October: Revel

[Samael]

The time for stories and songs is done; the bone has been cracked and business for the septs, challenges and disputes and announcements, have been handled. The moot is drawing to a close and one Garou, who has remained in his breed form this whole time, has remained quiet throughout but for the Howl, not speaking up during the Songs, the Cracking or any other point. Javed Anubis-Sight has stayed silent in his spot next to his packmate, holding his own building tension in check. There has been no release for him throughout, no moment of song nor words to let himself diffuse the knot of pressure boiling at his core.

It is not an understatement to say that tension has been running very high throughout the two septs of Denver and they've reached a new pitch over the last month. Elders from the one sept have gone in and blunt-force removed the elders from the other, one by one until none remained. Garou from both septs are here, side by side, and that division can likely be felt stronger than ever before, in the way the one has encroached on the other. This is a moment that the Garou of Denver need. And Anubis-Sight, this child of one bird of prey who is packed under another, has an intrinsic understanding of that.

So when the business of the moot is resolved and the Great Alpha draws the Cracking of the Bone to a close, the one-eyed metis rises to his feet, a low growl emanating forth. The sound is distinctly raw in its primordial nature, beginning deep in the Ahroun's throat as he steps to the center of the gathering. He cultivates the sound, turning his attention to those whose eyes have come to rest upon him now.

The edge of his muzzle rises up as he turns to his packmate, one of two people he can specifically identify in this moment (the other being the imposing Hispo of the Great Elder himself). One baleful eye stares at her, the rumble in his chest reverberating as he draws close. It is an action that could be interpreted as a near-challenge to lose control, turns what is likely to be discomfort into something different. Something deeper and more primal.

And just like that he's whirled away, stalking toward Celduin. He circles around them, never showing his back with the low growl raising in pitch and volume. Echoes of the Lost and Cinder Song, who sang of them all during the Stories and Songs…they see claws flex, shoulders hunch but the Ahroun moves to quickly around for them to ever be able to fully face him. The lupus Law in War is not free from this either; they are circled as one unit, the Fostern treating the pack as a single entity to be goaded. Not with whoops and hollers, because that is not the Strider's way. He is not an exuberant creature, but one of a Rage deep enough that it is felt throughout his being at all times, held back with his restraint and Honor. Both wear thin as he stalks around the children of Fog, anticipation slowly building.

And so it continues, as he moves to another pack, and another. He invades the personal space of one pack, forcing them to shed their notions of human semblance and remember what burns deep inside of them—not humanity, but a fury born of Gaia and the spiritual core that makes them so much more than human or wolf. The non-packed Garou get special attention; the Strider gets directly in the face of Thunder’s Cry Echoes From the Sea and issues a low snarl. Pokes the Mind's Eye, the newly-arrived Ragabash, is next and he leans in close blasts air through his nostrils, and gnashes his teeth.

And so it goes. No pack avoids being targeted; the duo of Baklava Republik and the Theurges of the Desert Oracles are treated as one pack, circled and snapped at as one to force them together and use whatever tension may remain between them to drive their Rage higher and (consequently) drive them ever together. The Philodox and Ragabash from Stone Cold are woven between, forcing them apart for a moment as the jackal-headed war form of the Strider snaps at one, then the other. There are other packs as well, goaded and wordlessly threatened and, as the fever pitch of the tension rises, barked and snarled at.

And finally, he is back up at front and he stares out among the Garou of both septs, whipped up and at the height of their passion and he

Roars.

And with that sound, the sound of a warrior calling to scour and hunt and drive prey away, he takes off to lead those creatures of war, destruction, passion and Rage, the perfect killing machines, on a race through the Sept to drive it free…ostensibly of any little remnants of taint that may have infected this area, but in truth what they are driving out is the human notions of division and individuality, the identity and foibles and hurt feelings that make them separate. Wherever they end the Revel, whatever prey they have caught and killed or driven away to make this place ever more sanctified, the most important things that they've driven away—if they're lucky—are those walls that divide them and the reasons that they refer to the other Sept, the other packs, the other Auspices, breeds, tribes as them. That night, at the end, it is us.