11-05-2013, 05:21 PM
"Stop it."
That's the first thing Erich says all night. The first thing, after being summoned here by a force greater than his will; pulled out of the mountains where his tinypack lives in their cozy little tinyhouse. After sitting off at the edges for hours, disgruntlement turning slowly to discomfort and dread as Garou after Garou is dragged before the Septs. Is dishonored. Is shamed. Is brought low as low can be.
His lips thin when he watches Hunter of Peace grovel before his counterpart, but he says nothing. He winces as Retribution's Fist is shunned; grimaces as -- wise or not, cunning or not, foresightful or not -- his tribesman's mate turns from him. But he says nothing. He folds his arms tightly across his chest and scowls as Forge of Nótt's name is quite literally besmirched with so many curses, mockeries and indictments that the Rite begins to feel gratuitous. Actually, no: it always feels gratuitous to Erich. Immature, gratuitous, cruel as schoolyard bullying. But:
he says nothing.
And nothing is what he says when Warning Threshold is stripped of his Wolf. Nothing is what he says, though his fists are clenched under his biceps, his arms folded tight, his jaw tighter still. Nothing.
Nothing, until --
-- until Curved Sky tells her story. Until she finishes her story. Until the Ritemaster begins to smear her face in blood, until a ripple of horror and awe spreads through the gathered Garou.
Erich doesn't understand what is happening until those around him whisper it. Gaia's, they say, snatches of whispers caught here and there. Teeth. Gaia's Vengeful Teeth. Vengeful. Gaia's Teeth. And then,
when his synapses spark, when the circuit closes, when he pulls up the fragmentary training and teaching her received as a pup and understand what is happening here,
oh, that. That is when he speaks.
--
"Stop it."
Again. Louder. Some near Erich are turning their heads. Some curious. Some glaring. He sucks in a breath; Curved Sky is weeping now, she is sobbing, she is not begging for mercy but she is begging for forgiveness, she is begging. Erich is shouting:
"Stop it! This isn't fair. This isn't right. She confessed her crimes. She owned up to it. Hasn't she earned herself some measure of honor? Hasn't she earned the right to a name and a memory? You wouldn't do this to a Dancer. You didn't do this to Beloved Horror! This is not fair,"
he's shouting and he's pushing forward but the sheer mass of the Garou, the sheer number of the crowd holds him back. Someone yells back at him, shut up Cliath!, and someone else is clocking him upside the head and all around him the howls are rising up,
the rite is rolling unstoppable to its terrible conclusion,
Storm's Teeth isn't howling but he is shouting, he's screaming it over and over:
"STOP IT. THIS ISN'T RIGHT. STOP IT. STOP,"
until his shouts are superceded by the sounds Curved Sky makes. Which are nothing human. Which are nothing Garou. Which are bloodcurdling, soul-scarring, noises of horror and pain that every last one of them will remember to the day they die.
That's when Storm's Teeth snaps to warform. That's when he starts leaping, lunging over the masses; starts chasing Curved Sky, but not to harry her with the rest. Not the harry her at all but to kill her, to give her some semblance of honor or -- at least -- some peace, some end to this, some mercy. That's when those around him turn on him,
that's when he's grabbed, that's when he shoulders free, that's when he's shoved back and borne down, that's when he tries to scramble up snarling, snapping in every direction; that's when someone far stronger and older throats him and bears him down, that's when he completely loses himself and turns wild, frothing, bucking, mindless; that's when someone else grabs an enormous stone from the ground and smashes it into his skull.
--
Erich does not, in the end, succeed in anything he attempted. Curved Sky is harried into the hills. Her Rite is not interrupted. She is given no mercy.
She is devoured by the earth. No; no euphemisms. Let's be blunt about what we have done:
She is burned by it, scorched away by it, her skin peels and blisters and cracks, her flesh melts off her bones, her bones sear to dust. The damage is unsurvivable, but that does not mean it is quick. She is alive for most of it, until she is not anymore. She is alive
for a very
long
time.
--
when erich comes to it is quiet. the gathering has dissipated. the ground is cold mud, and he is facedown in it. the smell of blood and scorched flesh still hangs in the air.
he is sore everywhere. he is heartsore. he curls in on himself, and he covers his eyes with his hand, and he sobs.
That's the first thing Erich says all night. The first thing, after being summoned here by a force greater than his will; pulled out of the mountains where his tinypack lives in their cozy little tinyhouse. After sitting off at the edges for hours, disgruntlement turning slowly to discomfort and dread as Garou after Garou is dragged before the Septs. Is dishonored. Is shamed. Is brought low as low can be.
His lips thin when he watches Hunter of Peace grovel before his counterpart, but he says nothing. He winces as Retribution's Fist is shunned; grimaces as -- wise or not, cunning or not, foresightful or not -- his tribesman's mate turns from him. But he says nothing. He folds his arms tightly across his chest and scowls as Forge of Nótt's name is quite literally besmirched with so many curses, mockeries and indictments that the Rite begins to feel gratuitous. Actually, no: it always feels gratuitous to Erich. Immature, gratuitous, cruel as schoolyard bullying. But:
he says nothing.
And nothing is what he says when Warning Threshold is stripped of his Wolf. Nothing is what he says, though his fists are clenched under his biceps, his arms folded tight, his jaw tighter still. Nothing.
Nothing, until --
-- until Curved Sky tells her story. Until she finishes her story. Until the Ritemaster begins to smear her face in blood, until a ripple of horror and awe spreads through the gathered Garou.
Erich doesn't understand what is happening until those around him whisper it. Gaia's, they say, snatches of whispers caught here and there. Teeth. Gaia's Vengeful Teeth. Vengeful. Gaia's Teeth. And then,
when his synapses spark, when the circuit closes, when he pulls up the fragmentary training and teaching her received as a pup and understand what is happening here,
oh, that. That is when he speaks.
--
"Stop it."
Again. Louder. Some near Erich are turning their heads. Some curious. Some glaring. He sucks in a breath; Curved Sky is weeping now, she is sobbing, she is not begging for mercy but she is begging for forgiveness, she is begging. Erich is shouting:
"Stop it! This isn't fair. This isn't right. She confessed her crimes. She owned up to it. Hasn't she earned herself some measure of honor? Hasn't she earned the right to a name and a memory? You wouldn't do this to a Dancer. You didn't do this to Beloved Horror! This is not fair,"
he's shouting and he's pushing forward but the sheer mass of the Garou, the sheer number of the crowd holds him back. Someone yells back at him, shut up Cliath!, and someone else is clocking him upside the head and all around him the howls are rising up,
the rite is rolling unstoppable to its terrible conclusion,
Storm's Teeth isn't howling but he is shouting, he's screaming it over and over:
"STOP IT. THIS ISN'T RIGHT. STOP IT. STOP,"
until his shouts are superceded by the sounds Curved Sky makes. Which are nothing human. Which are nothing Garou. Which are bloodcurdling, soul-scarring, noises of horror and pain that every last one of them will remember to the day they die.
That's when Storm's Teeth snaps to warform. That's when he starts leaping, lunging over the masses; starts chasing Curved Sky, but not to harry her with the rest. Not the harry her at all but to kill her, to give her some semblance of honor or -- at least -- some peace, some end to this, some mercy. That's when those around him turn on him,
that's when he's grabbed, that's when he shoulders free, that's when he's shoved back and borne down, that's when he tries to scramble up snarling, snapping in every direction; that's when someone far stronger and older throats him and bears him down, that's when he completely loses himself and turns wild, frothing, bucking, mindless; that's when someone else grabs an enormous stone from the ground and smashes it into his skull.
--
Erich does not, in the end, succeed in anything he attempted. Curved Sky is harried into the hills. Her Rite is not interrupted. She is given no mercy.
She is devoured by the earth. No; no euphemisms. Let's be blunt about what we have done:
She is burned by it, scorched away by it, her skin peels and blisters and cracks, her flesh melts off her bones, her bones sear to dust. The damage is unsurvivable, but that does not mean it is quick. She is alive for most of it, until she is not anymore. She is alive
for a very
long
time.
--
when erich comes to it is quiet. the gathering has dissipated. the ground is cold mud, and he is facedown in it. the smell of blood and scorched flesh still hangs in the air.
he is sore everywhere. he is heartsore. he curls in on himself, and he covers his eyes with his hand, and he sobs.
BECAUSE OF LIGHT AND DUTY AND REASONS.