The Fianna had chosen to adopt her wolf skin for much of the Moot. It was not that Morgan had any issue with her birth form but rather that she'd always felt an odd assortment of long limbs and awkward graces as a female growing up. At eighteen she had all the particular curves and allurements required to be considered appealing but perhaps it was the monster under her skin that made Garou culture, the simplicity of war, the complication of peace and forging an enduring place for herself in the chronicles of their kind seem so much easier than most things.
When you are a born a beast of the fullest moon, there are few things that bring clarity as surely as talk of death and glory. Of words thrown clear into the air like monsters and men and the fullest corruption the enemy could muster.
The truth was, really, at the crux of it, Morgan felt good at being a monster. She wasn't sure if part of her recoiled in horror at that truth, or felt a huge sense of comfort from it. This is what she was. Like a drumbeat set into rhythm the moment she turned. This was who she was. The spirit of the Moot, the fragrance of earth and fire and blood. It was surely told enough in her bloodline, it was there when it came to her turn to rise and take that form she found at times so uncertain. To grip that shattered skull in her palms and rotate it, feeling the bumps and slivers in bone that had made up the roadmap of one life and raise her eyes to greet the collected Garou.
"M'name's Morgan Roche, known as Firebrand." She shifted a little on the spot, her hair fanning around her shoulders as if in response to that deedname, hues of fiery red in the evening light. "Came to Denver this month to join your fight." There's a pause where her brows knit together as if she struggled to remember her wording.
"I'm a Cliath full moon o'Stag," she bristled, lifted her chin with a little smile. Sharp and pointed under that moon. "'Course that part's obvious. I haven't got much to claim for but my teeth and claws are yours."
She sets the bone down.
When you are a born a beast of the fullest moon, there are few things that bring clarity as surely as talk of death and glory. Of words thrown clear into the air like monsters and men and the fullest corruption the enemy could muster.
The truth was, really, at the crux of it, Morgan felt good at being a monster. She wasn't sure if part of her recoiled in horror at that truth, or felt a huge sense of comfort from it. This is what she was. Like a drumbeat set into rhythm the moment she turned. This was who she was. The spirit of the Moot, the fragrance of earth and fire and blood. It was surely told enough in her bloodline, it was there when it came to her turn to rise and take that form she found at times so uncertain. To grip that shattered skull in her palms and rotate it, feeling the bumps and slivers in bone that had made up the roadmap of one life and raise her eyes to greet the collected Garou.
"M'name's Morgan Roche, known as Firebrand." She shifted a little on the spot, her hair fanning around her shoulders as if in response to that deedname, hues of fiery red in the evening light. "Came to Denver this month to join your fight." There's a pause where her brows knit together as if she struggled to remember her wording.
"I'm a Cliath full moon o'Stag," she bristled, lifted her chin with a little smile. Sharp and pointed under that moon. "'Course that part's obvious. I haven't got much to claim for but my teeth and claws are yours."
She sets the bone down.