05-21-2013, 10:28 PM
The full moon is not the first time Avery Chase has visited the Sept of Forgotten Questions.
She came during daylight hours on one of the first truly warm days this year, her driver taking them down the bumpy road from the gate to the visitor's center. Her hat was large and floppy and made of straw bearing a wide black band, and her sunglasses were in the style of Miss Audrey Hepburn. Her sundress was white and her shoes are not made for walking in for very long. Someone forgot to tell her that cork wedges are for picnics you don't have to hike to.
She set off all the same, leaving her driver in the dove-grey Flying Spur in the parking lot. He was agonizing, nearly nailbiting, over the mess and damage to the car that just driving there might have done and was composing in his head a proposal for the house steward on purchasing something more rugged for Miss Chase's excursions into outlying areas. He does not like dirt. After a few moments of fussing, he got out, rolled up his sleeves, got some cloths in the trunk kept just for this purpose, and started polishing the Bentley. He ignored every odd stare he got.
So did Miss Chase, in her wedges and sunhat and pretty little dress. She took her time walking, and left the beaten path, heading ever inward until she could feel eyes watching her steadily. No quirked eyebrow, no strange looks. Just someone watching her, alerted by her scent or her breeding or by a radio call from one of the kinfolk rangers. She turned to the Guardian then and announced herself. It sniffed her, and led her to the caern's heart to pay her chiminage.
She closed her eyes as she pulled the memory from the depths of her mind. There's no true continuity there, not in those early memories. No chronology, not even any certainty. Avery showed Earth the shadows and colors of a greenhouse, the knowledge of a greenhouse even when the picture is unclear. A black dog, block-headed and with a sleek coat, sniffing at her. There is no context, no particular meaning. Just a memory, given to the spirit to bond them. Avery thanked the totem spirit quietly as she departed, returning to her driver and a gleaming car without even dust on the wheels.
She did not come back again. Not until this night, some time later. She's been so busy, you see. There was so much to be done to prepare for her family, for the help, for her own needs while in the city. Even when she was informed of a summer solstice gathering, she was too busy to attend. A shame. Fianna gatherings can be terribly amusing.
Tonight, Avery is not dressed in a floppy sunhat and pristine sundress and wedges. She's wearing clothes that look like they're made for yoga -- which in fact they are. Black pants, white tank top, black jacket, sneakers. Her hair is let down. She is waiting in the parking lot with her driver as before, though this time in a luxury SUV to be determined later by her player. She's a little embarrassed to not have a pack, peering out of her tinted windows at a few garou and kin milling about who seem to know each other. Perhaps she has no reason to feel embarrassed, even a little, but try telling her that.
People start to look up, start to hear something in the distance. People are starting to move a new direction. Avery follows them. Some, familiar with each other since cubhood, jostle and snap at each other as they walk. Avery feels inherently more drawn to the older garou, in whatever form they're walking in: the fosterns, the adrens even. They're steadier. They're older. She breathes in deep and exhales slow and, as the garou begin to gather towards the meadow, she starts to see more like herself: older cliaths, not quite so immature. She smiles.
Oh, she knows the song. And she sings along with a passable if not remarkable voice. By the end of the final rendition she's smiling, bright as the moon overhead.
She came during daylight hours on one of the first truly warm days this year, her driver taking them down the bumpy road from the gate to the visitor's center. Her hat was large and floppy and made of straw bearing a wide black band, and her sunglasses were in the style of Miss Audrey Hepburn. Her sundress was white and her shoes are not made for walking in for very long. Someone forgot to tell her that cork wedges are for picnics you don't have to hike to.
She set off all the same, leaving her driver in the dove-grey Flying Spur in the parking lot. He was agonizing, nearly nailbiting, over the mess and damage to the car that just driving there might have done and was composing in his head a proposal for the house steward on purchasing something more rugged for Miss Chase's excursions into outlying areas. He does not like dirt. After a few moments of fussing, he got out, rolled up his sleeves, got some cloths in the trunk kept just for this purpose, and started polishing the Bentley. He ignored every odd stare he got.
So did Miss Chase, in her wedges and sunhat and pretty little dress. She took her time walking, and left the beaten path, heading ever inward until she could feel eyes watching her steadily. No quirked eyebrow, no strange looks. Just someone watching her, alerted by her scent or her breeding or by a radio call from one of the kinfolk rangers. She turned to the Guardian then and announced herself. It sniffed her, and led her to the caern's heart to pay her chiminage.
She closed her eyes as she pulled the memory from the depths of her mind. There's no true continuity there, not in those early memories. No chronology, not even any certainty. Avery showed Earth the shadows and colors of a greenhouse, the knowledge of a greenhouse even when the picture is unclear. A black dog, block-headed and with a sleek coat, sniffing at her. There is no context, no particular meaning. Just a memory, given to the spirit to bond them. Avery thanked the totem spirit quietly as she departed, returning to her driver and a gleaming car without even dust on the wheels.
She did not come back again. Not until this night, some time later. She's been so busy, you see. There was so much to be done to prepare for her family, for the help, for her own needs while in the city. Even when she was informed of a summer solstice gathering, she was too busy to attend. A shame. Fianna gatherings can be terribly amusing.
Tonight, Avery is not dressed in a floppy sunhat and pristine sundress and wedges. She's wearing clothes that look like they're made for yoga -- which in fact they are. Black pants, white tank top, black jacket, sneakers. Her hair is let down. She is waiting in the parking lot with her driver as before, though this time in a luxury SUV to be determined later by her player. She's a little embarrassed to not have a pack, peering out of her tinted windows at a few garou and kin milling about who seem to know each other. Perhaps she has no reason to feel embarrassed, even a little, but try telling her that.
People start to look up, start to hear something in the distance. People are starting to move a new direction. Avery follows them. Some, familiar with each other since cubhood, jostle and snap at each other as they walk. Avery feels inherently more drawn to the older garou, in whatever form they're walking in: the fosterns, the adrens even. They're steadier. They're older. She breathes in deep and exhales slow and, as the garou begin to gather towards the meadow, she starts to see more like herself: older cliaths, not quite so immature. She smiles.
Oh, she knows the song. And she sings along with a passable if not remarkable voice. By the end of the final rendition she's smiling, bright as the moon overhead.
my whole life is thunder.