09-29-2014, 09:35 PM
Among the wolves there is a gleaming one. She is not the only one who shines so, and she does not even shine the brightest, but something about her carriage is arresting. She enters the gathering in hispo, her fur white from snout to tail-tip, her eyes a fierce blue. She has arrived alone, and seeks out her packmate with those clear eyes, watching for him. Since the spot of the moot shifts month to month, full moon to full moon, they do not always have an agreed-upon place to stand, but she knows she will sense him when he arrives.
Just as she will find Charlotte, if the other Silver Fang comes tonight, and give her a fond nudge of her heavy lupine body in hello. Just as she will nip and growl-whine in greeting at the Fenrir-blooded Shadow Lord who is Charlotte's packmate. Just as she will bark at the Oracles -- her fellow leaders at the sept -- from across the circle, wagging her tail. Just as she will look curiously upon the golden-furred Fianna whom she does not know but may recognize from Cold Crescent, or the other new Fianna whose voice she hears in the spirit-winds as the Caller of the Wyld snatches their howls from their very lips to offer to the spirits.
Other Garou look to Avery without entirely meaning to. It is not just her breeding, for -- as we have mentioned -- there are others who are more pure. There is just something about her that demands to be attended to, as though the air itself is simply waiting for her to speak.
She doesn't. She just looks happy to be here, this night.
Just as she will find Charlotte, if the other Silver Fang comes tonight, and give her a fond nudge of her heavy lupine body in hello. Just as she will nip and growl-whine in greeting at the Fenrir-blooded Shadow Lord who is Charlotte's packmate. Just as she will bark at the Oracles -- her fellow leaders at the sept -- from across the circle, wagging her tail. Just as she will look curiously upon the golden-furred Fianna whom she does not know but may recognize from Cold Crescent, or the other new Fianna whose voice she hears in the spirit-winds as the Caller of the Wyld snatches their howls from their very lips to offer to the spirits.
Other Garou look to Avery without entirely meaning to. It is not just her breeding, for -- as we have mentioned -- there are others who are more pure. There is just something about her that demands to be attended to, as though the air itself is simply waiting for her to speak.
She doesn't. She just looks happy to be here, this night.
my whole life is thunder.