11-22-2013, 02:41 PM
For as much time as he spends railing on about how badass his cohorts are Hector rarely inserts himself into a story unless he's recounting a time he and one of his departed packmates engaged in some shenanigans in another city.
Celduin has not seen their totem on this side of the Gauntlet since Willow Eyes-in-the-Dark led them. He could tell tale after tale about her. At the time of her death she was the same rank as Siren of Persephone. She was as lighthearted and enamored with the arts as Siren of Persephone. Had the same appreciation for certain comic book movie actors' pectoral muscles as does Siren of Persephone. Her moods were stormy though and she had an affinity for distant spectral things and were not for the tether of her pack she would have wandered lost in the Umbra until her body dissolved and she turned to pure spirit.
Willow is the one he thought of as he poked at the healing wound before calling Phoebe. Celduin's first alpha would have wanted to perform the rite the second the pack's Uktena came back with that scar. Would have boxed his ears because fighting a Bane by himself was a stupid foolhardy thing to do even if he emerged bloody and victorious at the end of it. Probably would have used still-red embers instead of ash. Or wine. Something that would have stung like hell.
To say Hector is distracted by thoughts and the ghosts of the people who populate those thoughts is an understatement. This is not so solemn a rite as a punishment rite but he is not a proud creature. He performs his duties and Tamsin can attest to his moments of arrogance but arrogance and pride are two different breeds of beast.
So he approaches the flame-lit circle with a reverence shown in the form of quiet footsteps and withheld speech. Stoops quick to set down the hunting knife and the moonshine at the edge of the circle where he will leave his pack and his mate. The only two who need be present are the ritesmistress and he with his wound not yet healed.
No point celebrating raging back from the dead in the absence of those he counts as important. He wasn't expecting Fog though. His nostrils flare with a hard inhale when the first tendrils begin to wisp through the tear in the Gauntlet. He nearly bursts out in delighted laughter when Fog drifts around his packsister and his kinswoman and his newest brother. That laughter does not show itself though. He smiles a clamped-down smile that shows more in his eyes than it does on his face.
Ready?
Hector puts away the smile and considers the place Phoebe has prepared for the rite. He chews on his lip as he nods his head and then he drops his jacket to the ground. Pulls off his sweatshirt and the t-shirt worn beneath it and makes a pile of his clothing. He doesn't usually need an excuse to strip himself to the waist but it is literally freezing out tonight.
The scar glints pink against his earth-dark skin. Hector joins Phoebe in the circle.
Celduin has not seen their totem on this side of the Gauntlet since Willow Eyes-in-the-Dark led them. He could tell tale after tale about her. At the time of her death she was the same rank as Siren of Persephone. She was as lighthearted and enamored with the arts as Siren of Persephone. Had the same appreciation for certain comic book movie actors' pectoral muscles as does Siren of Persephone. Her moods were stormy though and she had an affinity for distant spectral things and were not for the tether of her pack she would have wandered lost in the Umbra until her body dissolved and she turned to pure spirit.
Willow is the one he thought of as he poked at the healing wound before calling Phoebe. Celduin's first alpha would have wanted to perform the rite the second the pack's Uktena came back with that scar. Would have boxed his ears because fighting a Bane by himself was a stupid foolhardy thing to do even if he emerged bloody and victorious at the end of it. Probably would have used still-red embers instead of ash. Or wine. Something that would have stung like hell.
To say Hector is distracted by thoughts and the ghosts of the people who populate those thoughts is an understatement. This is not so solemn a rite as a punishment rite but he is not a proud creature. He performs his duties and Tamsin can attest to his moments of arrogance but arrogance and pride are two different breeds of beast.
So he approaches the flame-lit circle with a reverence shown in the form of quiet footsteps and withheld speech. Stoops quick to set down the hunting knife and the moonshine at the edge of the circle where he will leave his pack and his mate. The only two who need be present are the ritesmistress and he with his wound not yet healed.
No point celebrating raging back from the dead in the absence of those he counts as important. He wasn't expecting Fog though. His nostrils flare with a hard inhale when the first tendrils begin to wisp through the tear in the Gauntlet. He nearly bursts out in delighted laughter when Fog drifts around his packsister and his kinswoman and his newest brother. That laughter does not show itself though. He smiles a clamped-down smile that shows more in his eyes than it does on his face.
Ready?
Hector puts away the smile and considers the place Phoebe has prepared for the rite. He chews on his lip as he nods his head and then he drops his jacket to the ground. Pulls off his sweatshirt and the t-shirt worn beneath it and makes a pile of his clothing. He doesn't usually need an excuse to strip himself to the waist but it is literally freezing out tonight.
The scar glints pink against his earth-dark skin. Hector joins Phoebe in the circle.
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon
-- ixphaelaeon