05-22-2013, 08:58 PM
One of the first garou to take the bone in hand-paw and speak to the assembled is not one of the elders but the Warder of the Sept of Forgotten Questions. She is hulking, primitive thing, black furred from the tips of her ears to the end of her tail. Her eyes have no brightness to them, indeed no color to differentiate them from her fur but for the paleness of her sclera. There is no disruption along her body to that endless darkness, except for a nasty patch of scar tissue along her left side. It is mostly hidden, but when she twists a certain way, the moonlight hits skin and reveals the emblem of a death she endured, and returned from, long ago.
Many here do not know her name. She has been the Warder here since long before the Sept of the Cold Crescent was formed and the only Garou who remember the Warder before her are already Adrens and Athros themselves. Most call her simply: Warder-rhya. Quietly, but officially, she did come to be known as Forgotten Warder, which is an even more apt title: every time a wolf or human feels momentarily safe in the borders of this sept, they are able to forget the necessity of her office and the things she does to keep this land sanctified. It is a semi-rare thing to even see her present for an entire moot; the size of the bawn here requires constant vigilance.
"You have heard," she begins, her voice clear and level, lifting each syllable of the High Tongue into a low but angry growl, "of the death of River of Clouds, son of Pegasus, one of Luna's tricksters. Many of us knew him as a cub, called Little Raven. You have heard how he was mutilated. Our Theurges and our Galliards say it was a rite, but not one of mysticism or to call some tainted spirit. This is a rite of passage.
"The pack known as the Beloved Horror, servants of Whipporwhill and Green Dragon, have returned."
There is nary a ripple, or a whisper, among those gathered. Some of them don't know what the hell she's talking about; others know that if they so much as cough right now, she'll put that antler through their chests.
"They seek to grow their numbers. My brother --" and one can tell, somehow, how formal that term is, a title more than an endearment, "-- Warning Threshhold is with a cub they stole even now. She is just one, perhaps of many. But twisting the minds of cubs is not the only way that our enemy increases. And killing our packmates and tribemates and littermates is not the only way that they attack us.
"We remember," says the Warder, though a few in the crowd tonight do not, "the tenacity of the Beloved Horror. Those we shed blood with are honored in the Graves. But they are few and we are many. They are hungry and we are vigilant. They have only the Wyrm, and we have Gaia. We have Luna. We have Earth, Thunder,"
a roar goes up, from many a black-furred wolf in the gathering, though few are equal to the roar with which the Warder speaks the name of her own totem.
"Falcon!"
And another roar, white-furred princes and queens of the nation lifting their voices. And again, and again, with each naming:
"Stag! Unicorn! Pegasus! Fenris! Uktena! Wendigo! Owl! Griffin! Cockroach! Rat!"
It is noticable that so few howl for Owl, howl for Griffin -- none at all, in the latter case. There are precious few lupus in the crowd, and even fewer of them who are willing to shout for the totem of a tribe they sometimes have to distance themselves from. But despite how few wolves are allied to some totems versus others -- for example, the whooping for Stag and the snarling and barking for Fenris nearly had to be cut off by glares from the Warder -- every totem is honored. Every tribe is remembered.
The Bone Gnawers let their voices die down. The Warder stands tall, hulking, her hand-paw gripping that antler like it's a klaive.
"We will have their skins drying in the sun by summer's end."
Many here do not know her name. She has been the Warder here since long before the Sept of the Cold Crescent was formed and the only Garou who remember the Warder before her are already Adrens and Athros themselves. Most call her simply: Warder-rhya. Quietly, but officially, she did come to be known as Forgotten Warder, which is an even more apt title: every time a wolf or human feels momentarily safe in the borders of this sept, they are able to forget the necessity of her office and the things she does to keep this land sanctified. It is a semi-rare thing to even see her present for an entire moot; the size of the bawn here requires constant vigilance.
"You have heard," she begins, her voice clear and level, lifting each syllable of the High Tongue into a low but angry growl, "of the death of River of Clouds, son of Pegasus, one of Luna's tricksters. Many of us knew him as a cub, called Little Raven. You have heard how he was mutilated. Our Theurges and our Galliards say it was a rite, but not one of mysticism or to call some tainted spirit. This is a rite of passage.
"The pack known as the Beloved Horror, servants of Whipporwhill and Green Dragon, have returned."
There is nary a ripple, or a whisper, among those gathered. Some of them don't know what the hell she's talking about; others know that if they so much as cough right now, she'll put that antler through their chests.
"They seek to grow their numbers. My brother --" and one can tell, somehow, how formal that term is, a title more than an endearment, "-- Warning Threshhold is with a cub they stole even now. She is just one, perhaps of many. But twisting the minds of cubs is not the only way that our enemy increases. And killing our packmates and tribemates and littermates is not the only way that they attack us.
"We remember," says the Warder, though a few in the crowd tonight do not, "the tenacity of the Beloved Horror. Those we shed blood with are honored in the Graves. But they are few and we are many. They are hungry and we are vigilant. They have only the Wyrm, and we have Gaia. We have Luna. We have Earth, Thunder,"
a roar goes up, from many a black-furred wolf in the gathering, though few are equal to the roar with which the Warder speaks the name of her own totem.
"Falcon!"
And another roar, white-furred princes and queens of the nation lifting their voices. And again, and again, with each naming:
"Stag! Unicorn! Pegasus! Fenris! Uktena! Wendigo! Owl! Griffin! Cockroach! Rat!"
It is noticable that so few howl for Owl, howl for Griffin -- none at all, in the latter case. There are precious few lupus in the crowd, and even fewer of them who are willing to shout for the totem of a tribe they sometimes have to distance themselves from. But despite how few wolves are allied to some totems versus others -- for example, the whooping for Stag and the snarling and barking for Fenris nearly had to be cut off by glares from the Warder -- every totem is honored. Every tribe is remembered.
The Bone Gnawers let their voices die down. The Warder stands tall, hulking, her hand-paw gripping that antler like it's a klaive.
"We will have their skins drying in the sun by summer's end."
my whole life is thunder.