09-05-2014, 10:46 PM
The Ahroun had not brought a fresh kill to lay at the feet of the Guardians. Perhaps upon sighting her, feeling the familiar twist of a full moon's anger rolling against their skin they hadn't expected one. Perhaps her offering was made in other ways. Quiet news of another Sept travelled from, updates on the struggle that somehow made distance seem less. A familiar story no matter the location.
Death. Invasion. Wyrm. The insidiousness of an enemy that could fold itself beneath even the most innocuous things. Firebrand was an orator by blood, if not by moon, she passed on what information served a usefulness and was allowed to make her offerings to the heart of the Caern. It takes Morgan some long minutes to untangle a memory strong enough, early enough to satisfy the parameters of joining forces with the Sept of Forgotten Questions. She was born to the beat of a warrior's moon and while death was a certainty for her, at eighteen years it had also been a familiar phantom for many past.
The black wolf finds her inspecting the view from the hillside overlooking the rebuilt homestead of Henry Persse. In this form, the Fianna is impressive if only for the brilliant russet shades of her fur and the purity of the blood that sings through her veins. Her eyes are a reflection of their homid state, clear and so pale a blue as to seem more grey than anything else, level and watchful as the other wolf approaches.
The Fianna scents the air, ears flicking and vocalizes some brief huff through her nostrils that accounts for a response. As comfortable as her wolf skin was, the Fianna clearly had little desire to commune in it and after a beat there's the telltale rippling shift; clothing replacing fur, sharp claws retracting down to be replaced by blunter, human fingernails. The brilliant color of her coat remains, but now only as unbound strands hanging loose around a young face.
"'lo," she greets in a low voice, crossing arms over raised knees. "Firebrand, daughter of Stag, Cliath Ahroun, new t'these parts." She waves a hand, an abortive catch all for the landscape around them. "Who're you, then?" There's a trace of some accent there, american, treated with time abroad. A lilting edge, slicing at the tips of words. Also a directness.
Death. Invasion. Wyrm. The insidiousness of an enemy that could fold itself beneath even the most innocuous things. Firebrand was an orator by blood, if not by moon, she passed on what information served a usefulness and was allowed to make her offerings to the heart of the Caern. It takes Morgan some long minutes to untangle a memory strong enough, early enough to satisfy the parameters of joining forces with the Sept of Forgotten Questions. She was born to the beat of a warrior's moon and while death was a certainty for her, at eighteen years it had also been a familiar phantom for many past.
The black wolf finds her inspecting the view from the hillside overlooking the rebuilt homestead of Henry Persse. In this form, the Fianna is impressive if only for the brilliant russet shades of her fur and the purity of the blood that sings through her veins. Her eyes are a reflection of their homid state, clear and so pale a blue as to seem more grey than anything else, level and watchful as the other wolf approaches.
The Fianna scents the air, ears flicking and vocalizes some brief huff through her nostrils that accounts for a response. As comfortable as her wolf skin was, the Fianna clearly had little desire to commune in it and after a beat there's the telltale rippling shift; clothing replacing fur, sharp claws retracting down to be replaced by blunter, human fingernails. The brilliant color of her coat remains, but now only as unbound strands hanging loose around a young face.
"'lo," she greets in a low voice, crossing arms over raised knees. "Firebrand, daughter of Stag, Cliath Ahroun, new t'these parts." She waves a hand, an abortive catch all for the landscape around them. "Who're you, then?" There's a trace of some accent there, american, treated with time abroad. A lilting edge, slicing at the tips of words. Also a directness.