Here she is again. Fey and slim and small and dark and this time girl-shaped. Cinder Song, Furious Lament considers the crowd and of course she doesn't see them not really. Because if she really saw them she'd flee and the Rage-furnace'd kick up and she'd give herself into religious frenzy and that might make a point some nights or during the revel but she doesn't want it now, and so: although Tamsin considers the crowd and looks as if she's looking at it of course she isn't really. She lifts her voice and it is strong and carrying, and this is what she says:
Listen.
The Fianna have stories about the Good People. The Gentry. The Folk. There was an Ahroun once, a strapping young woman whose hair it is said was the color of blood righteously spilled and the only thing sharper than her claws was her tongue. Her name was Honor's Command when she was young, but when she died her name was Honorable Command, Opens the Mountain with a Word, Gentry Cursed. They said her tongue was sharp enough that it once cut a pass through a mountain and it was a good pass until a loathsome Wyrm-spawn with fifteen heads and reeking breath that could, if it touched you, call your bones out of your arm, and set those bones fighting to claw out your throat. That's a story for another time. Honorable Command earned the name Gentry Cursed when she, the story goes, closed her eyes and opened them and hundred years had passed. Gentry Cursed was lucky enough to be young; lucky enough to adapt. Lucky enough to be Garou.
Our purpose does not change and will not change. But it was hard, getting used to the world a hundred years after the one she'd been born to. The garou she'd known were long dead and so were the kin.
We've got a lot of stories about getting lost in time because of Them, and it doesn't always work out so well as it did for Honorable Command. There is a story about a Strider whose name was Black Stone from the River, a Theurge who wandered so far and so deep that he could never find his proper time again. Time just let him go and refused to keep him on the road forward most've us are walking. He's seen again and again. Talked to, too. But never in the right order.
Can you imagine wandering so far time gives you up? Not knowing how to get back? If Gaia needed you fifty years from now, when you opened your eyes would you be ready?
Listen.
This is a story about a pair of garou we know and how they were ready, but it wasn't the sleep of legendary heroes who have volunteered to sleep until they're needed, until Ragnarok is here, until some End Time looms -- wasn't that sleep which pushed them into the future. It was need, pulling them back into the past. Denver's past. Our history. That other time, it needed them the way rain needs to fall or roots need rain and after a forest fire the seed needs to crack open and grip that soil tight so it doesn't spill.
This is the story about how Reverence of Dawn met Black Sheep and how they rallied a long-ago Denver and were unwavering against the terrible no-good rotten -- and I mean rotten, rotten to the marrow, rotting in the spirit -- Sherman Kane and the Kane Brothers Gang.
And it's a story of Platte River, and how it saved a life.
[to be continued & finished tomorrow, when less sleepy]
Listen.
The Fianna have stories about the Good People. The Gentry. The Folk. There was an Ahroun once, a strapping young woman whose hair it is said was the color of blood righteously spilled and the only thing sharper than her claws was her tongue. Her name was Honor's Command when she was young, but when she died her name was Honorable Command, Opens the Mountain with a Word, Gentry Cursed. They said her tongue was sharp enough that it once cut a pass through a mountain and it was a good pass until a loathsome Wyrm-spawn with fifteen heads and reeking breath that could, if it touched you, call your bones out of your arm, and set those bones fighting to claw out your throat. That's a story for another time. Honorable Command earned the name Gentry Cursed when she, the story goes, closed her eyes and opened them and hundred years had passed. Gentry Cursed was lucky enough to be young; lucky enough to adapt. Lucky enough to be Garou.
Our purpose does not change and will not change. But it was hard, getting used to the world a hundred years after the one she'd been born to. The garou she'd known were long dead and so were the kin.
We've got a lot of stories about getting lost in time because of Them, and it doesn't always work out so well as it did for Honorable Command. There is a story about a Strider whose name was Black Stone from the River, a Theurge who wandered so far and so deep that he could never find his proper time again. Time just let him go and refused to keep him on the road forward most've us are walking. He's seen again and again. Talked to, too. But never in the right order.
Can you imagine wandering so far time gives you up? Not knowing how to get back? If Gaia needed you fifty years from now, when you opened your eyes would you be ready?
Listen.
This is a story about a pair of garou we know and how they were ready, but it wasn't the sleep of legendary heroes who have volunteered to sleep until they're needed, until Ragnarok is here, until some End Time looms -- wasn't that sleep which pushed them into the future. It was need, pulling them back into the past. Denver's past. Our history. That other time, it needed them the way rain needs to fall or roots need rain and after a forest fire the seed needs to crack open and grip that soil tight so it doesn't spill.
This is the story about how Reverence of Dawn met Black Sheep and how they rallied a long-ago Denver and were unwavering against the terrible no-good rotten -- and I mean rotten, rotten to the marrow, rotting in the spirit -- Sherman Kane and the Kane Brothers Gang.
And it's a story of Platte River, and how it saved a life.
[to be continued & finished tomorrow, when less sleepy]