The summonings take varying lengths of time, but they are performed at once. Energy all but crackles in the air as the Theurges call to the spirits. Two of the cliaths summon rather more obvious spirits: an earth elemental and a wolf. One, rather cleverly, summons an epiphling of Time, which is not only a challenging summon to perform but a difficult one to hold onto. In fact, halfway through her explanation of why she chose Time, the spirit is gone. Or maybe it was gone halfway before the explanation. Or is still there and they haven't gotten to it yet.
The fostern Black Fury summons a horse. It rides in from the sky into the gathering area where the challengers stand. For a moment, some grumble to each other that the Black Fury summoned a Pegasus, <i>of course</i>, and they're about to get a lecture. Then they notice the lack of wings. The horse is a palomino, ghostlike and unnerved around all of these werewolves. It stamps its hooves, shaking out its mane, whipping its tail as it lingers beside Phoebe. It is not comfortable here.
She explains why she chose it. Horses can be wild, horses can be tame, and in neither case do they lose any part of themselves. They are not untouchable in their wildness, and being trained does not necessarily break them. Forgotten Questions and Cold Crescent are like that, and the garou of each sept are like that: they may run wild, and they may live alongside humans, but they are never changed to be less than they are. They are garou. They are neither wolf nor man, but both, and something else entirely.
The Master of Challenges nods. Phoebe has won.
--
The position of Wyrmfoe is, as moot roles go, only slightly less hotly contested than that of Truthcatcher. The ahroun who chooses the right prey, who rouses the garou from the cracking of the bone and the singing of tales into an only slightly-controlled rage, proves a kind of wisdom and honor that is not easily earned by full moons -- on the battlefield or elsewhere.
When Erich challenges for next month's Wyrmfoe, it's rather last minute. There are no fewer than six other ahrouns already standing for the position. Ahrouns who have been here for more than -- what,a day? Ahrouns with packs that actually have totems, or at least Ahrouns whose friends aren't just a frail thin-moon and a creepy no-moon. They look at him like they're going to eat him.
Then again, they all are ahrouns. That look could also mean <i>why, you seem interesting, let's be friends!</i>
The Master of Challenges sets them their course, after conferring with this month's Wyrmfoe. The palomino summoned by Phoebe Stavros to win her own challenge is asked to hide somewhere in the bawn, and it bounds off, agreeable and loyal when she whispers what she wants it to do. The challengers for Wyrmfoe are to find it. Alone. But they cannot abandon the joint revel of all the other garou, and they cannot lose their heads as freely as garou who are not challenging for this moot role. They must keep their heads about them without offending the soul of the revel, without denying their rage. They must hunt the prey without harming it. The test is one of balance. The test is one of control.
Three of the challengers forget to look for their prey. They're caught up in the revel, howling and biting and harrying each other. They are not shamed for it; that is not what the revel is for. One of them frenzies, which is sadly not entirely uncommon in the revel, and is held down and controlled by his packmates. That leaves three: Erich and two others, running in the revel while trying to catch the scent of their secondary prey. Only two of them find it, and tear off from the rest of the garou, that pack of dozens, that field of fur and rage that roams the caern grounds every month, a family of many bloodlines and many histories.
They fight over it. The fight ends with a Fenrir-born Shadow Lord with his forepaws on his challenger's body, pinning him down, snarling in his face, warning,
dominating.
His challenger bares his throat. Erich could tear it out. Erich could do a lot of things that he doesn't do. He lets him up. He harries his prey, chasing it back toward the revel. The horse's hooves seem to cast actual thunder through the land as it runs. It takes a leap when it meets the garou, vanishing into the sky again, set free from its duties -- and more than a little terrified of all their combined rage. When they meet with the Master of the Challenge after the revel, after everyone is flopping around exhausted and sleeping in piles with their packmates, the challenger vouches for his success. His respect is grudging, but his honor is not: he submitted. Erich has won.
The fostern Black Fury summons a horse. It rides in from the sky into the gathering area where the challengers stand. For a moment, some grumble to each other that the Black Fury summoned a Pegasus, <i>of course</i>, and they're about to get a lecture. Then they notice the lack of wings. The horse is a palomino, ghostlike and unnerved around all of these werewolves. It stamps its hooves, shaking out its mane, whipping its tail as it lingers beside Phoebe. It is not comfortable here.
She explains why she chose it. Horses can be wild, horses can be tame, and in neither case do they lose any part of themselves. They are not untouchable in their wildness, and being trained does not necessarily break them. Forgotten Questions and Cold Crescent are like that, and the garou of each sept are like that: they may run wild, and they may live alongside humans, but they are never changed to be less than they are. They are garou. They are neither wolf nor man, but both, and something else entirely.
The Master of Challenges nods. Phoebe has won.
--
The position of Wyrmfoe is, as moot roles go, only slightly less hotly contested than that of Truthcatcher. The ahroun who chooses the right prey, who rouses the garou from the cracking of the bone and the singing of tales into an only slightly-controlled rage, proves a kind of wisdom and honor that is not easily earned by full moons -- on the battlefield or elsewhere.
When Erich challenges for next month's Wyrmfoe, it's rather last minute. There are no fewer than six other ahrouns already standing for the position. Ahrouns who have been here for more than -- what,a day? Ahrouns with packs that actually have totems, or at least Ahrouns whose friends aren't just a frail thin-moon and a creepy no-moon. They look at him like they're going to eat him.
Then again, they all are ahrouns. That look could also mean <i>why, you seem interesting, let's be friends!</i>
The Master of Challenges sets them their course, after conferring with this month's Wyrmfoe. The palomino summoned by Phoebe Stavros to win her own challenge is asked to hide somewhere in the bawn, and it bounds off, agreeable and loyal when she whispers what she wants it to do. The challengers for Wyrmfoe are to find it. Alone. But they cannot abandon the joint revel of all the other garou, and they cannot lose their heads as freely as garou who are not challenging for this moot role. They must keep their heads about them without offending the soul of the revel, without denying their rage. They must hunt the prey without harming it. The test is one of balance. The test is one of control.
Three of the challengers forget to look for their prey. They're caught up in the revel, howling and biting and harrying each other. They are not shamed for it; that is not what the revel is for. One of them frenzies, which is sadly not entirely uncommon in the revel, and is held down and controlled by his packmates. That leaves three: Erich and two others, running in the revel while trying to catch the scent of their secondary prey. Only two of them find it, and tear off from the rest of the garou, that pack of dozens, that field of fur and rage that roams the caern grounds every month, a family of many bloodlines and many histories.
They fight over it. The fight ends with a Fenrir-born Shadow Lord with his forepaws on his challenger's body, pinning him down, snarling in his face, warning,
dominating.
His challenger bares his throat. Erich could tear it out. Erich could do a lot of things that he doesn't do. He lets him up. He harries his prey, chasing it back toward the revel. The horse's hooves seem to cast actual thunder through the land as it runs. It takes a leap when it meets the garou, vanishing into the sky again, set free from its duties -- and more than a little terrified of all their combined rage. When they meet with the Master of the Challenge after the revel, after everyone is flopping around exhausted and sleeping in piles with their packmates, the challenger vouches for his success. His respect is grudging, but his honor is not: he submitted. Erich has won.
my whole life is thunder.