10-16-2013, 03:32 PM
Let's get one thing straight.
The Falcons are dedicated to leadership. To honor. To grace and courage under fire. Who ushered kin and garou alike out of the warmoot when two other wolves were in conflict? It was not one but both of the Falcons. They are two fosterns in concert, in union, and they both speak with patience and wisdom even when they feel their rage and frustration licking at their bones.
But here is what you must remember: they do feel that rage. They are honorable leaders but by god the are warriors, as any who have seen either of them in battle readily attests. They are veritably fearless in the face of their enemy, both of them willing to throw themselves at that sickening opposition wholly, entirely, without reservation. They are wolves.
And like any wolves, particularly wolves whose tribal totems and pack totem are hunters both day and night, they both have a streak of dominance and violence in them that runs very, very deep. They have their own tensions, held in check by politeness and good manners, by self-restraint, by control, by love for Gaia, by respect for the Nation, by so many motivating factors it hardly bears listing them all. They have reasons, good ones, for rising above what is petty or momentary for the sake of the greater, more long-term good. But that doesn't mean they don't feel tension sometimes, that they don't sometimes disagree or step on each other's toes or feel the urge to react with ground-scorching fury.
They don't.
They save it for the enemy.
And for the revel.
--
Avery is in lupus where Javed is in crinos. He begins growling while he is still beside her, rising to that enormous height. Avery bares her teeth, fur bristling, and as the flames of the moot are extinguished into trailing smoke against the moonlit night sky, she grows from a sleek silver wolf to a white creature of myth and nightmare, snarling low and steady as he turns to her.
Javed leans in. This is how it begins: that flint and that steel, coming so very close to scraping against each other and igniting. Avery growls back at him, snaps her jaws at her own packmate, slipping very easily with him into what could, yes, become a challenge, become a frenzy, become all the things they are in their hearts: animal. Monstrous. Savage.
He wheels around and that same instinct that sees her mind momentarily painted with blood causes her to not leap on his back but instantly see whatever he turns to as the enemy. She claws at the ground with her forepaws, snorting and snarling a warning. By the time that Javed stalks around Desert Oracle and Baklava Republik, Avery is on the verge of leaping on the first wolf who brushes against her to start fighting them, just to fight something.
Then he roars, and it ripples through her like a sudden flood, making her shudder, making her begin roaring and snarling, full-throated and mad, mad, mad, mad, mad. She snaps forward like the speed has already built up in her, waiting for this, waiting for anything, and takes off after Javed, kicking up dirt behind her, biting at the heels of cubs and cliaths, running pace to pace with the rest.
The Falcons are dedicated to leadership. To honor. To grace and courage under fire. Who ushered kin and garou alike out of the warmoot when two other wolves were in conflict? It was not one but both of the Falcons. They are two fosterns in concert, in union, and they both speak with patience and wisdom even when they feel their rage and frustration licking at their bones.
But here is what you must remember: they do feel that rage. They are honorable leaders but by god the are warriors, as any who have seen either of them in battle readily attests. They are veritably fearless in the face of their enemy, both of them willing to throw themselves at that sickening opposition wholly, entirely, without reservation. They are wolves.
And like any wolves, particularly wolves whose tribal totems and pack totem are hunters both day and night, they both have a streak of dominance and violence in them that runs very, very deep. They have their own tensions, held in check by politeness and good manners, by self-restraint, by control, by love for Gaia, by respect for the Nation, by so many motivating factors it hardly bears listing them all. They have reasons, good ones, for rising above what is petty or momentary for the sake of the greater, more long-term good. But that doesn't mean they don't feel tension sometimes, that they don't sometimes disagree or step on each other's toes or feel the urge to react with ground-scorching fury.
They don't.
They save it for the enemy.
And for the revel.
--
Avery is in lupus where Javed is in crinos. He begins growling while he is still beside her, rising to that enormous height. Avery bares her teeth, fur bristling, and as the flames of the moot are extinguished into trailing smoke against the moonlit night sky, she grows from a sleek silver wolf to a white creature of myth and nightmare, snarling low and steady as he turns to her.
Javed leans in. This is how it begins: that flint and that steel, coming so very close to scraping against each other and igniting. Avery growls back at him, snaps her jaws at her own packmate, slipping very easily with him into what could, yes, become a challenge, become a frenzy, become all the things they are in their hearts: animal. Monstrous. Savage.
He wheels around and that same instinct that sees her mind momentarily painted with blood causes her to not leap on his back but instantly see whatever he turns to as the enemy. She claws at the ground with her forepaws, snorting and snarling a warning. By the time that Javed stalks around Desert Oracle and Baklava Republik, Avery is on the verge of leaping on the first wolf who brushes against her to start fighting them, just to fight something.
Then he roars, and it ripples through her like a sudden flood, making her shudder, making her begin roaring and snarling, full-throated and mad, mad, mad, mad, mad. She snaps forward like the speed has already built up in her, waiting for this, waiting for anything, and takes off after Javed, kicking up dirt behind her, biting at the heels of cubs and cliaths, running pace to pace with the rest.
my whole life is thunder.