02-14-2014, 11:58 AM
As the Cracking is dying down, and plans are made for further investigations of DIA, it comes time for the Great Alpha to walk to Avery and take the bone from her. She bows, as she always does, and then steps back, out of his way.
Those who have been around Cold Crescent for the past two months have seen plenty of activity, but much of it has gone on over their heads, among Adrens and even a single Athro who seem inclined to stay in the city rather than near the caern. Arguments and challenges for Sept Leader, Warder. The challenge floor has, once or twice, been wet with fresh blood. Doors have slammed into old offices on those high floors as werewolves get into furious debates, or even seething but quiet conversations. Some of these challenges have been amicable, bloody or loud or not. There is excitement in the air, and resentment, and frustration, and exhiliration -- all at once.
But they're not done. They all know they're not done yet. And the Great Alpha said two moons. Last chance. He didn't mention it at the January moot at all. No check-in, no progress report. They all know why he's stepping forward now, and more than a few wolves who have allied themselves with Cold Crescent feel their stomachs sink, because they haven't heard any Sept Leader announced, or Warder, and while the place is regularly patrolled and lived-in now and shrines are being rebuilt, it doesn't have a distinct structure yet. That sept is going to be closed. They're going to make the kinfolk who own it sell it, or something. The place where the Guardians all died is going to be rebuilt and turned into more office suites.
God dammit.
--
"Who leads?"
These are the first words out of the Great Alpha's maw, throat reformed to speak the human tongue. His yellow eyes cast around the gathering; he remembers who spoke up at the last moot, saying I will. I will. I will.
"Who leads Cold Crescent?"
At first there is silence. Then Shieldwind walks forward, requesting the bone from the Grand Elder and receiving it in his palm. He is the only Athro who said he will protect Cold Crescent. He is a tall, powerfully built werewolf, a Philodox whose rage at this rank is like a wall of flame. He is the one who said, two months ago, that he will die without his wolf and slashed by silver, if it means he can keep that place protected.
"There is no Sept Leader, Ryha," he says, unflinchingly. "Cold Crescent is divided between the older and younger Garou. We aren't communicating. Many want to see it renewed as a full sept, all are willing to protect it, but only a handful are stepping forward to take responsibility for guiding it."
The Great Alpha's nostrils flare. His lips roll back, baring his teeth, but he does not growl. Nor does he remove the bone from Shieldwind's grasp.
Shieldwind does not hesitate. "But it thrives. Everyone from the Strider cub to myself is patrolling the city sept's territory. Every Theurge keeps the shrines and watches the spirits. We are acting as a sept. There is more to be done," he goes on, and he is high enough in rank that he dares to forestall interruption from the Great Alpha, "and much that we can't do until we have leaders to make the harder decisions. But it is a sept, Rhya. We are not up in the city doing nothing. Every argument for keeping Cold Crescent alive still stands.
"But without a leader to begin with, we might tear ourselves apart trying to find one. I think," says Shieldwind, levelly, "you should appoint a Sept Leader. When Cold Crescent was first built, it was built without the blessing of our elders in Forgotten Questions. That drove a wedge between the two septs for years. Appoint a Sept Leader that you trust. Someone to bridge the gap between the septs, help us determine our other leaders, and hold us accountable for standing on our own feet," Shieldwind says. "And if the day comes when that leader is no longer fit for us, the wolves of Cold Crescent will challenge."
The Great Alpha, who at a couple of points nearly snapped his jaws at the Athro, gives a low rumble of a growl. He stands there, silent but not motionless, then swivels away. He paces a few steps one direction, turns, and paces a few more in the other, thinking in motion. Even in his growing age, the muscles moving beneath his heavy skin and thick fur coil and roll visibly. It is not just the fact that he wears hispo, as he often does; he is strong in every form. He is strength, itself, formed.
He comes back to stand facing Shieldwind. Looks beyond him for a moment, finding one among the man, then looks back to Shieldwind.
"Vigor," he snarls, and an Adren Ragabash who spoke two months ago blinks, straightening up.
He doesn't have the bone. All the same, everyone hears him:
"Wait, what?"
Those who have been around Cold Crescent for the past two months have seen plenty of activity, but much of it has gone on over their heads, among Adrens and even a single Athro who seem inclined to stay in the city rather than near the caern. Arguments and challenges for Sept Leader, Warder. The challenge floor has, once or twice, been wet with fresh blood. Doors have slammed into old offices on those high floors as werewolves get into furious debates, or even seething but quiet conversations. Some of these challenges have been amicable, bloody or loud or not. There is excitement in the air, and resentment, and frustration, and exhiliration -- all at once.
But they're not done. They all know they're not done yet. And the Great Alpha said two moons. Last chance. He didn't mention it at the January moot at all. No check-in, no progress report. They all know why he's stepping forward now, and more than a few wolves who have allied themselves with Cold Crescent feel their stomachs sink, because they haven't heard any Sept Leader announced, or Warder, and while the place is regularly patrolled and lived-in now and shrines are being rebuilt, it doesn't have a distinct structure yet. That sept is going to be closed. They're going to make the kinfolk who own it sell it, or something. The place where the Guardians all died is going to be rebuilt and turned into more office suites.
God dammit.
--
"Who leads?"
These are the first words out of the Great Alpha's maw, throat reformed to speak the human tongue. His yellow eyes cast around the gathering; he remembers who spoke up at the last moot, saying I will. I will. I will.
"Who leads Cold Crescent?"
At first there is silence. Then Shieldwind walks forward, requesting the bone from the Grand Elder and receiving it in his palm. He is the only Athro who said he will protect Cold Crescent. He is a tall, powerfully built werewolf, a Philodox whose rage at this rank is like a wall of flame. He is the one who said, two months ago, that he will die without his wolf and slashed by silver, if it means he can keep that place protected.
"There is no Sept Leader, Ryha," he says, unflinchingly. "Cold Crescent is divided between the older and younger Garou. We aren't communicating. Many want to see it renewed as a full sept, all are willing to protect it, but only a handful are stepping forward to take responsibility for guiding it."
The Great Alpha's nostrils flare. His lips roll back, baring his teeth, but he does not growl. Nor does he remove the bone from Shieldwind's grasp.
Shieldwind does not hesitate. "But it thrives. Everyone from the Strider cub to myself is patrolling the city sept's territory. Every Theurge keeps the shrines and watches the spirits. We are acting as a sept. There is more to be done," he goes on, and he is high enough in rank that he dares to forestall interruption from the Great Alpha, "and much that we can't do until we have leaders to make the harder decisions. But it is a sept, Rhya. We are not up in the city doing nothing. Every argument for keeping Cold Crescent alive still stands.
"But without a leader to begin with, we might tear ourselves apart trying to find one. I think," says Shieldwind, levelly, "you should appoint a Sept Leader. When Cold Crescent was first built, it was built without the blessing of our elders in Forgotten Questions. That drove a wedge between the two septs for years. Appoint a Sept Leader that you trust. Someone to bridge the gap between the septs, help us determine our other leaders, and hold us accountable for standing on our own feet," Shieldwind says. "And if the day comes when that leader is no longer fit for us, the wolves of Cold Crescent will challenge."
The Great Alpha, who at a couple of points nearly snapped his jaws at the Athro, gives a low rumble of a growl. He stands there, silent but not motionless, then swivels away. He paces a few steps one direction, turns, and paces a few more in the other, thinking in motion. Even in his growing age, the muscles moving beneath his heavy skin and thick fur coil and roll visibly. It is not just the fact that he wears hispo, as he often does; he is strong in every form. He is strength, itself, formed.
He comes back to stand facing Shieldwind. Looks beyond him for a moment, finding one among the man, then looks back to Shieldwind.
"Vigor," he snarls, and an Adren Ragabash who spoke two months ago blinks, straightening up.
He doesn't have the bone. All the same, everyone hears him:
"Wait, what?"
my whole life is thunder.