Bloody Homage [ Howls of Introduction ]

[Joey]

Ugly and brutish, feral and savage, it is surprising how his happiness at the buck's end shines through. Through the greasy fur now mud-and-blood-caked. Through the cold rain soaking ever inch of that fur. Through the heaving blasts of white steam from his nostrils and open fang-lined muzzle.

The great stag slumps to the ground, collapsing in a heap that snaps branches, compacting earth and undergrowth beneath its bulk. Its wives and children are long gone, to mourn and live to run another day, screaming grunts and haws of terror as they disperse in the moments it takes for their patriarch to be put down.

A loud chuff of agreement serves as his response to Nina's sentiment of, “Good hunt,” his tongue beginning to greedily swipe over his fur-lined lips and teeth. It sucks up what droplets of blood still cling there as the lust for more of the red spray dies down. The jugular he'd set upon had been laid open like a burst pipe.

Jack circles to the stomach where Nina had opened and bared the buck's insides. His nose is buried there for a moment, snapping and scissoring together, before finally pulling loose its lowest offal. Intestines, upper and lower, and its largest stomach chamber, both packed with recent ruminants of plant life.

Within the animal he leaves the liver, heart and lungs. The prized organs. Those that would, indeed, serve as gift for Guardians and Elders of the Sept of Forgotten Questions alike.

But this meat? Its innards? If not quality, it made up for that in quantity and nourishment.

"Meat to tide us before the drag," energy to facilitate getting the buck's corpse from here to the bawn, his words and body said. And even more practical, as the blood drained as it would one way or another, both losses would make the corpse a bit lighter and easier to move.

A paw holds down the stomach and intestines, tearing it in two with a jerk of his maw. He shakes his half violently, plant matter flying in clumped chunks here and there, unwanted and forgotten. He gets what he wants. Lining. Flesh. Leaving the other share and some of the intestines for Nina as he does so.
And whatever of the more prized organs she would claim. The Bone Gnawer? He expects none of them, no grudge shown for their tasty smell wafting from the now-open cavity. Temptation is stifled.

Pulling its lengths further from from the animal, he eats quickly and efficiently, chewing through the thick linings before moving to the next piece.

And with that, he stands, an explosion of rage taking him through the forms to that of the caveman ape. A two-fold exertion, both hastening the transformation and burning off a bit of his passion to ready his temperament for facing a whole Sept of new Garou.

The glabro form, thick and even more musclebound than his apeskin, helps him to right the stag's corpse and toss it with a grunt over his shoulder. He turns to where Nina is still in her wolf form, ready to continue on their way and cross over into the bawn.

[errin]

With the Gnawer is a grey, white, and black (and now a little bloody) wolf, of an average size with a stocky, long-limbed build. The Fenrir shares the makeshift meal of the lesser parts of the animal, knowing that the whole point of this hunt had been to offer the best to the Garou of this new (to her) sept. When she's had her fill she sits back, licking her chops. "Greet now," she whuffs, rising only when it appears she's in the way.

While Jack shifts and maneuvers the buck across his broad, Glabro shoulders, Nina snaps to her homid form, average height and strongly built, long blonde and brown and pink hair falling over the shoulders of her leather jacket. She moves about the grisly site, plucking tufts of wolf fur from the thorny bushes and trampling the ground in sneakered feet, mixing the bloody ground with fresh, snow-dampened snow masking the presence of wolves.

Unburdened and therefore the quicker of the two, Nina tends to circle Jack, moving ahead to bend back branches so they don't snap or snag, moving back to cover their tracks to the best of her ability, mindful of the mortal presence in this, their most sacred place. What kind of Caern has allowed humans to infiltrate their bawn? The pair move inward from the border, keeping clear of the trails.

[kai]

[Hey guys! I checked with niko to make sure these posts were meant for my attention before chiming in, but for the record: I'm not planning on NPCing the Guardians or Warder for every new character introduction. It's a bit more than I'm willing to do for a volunteer gig and will get repetitive and boring fast. However, the introduction 'protocol', if you will, is a lot clearer in the system pages for Cold Crescent than it is for Forgotten Questions, so I'm going to write a bit here so everyone gets a general idea of the gist and can fill in the details themselves in play. From here on out I'll only step in and NPC the Warder/Guardians for things like this when I think it's necessary.]

--

At dusk, the near-4,000 acres of Roxborough State Park belong to the Garou. The kinsman who lives in the tiny fire department between the park and the town sleeps lightly; he listens for the voice of the crow-spirit that has come to him from the Warder before, twice since the last one died but not for a long time now. Bad nights, those. He remembers them well.

The station by the gate where during daylight hours a ranger takes cash and hands over passes and maps is empty now, the gate closed. No great barrier, that; cars can't get through, anyone can walk around. Or hope over. There is very little to stop restless teenagers or anyone else from wandering in, except the fact that there is nothing in Roxborough Park to lure them in ward. Nothing to do there but hike. No shelter worth looking for, if they were to need it.

There is also this: it's hard to remember why you came there, even before you get to the gate. Walking or driving out those roads at night it's difficult to answer for yourself why you're bothering this bumpy road at this hour. There is nothing there. It starts to feel like the park is a myth, something you dreamt up and now you're only sleepwalking. Maybe you're still at home in your bed or in front of the television. The sensation is an unsettling one, and as a result Roxborough is silent, and dark,

but not empty.

--

Some things love the smell of blood. Animal-blood, hunted-blood, died-well-and-fast-blood.

Jack and Nina are being watched long before they realize it, and even longer before they see sign of their watchers. There: the way the moonlight gleams on the dark eyes of a mule deer that pauses in its grazing and looks over at them. There, too: one of many birds that flies past them overhead, night-hunting, hooting or calling back to Theurges.

A snake rattles somewhere off the path, rustling through the scrub and the patches of snow that won't seem to stop falling even this late into spring. A bullfrog talks to itself, but its voice sounds like a warning. But that's just how bullfrogs sound.

They are well far from the initial border of the bawn, but farther from the endless heart of the caern, when the Guardians make themselves known.

Under a heavily waxing moon, they can make out grey and brown and red and black among the colors of fur of the wolves that lope out of shadows, out of scrub-trees. They can see the way that brambles cling to those coats, still winter-thick thanks to the clinging cold in the air. Tongues lap past teeth, jaws snap; they behave like a pack, emerging from many points at one time, wafting around the newcomers like water around stone. Jack and Nina are given a wide berth, though. They are sniffed from several yards away, and they can hear the low, almost doglike calls the Guardians give to each other:

clean. clean Garou. clean meat.

One, not much larger than the others and with eyes that burn gold with both violence and intellect, stands out from the pack, which still moves, sniffing and staring at the meat, staring at the newcomers. She says nothing to them, tail still and ears attentive. Her stance is not aggressive. Nor is it welcoming.

She waits.

[Joey]

The arrival of the loping host of guardians at the caern proper halts Jack in his steady trudging up the muddy and snow-laden deer runs. Thick sandstone canvas and knee beneath hit ground. Heavy from the weight of glabro form and the animal now draped over his shoulders. He shrugs off the heavy stag so that it falls to the ground beside him.

Leaving it to be honorably consumed – first by wolves' teeth. Later by carrion birds. Eventually by the vermin his tribe worshiped at totem. Finally, whatever is left, by worms and the earth beneath that is their domain. "For guardian 'n' elder bellies," a glance to Nina, to indicate sharing the giving of the kill as homage. The stag is indeed great, large enough to supply a feast for a pack and then some

His hands, now freed from where they'd hooked his arms over the flank and thick neck of the animal, find dirt. In a flash he is again wolf. Dirty blonde and brown, with splashes (more splotches) of unclean off-white. Milk swirls in coffee. A bulldog-mutt of a mottled beast, stout and thick, more musclebound than quick. A boulder of fur and fury, though his temper is balanced and he seems all-at-once relieved and reinvigorated to be surrounded by wolves in a wild place.

The offering is forgotten as soon as it is given. He seems unwilling to waste anyone's time.

"Rabid Jack Rabbit," the name on wolf tongue, and some might realize his form coils with great legs, his ears perhaps a bit longer than average even as they are tucked back, and maybe long ago as a cub...

Maybe very long ago, the name might've seemed less ironic.

"Law in War, born of wolves under the half moon to gnaw on bones," his rank, cliath, plain in his very bearing, giving deference even to the other cliath that may be in the pack of guardians because they are just that – guardians of this sacred place, and him a lone wolf, stray, of the omega tribe.

But he says it anyway, "Cliath," with a yip. "Seeking a caern to protect and call home, and a little shelter from the storm," the last piece a whine as the storm growing above groans angrily.

[errin]

They don't know, not for certain, that they're watched as the pair of Garou make their way through the park. Nina knows, or at least she expects it. She doesn't sense them or smell them, but she's been through enough septs, stepped into enough bawns to know that their presence, hers and Jack's, is watched by the guardians of Forgotten Questions.

She shows no surprise when the wolves melt out of the shadows. She holds still for the sniffing, the checking, the investigating. The Rotagar smells like wind and wet and cold, leather, sweat, blood. Dressed all in black, she's almost a shadow herself, except her hair and face, the pale lining of her jacket give her away.

A glance is spared for Jack, who steps forward to lower his burden to the ground. There is nothing to that look. Though they arrived together, Nina and Jack don't react to each other as those bound by totem might. They are not of one mind or one purpose.

"Underdog," she states, lifting her chin in a nod of greeting before lowering her head respectfully. "Cliath No Moon Get of Fenris, come to pay my respects to the Garou of Forgotten Questions."

[kai]

A few low growls between the wolves, considering and discussing amongst themselves: the share, the offal taken and the choicest meats left behind. They seem inclined to accept. The female who stepped forward doesn't wag her tail at them or dart forward to grab at the beast. She watches Jack shift and though her nostrils flare, she doesn't crane her neck forward the way a younger wolf might to sniff at him.

Both of the newcomers speak. They introduce themselves separately. There is a long pause, and then the female gives a grunt.

As one, the pack of Guardians swarms toward the stag. They don't drag it elsewhere or shapeshift to carry it. They eat it where it lies, and one lifts a bloody muzzle to howl an invitation to their brothers and sisters. There are, including the female, five wolves right in front of them, but that call was summoning packmates. More of them, spread throughout the park, all under the same moon and the same totem. The muzzle descends, and the pack goes on tearing and yanking the meat free from the opened belly of the stag with the same fervor as if they had brought it down themselves.

The female bobs her head downward to Underdog and Rabid. She gives one low, quick swish of her tail. Her body language is subtle but expressive, particularly to the Bone Gnawer that was born to this form. The chiminage -- to the Guardians, at least -- is accepted. She wheels about, joining her packmates at the stag, snarling a bit at one of the smaller ones who is in her way.

That wolf draws back, licking his maw. He's very dark of coat, more auburn than red, with steely grey eyes, though an eyeblink later he's a young man, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen. His hair in this form is brown with only the faintest hints of red, his eyes still grey. It's not hard to sniff the purity on him, however dim it is; they know he's Fianna on sight, especially after he grins with stag's blood on his teeth and chin.

"Jim Many-Ways," he says, by way of introduction, "Galliard of Stag." There's a beat there. He gestures at the thing they're eating, the gift, and that grin widens. "I know, right?" Shakes his head, laughing, then gathers their attention and points his long, winter-fair arm southward, into the depths of the Fountain Formations. "The heart is that-a-way. Y'just follow that trail, then there's this other one, then..." He turns back to them, waving that same hand at them. "Eh, you'll figure it out."

There's a savage edge to that grin, a nudging challenge in the words. What Garou worth their skin can't find a caern's heart, after all? He goes on: "If you're plannin' on stayin' in the area a while or joinin' in our moots you should go greet the Firstborn at the heart. Tell it yer earliest mem'ry, y'know? Doesn't really matter what it is." He shrugs. "Just don't reach into the heart. Warder'll turn yer hand into a coathanger and the Master of Rites'll do somethin' godawful with your tongue, don't even know what. Real touchy 'bout that."

He fidgets a bit, then grins again. "Now if y'don't mind," and that's all. He's in lupus again, wedging himself between his brothers and sisters to eat more of tonight's great feast. And in the distance, they can hear -- and make out -- the shadows of more wolves coming to join them, one and two at a time.

--

[And I'm out!]

[errin]

[thanks, Kai!]

The wolves descend upon the stag. Nina watches, her expression blandly curious until the boy shifts, comes forward, gives them their instructions. She cranes her neck, stretching her body to its full height to see where he points. Her eyes shift back to him when he waves his hand, and then she's lowering herself back into something more relaxed.

"Thanks," she says. Looking at Jack, she shoots the wolf a grin and an upward nod, the farewell a quiet one. They came here together, but this is apparently where they part ways, even though they'll surely be headed in the same direction again soon enough. She has no plans to stay, but neither does she have any plans to leave. So it doesn't hurt to say her hellos and pay all of her dues up front.

With a snap!, the average-sized woman becomes an average-sized wolf, her fur grey and white and sometimes black, and thoroughly patched with scars. There's no need to interrupt the wolves' meal. Swiftly and silent, Underdog disappears into the darkness.

==========
The memory that Nina gives to the Earth is not an old one by any means. It's a little hazy, but with moments of perfect clarity.

She sits in homid next to the cleft in the rock wherein the caern's heart beats, temple pressed to the stone, arms wrapped around her bent knees. In this way she whispers the story of her first awakening.

Pain. Skin blistered and peeling, burned raw from a harsh midday sun. Naked. Half sunk into blood soaked sand. Eyes open, immediately fill with grit and close. Trying again, the sun blinds. A shadow falls over her face, a man cast in silhouette bends over her. A rough hand hauls her over onto her back. Something makes a hissing sound. It's her, reacting to blisters bursting, sand crusting the fresh broken skin. Voices mutter garbled words to each other. Strong arms lift her, shift her weight roughly. Her head bangs painfully against a shoulder. The edges of vision threaten blackness but she fights it.

There's more that comes after, of course, other memories, strung together by moments to make Nina the person that she is today. But that, that is the first thing that she remembers.

Memory told, she waits a moment, wet snow dusting her shoulders and clinging to her hair, before rising. It's too late now to leave this place, not on two wheels, not even on two feet or four paws. Shifting again to her lupus form, she comes down from the formation to look for a place to burrow down until the snow stops.

[Joey]

Jack turns on paws to regard the young Fianna who emerges from the fray of mealtime. He is silent, though he does weave back and forth before him as he answers a few unasked but helpful questions, shifting his weight from right flank to left and back again. As he gives the direction to the Caern heart he even starts with a leap in that direction, though only to leap back a moment later. His paws plant into the powdered snow again and he looks up at the Fianna. His chest puffs, and his head bobs, though it is more than a lupine translation of a nod. His entire body undulates with the gesture of thanks.

A chuff of recognition returns Nina's nod goodbye, and he begins at a steady lope deeper into the bawn and toward its heart. His pilgrimage is in the same direction as hers, but decidedly separate. He even waits below as she shares her memories, circling the trails and sharpened apexes of the surrounding outcroppings with careful leaps and creeping crawls.

When it is clear and ready to accept his own chiminage, he approaches the chasm and sits dutifully beside it. His story is one of witnessing kin-pack's blood shed. It is one of seeing death as a pup, whilst hidden within the ground in the hollow of a tree's roots from danger, his earliest memory one that offers thanks as much as chiminage for the spirits of earth that gave him shelter all those years ago. And then of crawling across roads, tucked within the leather jacket of a new patriarch, and ape kin father, the wind on his face and the faint smell of whiskey in his nose, the horizon – earth's very face – stretched out before him. A sunset, the earth swallowing the sun into its womb, to nurse it before spitting it up the next morning.

When he is finished he retreats back to the bush as the snow continues to accumulate. Finds a spot of shelter. Nestles into himself in it and shuts his eyes as the night grows darker and colder.