Oh no. Oh no no no.
The cracking's done. Plotting, challenges, blood, pack v. pack, blood v. blood, concerns, territory disputes, all that's finished with. The laws of war, right here. Cracking's done, bone's gone away, moon's still full, oh, moon's still cold and watchful, moon's brimming full of pale fire and it's brimming in their bones, riding high, Rage, Rage what separates them and makes them into another species, not viable, can't breed, another species, and the cracking of the bone's done so now it's time for stories
now it's time for the Talesinger to stand up and
ok, ok, ok, ok, right before, right just before this happens, it's worth saying, worth stating, that the Fianna-wolf is wolf-shaped pressed against her pack close-close tight-tight rib-to-rib as small-a-ball as she can possibly be posture alert but wary a lie because she is nervousnervousnervous wants to puke wants the Beloved Horror to attack right now that'd be fine wants to die gloriously right now please right now now now
and when the cracking's done, she whines, low-sound, barely-heard sound, don't want to do this don't fucking want to do this how could you guys let me
not that she told them when she'd made up her mind to challenge
but she just can't
can't for what feels like a forever but isn't actually all that long not long enough for heckling to start up naw
because Tamsin forces herself to jump four-footed up and shake herself shake the cold moonlight off her fur shake it sluicing back down onto spare-stony-or-snowy ground and she shakes herself right out've wolf-shape into woman-shape and she
is absolutely (nope [no!]) calm
throwing all her will into opening the Songs and Stories perfectly.
--
By the Cold Moon, she says, (and listen to her voice. Impossible that she's anything but Fianna. Impossible that the Cold Moon itself isn't burning more brightly; isn't polishing itself up to shine white conjured like this - so clearly, so simply, so unwaveringly. By the Cold Moon, she tells them,) you know my name. Cinder Song, Furious Lament. By the Cold Moon and the Fallow Field, she says, grave: grave as a headstone. By the shadow spun by moonlight and by my voice. You know my name. Cinder Song, Furious Lament. Fianna of Celduin. By the season of hunger and by the oldest point of the year, we've reached this peak, we've come here, here by roads carnage-strewn and long ways that are warm only 'cause no one stands alone, 'cause we've got pack and friends and allies. By all these things we've come here (and listen, see? Listen, okay, because at some point Tamsin stopped speaking and began singing, each word clear, each note strong, but chaunting, drag-you-in, drag-you-down, this is a promise, and she became and is:
still figure, un-moving, chin up, dark, breath a ghost in front of her, fog,) and you know me. Cinder Song, Furious Lament. Fianna. You know my pack. You know, let's hope for Gaia's sake, my auspice. This slim conspiratorial smile, a waning moon's smile. You know who I am. Talesinger under the Cold Moon. Talesinger under the Cold Moon for the Sept of Forgotten questions. By my name and by my shadow and by my voice: Here I stand, and you know me.
By my breath, I know your names.
Simplicity. A pause to conjure silence out've noise. Who's she going to talk about now? What names will she conjure by?
Don't I?
The Fianna woman pats herself down, unbuttons her jacket. Her breath steams, but there's something rhythmic about the patting, distant echo drum-flush, ba-dum, ba-dum, until she finds what it is she was looking for, dedicated for just this moment. This little tiny flask, ceremony: she undoes the cap, pours the Grain-water down, stomps her feet, Galliards, she says, or sings, By your breath in the winter's air, tell me who we are. By your heartbeat under the dark sky, the heat of your pack's bodies, tell us all what we have won and lost this long year. Galliards, she says, and others with a tale to tell, an anecdote, a half-song, a memory, a hope. By your hatred of the Wyrm, by the blood that has been spilled, and now,
let it never be said that Furious Lament, Cinder Song, doesn't go for broke,
also, f' you, Fenrir, Fianna are totally as hardcore,
Tamsin rakes her nails down her forehead down her cheek as if she were doing up some war-paint but it's not war-paint on her fingers she digs hard enough to bleed. Blood-calling-up-an-oath, watch her simmer with furious intensity as she flicks a drop down onto the ground or the snow, says,
By the sweetest splash of booze-y spirits since the Fairies invented it as a reward to the Fianna for being so fucking badass which now soaks into the ground. By your honor and the honor of your ancestors. By my blood,
get down here. Tell the Sept of Forgotten Questions that a Forgotten Question does not mean everything has been Forgotten.
Mood-change, then, an easing of shoulders as she watches the Elders and Athros and Adrens and Fosterns and so on, watches to see who'll come first, watches them ready themselves but doesn't really see not yet because she's still performing still Tale-singing them down still kicking this shit off:
I'll start.
And she tells a short and awesome opening story, and it is very awesome, and it is about [Some Elder NPC--probably related to Phoebe], or maybe it is about Raspberry Sky, Fern, and Law in War her pack-mate and resurrection, and maybe Tamsin's player will write that opening story later or at least a paragraph that says a bit more about it, but it is time for somebody else to post in the Tales thread now and here's the mood-setting.
---
As Talesinger, Tamsin never sits down.
Never completely recedes. Cedes the floor, certainly, but is ready to cut anybody off for going too long, for stuttering too badly, for being less than their best -- after letting them have a good show, of course. Ready, too, to be used as a prop for anybody's tale, ready to clap along or be the chorus or lend her voice or paw or howl, anything that'd make a tale better, burn brighter.
She keeps an eye on the crowd. Tries not to think.
(And I wasn't going to roll, but then I wanted an excuse to write a sloppy opening, and this happened:
Need A Witness
[Char + Perf/Expr + PB + WP.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 6, 6, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 6 ) [WP]
Need A Witness
[
YAY!]
Is a witness
Witnessed!
Need A Witness
[Thanks, Seb! Tonight: you are a god! Among witnesses!]
Is a witness
[It was my pleasure! Make sure to save a transcript!]
The cracking's done. Plotting, challenges, blood, pack v. pack, blood v. blood, concerns, territory disputes, all that's finished with. The laws of war, right here. Cracking's done, bone's gone away, moon's still full, oh, moon's still cold and watchful, moon's brimming full of pale fire and it's brimming in their bones, riding high, Rage, Rage what separates them and makes them into another species, not viable, can't breed, another species, and the cracking of the bone's done so now it's time for stories
now it's time for the Talesinger to stand up and
ok, ok, ok, ok, right before, right just before this happens, it's worth saying, worth stating, that the Fianna-wolf is wolf-shaped pressed against her pack close-close tight-tight rib-to-rib as small-a-ball as she can possibly be posture alert but wary a lie because she is nervousnervousnervous wants to puke wants the Beloved Horror to attack right now that'd be fine wants to die gloriously right now please right now now now
and when the cracking's done, she whines, low-sound, barely-heard sound, don't want to do this don't fucking want to do this how could you guys let me
not that she told them when she'd made up her mind to challenge
but she just can't
can't for what feels like a forever but isn't actually all that long not long enough for heckling to start up naw
because Tamsin forces herself to jump four-footed up and shake herself shake the cold moonlight off her fur shake it sluicing back down onto spare-stony-or-snowy ground and she shakes herself right out've wolf-shape into woman-shape and she
is absolutely (nope [no!]) calm
throwing all her will into opening the Songs and Stories perfectly.
--
By the Cold Moon, she says, (and listen to her voice. Impossible that she's anything but Fianna. Impossible that the Cold Moon itself isn't burning more brightly; isn't polishing itself up to shine white conjured like this - so clearly, so simply, so unwaveringly. By the Cold Moon, she tells them,) you know my name. Cinder Song, Furious Lament. By the Cold Moon and the Fallow Field, she says, grave: grave as a headstone. By the shadow spun by moonlight and by my voice. You know my name. Cinder Song, Furious Lament. Fianna of Celduin. By the season of hunger and by the oldest point of the year, we've reached this peak, we've come here, here by roads carnage-strewn and long ways that are warm only 'cause no one stands alone, 'cause we've got pack and friends and allies. By all these things we've come here (and listen, see? Listen, okay, because at some point Tamsin stopped speaking and began singing, each word clear, each note strong, but chaunting, drag-you-in, drag-you-down, this is a promise, and she became and is:
still figure, un-moving, chin up, dark, breath a ghost in front of her, fog,) and you know me. Cinder Song, Furious Lament. Fianna. You know my pack. You know, let's hope for Gaia's sake, my auspice. This slim conspiratorial smile, a waning moon's smile. You know who I am. Talesinger under the Cold Moon. Talesinger under the Cold Moon for the Sept of Forgotten questions. By my name and by my shadow and by my voice: Here I stand, and you know me.
By my breath, I know your names.
Simplicity. A pause to conjure silence out've noise. Who's she going to talk about now? What names will she conjure by?
Don't I?
The Fianna woman pats herself down, unbuttons her jacket. Her breath steams, but there's something rhythmic about the patting, distant echo drum-flush, ba-dum, ba-dum, until she finds what it is she was looking for, dedicated for just this moment. This little tiny flask, ceremony: she undoes the cap, pours the Grain-water down, stomps her feet, Galliards, she says, or sings, By your breath in the winter's air, tell me who we are. By your heartbeat under the dark sky, the heat of your pack's bodies, tell us all what we have won and lost this long year. Galliards, she says, and others with a tale to tell, an anecdote, a half-song, a memory, a hope. By your hatred of the Wyrm, by the blood that has been spilled, and now,
let it never be said that Furious Lament, Cinder Song, doesn't go for broke,
also, f' you, Fenrir, Fianna are totally as hardcore,
Tamsin rakes her nails down her forehead down her cheek as if she were doing up some war-paint but it's not war-paint on her fingers she digs hard enough to bleed. Blood-calling-up-an-oath, watch her simmer with furious intensity as she flicks a drop down onto the ground or the snow, says,
By the sweetest splash of booze-y spirits since the Fairies invented it as a reward to the Fianna for being so fucking badass which now soaks into the ground. By your honor and the honor of your ancestors. By my blood,
get down here. Tell the Sept of Forgotten Questions that a Forgotten Question does not mean everything has been Forgotten.
Mood-change, then, an easing of shoulders as she watches the Elders and Athros and Adrens and Fosterns and so on, watches to see who'll come first, watches them ready themselves but doesn't really see not yet because she's still performing still Tale-singing them down still kicking this shit off:
I'll start.
And she tells a short and awesome opening story, and it is very awesome, and it is about [Some Elder NPC--probably related to Phoebe], or maybe it is about Raspberry Sky, Fern, and Law in War her pack-mate and resurrection, and maybe Tamsin's player will write that opening story later or at least a paragraph that says a bit more about it, but it is time for somebody else to post in the Tales thread now and here's the mood-setting.
---
As Talesinger, Tamsin never sits down.
Never completely recedes. Cedes the floor, certainly, but is ready to cut anybody off for going too long, for stuttering too badly, for being less than their best -- after letting them have a good show, of course. Ready, too, to be used as a prop for anybody's tale, ready to clap along or be the chorus or lend her voice or paw or howl, anything that'd make a tale better, burn brighter.
She keeps an eye on the crowd. Tries not to think.
(And I wasn't going to roll, but then I wanted an excuse to write a sloppy opening, and this happened:
Need A Witness
[Char + Perf/Expr + PB + WP.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 6, 6, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 6 ) [WP]
Need A Witness
[
YAY!]Is a witness
Witnessed!
Need A Witness
[Thanks, Seb! Tonight: you are a god! Among witnesses!]
Is a witness
[It was my pleasure! Make sure to save a transcript!]