said it would make sense once I did it, okay? I impaled that one guy," she says, strain in her voice, because these days she's surrounded by people who don't know what that's like, what that sounds like, how hard you have to push, the way the body smells -- "And I did it because they said it was what I was supposed to do, it's what I was, it's why I was born like this."
She tosses the flower on the ground between them again, not a throw but a lob, a heavy drop, frowning at the lot of them. She's shaking, and it's hard to tell if it's from trying to control herself or from remembered terror or simple nausea at these memories. "I don't wear flowers in my hair and I'm not your 'honey' and I don't wanna think like that anymore. It's crazy," she says forcefully, defiantly, her eyes shooting with accusation at Sophia when she says that.
Her gaze snaps back to Phoebe. "I had to find people who looked like the ones in the Horror. It's like eating your own heart when you do it, or the hearts of your packmates. And the wolf at the center is like... like a present for each of them, so they have to be the same moon. So I got one for...him, for Th'nak'vis, and I was gonna get that one, that biker guy, for the next one, then you all took me away. I don't know how it works, or if it's all just crazy bullshit," she says, and it's hard not to growl now, not to show teeth, and
it's hard to keep the hair on her forearms from growing thicker and coarser, her ear-tips from elongating, her teeth from sharpening, her eyes from gleaming slightly gold. "I don't know," Fern snarls, her feet scooting back in the dirt. "Okay? I don't know. I'm not like them anymore, I don't know why they do it all. I don't know."
She has coiled down on herself, crouching in glabro now, claws to dirt, very near taking a four-legged shape, bolting-shape, retreat shape. She keeps inching backwards.
my whole life is thunder.